Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jimmy wasn’t exactly sure when they’d realized.

But he’d been home for months, and his father wouldn’t touch him and every time his mother looked at him it seemed like she looked away praying.

It took him a while to put together why.

Dinners were mostly silent, sometimes with a couple of awkward, forced sentences, the small kitchen just filled with the sound of cutlery scraping plates.

“I’m going to see Charlie’s parents tomorrow.” He said into the silence.

“No, you’re not.” His father said abruptly.

“Yes, I am.” That was when he put it together.

The way his father looked like he wanted to break something, the panicked look on his mother’s face.

When he’d mentioned Charlie.

“You’re not. That’s the end of it.”

“I owe it to them. I’m going.” He met his father’s eyes, and he could feel himself shaking slightly.

They knew, they knew, they knew, they knew, they knew, they knew.

They’d figured it out, they knew, and he didn’t know what that would mean for him, but he was sure it wouldn’t be anything good.

“You’ll have nothing to do with them.”

“Jimmy, Jimmy, just forget him.”

“No.” They weren’t saying anything specific.

“I won’t have you messing around with men.” His father said.

Oh.

Specific.

They knew.

“I wasn’t messing around with him.”

“You told us you loved him. When you in the hospital, you called him your boyfriend.”

“That’s not messing around. I did love him.” Jimmy could feel a panic attack building, but he managed to keep his voice steady.

“That’s enough, Jimmy.”

“No. I’m visiting the Parellis tomorrow.” Jimmy pushed his plate away. “I’m going to my apartment tonight.”

“No.” His mother said softly.

“Goodnight.”

The Parellis’ door was blue.

A light blue, like a bird’s egg, and shiny. Shiny and clean, like somebody had just scrubbed it free of any dirt.

And there were flowers in the windows and a star hanging above them, Jimmy could see the folded flag in its little box on the table past the flowers.

His funeral must have been more recent than he’d thought.

He couldn’t quite bring himself to knock.

He’d pulled out his uniform, but hadn’t been able to put it on, and he was glad, now that he was here. It probably hadn’t so long since they’d gotten the worst news of their life delivered by somebody showing up in a uniform and knocking on their door.

He stood in front of their clean blue door for five minutes, trying to convince himself to knock while a big part of him wanted to just walk away and never come back, to shut himself inside his apartment and never come out again.

He finally knocked, and rocked back and forth, up on the balls of his feet and down to his heels, waiting for the door to open.

And when it did, he lost any sense of a plan for what to say.

Because those eyes were Charlie’s eyes, with the smile lines and everything.

Charlie’s eyes on a woman he recognized as his mother.

“Do…do we know you?” He pushed back the tears that had instantly started building and took a shaky breath.

“No, ma’am. My…my name is Jimmy. Jimmy Campbell.” Recognition washed over her face and she was suddenly hugging him, hugging him and crying, and that broke the last little bit of his composure.

He was sobbing and hugging this woman he’d never met before, and she was holding him like he hadn’t been held since he’d gotten home, like he hadn’t quite realized how much he needed to be held.

After a while she stepped back holding him back by the shoulders, smiling even while there were still tears in her eyes.

“Please, come in. I…I have dinner ready. I’m still making too much, there’s plenty.” Jimmy nodded and followed her inside.

It was exactly how Charlie had described it, how Jimmy had pictured it.

Small, quaint, cute. Pictures on the walls of Charlie when he was little and when he was older, in costumes for Halloween and for school plays, reading under trees and at desks, writing in notebooks, all things Jimmy knew but hadn’t gotten to see.

“Tom will be home soon. Oh, I’m Linda. Oh, I’m so glad you came, I was hoping you would.” She was nervously excited, and still had tears in her eyes, and she was looking around like she was trying to find something to show him. “His…his room is upstairs. If…if you wanted to…” Jimmy nodded and followed her up the stairs, stopping in front of the first door on the left.

Her hands nervously fluttered towards the doorknob, then back down.

“I’ll…you probably want to be left alone. I’ll be downstairs.”

“Thank you.” Jimmy managed to whisper before she walked back down the stairs.

Charlie’s room was the same blue as their front door.

There were posters for musicians and concerts Jimmy recognized. Two bookshelves full of plays and novels. A desk, with two cups full of pencils and pens, and a typewriter lined up perfectly with the rest of it.

The bed was neatly made, all the edges perfectly square, a blue and green quilt covering white sheets.

Everything was perfectly neat and clean, looking both like it hadn’t been touched since Charlie had left and like everything had been scrubbed clean.

Jimmy ran his hands down the spines of the books, recognizing so many authors Charlie had mentioned time and time again. He pulled out a copy of Romeo and Juliet with a worn, creased spine.

Of course he’d loved Romeo and Juliet, he’d been such a romantic.

Jimmy flipped through the pages, stopping at dog ears and reading all the little notes in the margins.

He had written things about the plot, about the characters, the dialogue.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat on the floor, flipping through pages and tracing Charlie’s neat handwriting in the little notes.

He’d lost all of his notes in the ship, all the little poems Charlie had written just for him, all the reminders of things to be happy about and how much Charlie loved him, all of them had been dissolved by the saltwater.

He lost track of time, pulling out book after book, flipping through the ones with the most broken spines, and he knew he was crying but he couldn’t help it, not when he could hear Charlie saying the notes out loud, hear the way his voice got louder the more excited he got and see how he would have jumped up and recited the passages underlined with exclamation points in their notes.

He put all of the books carefully back where he found them, except for the copy of Romeo and Juliet.

That he slipped inside his jacket and hoped Charlie’s parents wouldn’t notice the shape of it, or that it was gone.

There was a door on the other side of the room that led to a bathroom, and Jimmy stepped inside to collect himself before going back downstairs. He washed his face with cold water, hoping to make it less obvious how much he’d been crying in the time he’d spent in Charlie’s room.

When he made it back downstairs, Linda had been joined by a man, a man with Charlie’s hair and height. They were sitting close together on the couch, flipping through a photo album.

“Oh! Tom, this is Jimmy.” The man stood up and offered his hand, which Jimmy took.

“It’s good to finally meet you.” He said. “Charlie...he wrote about you in his letters.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you, too.” Tom gestured at a chair next to the couch, inviting Jimmy to sit.

“We…we were just looking through old pictures, if you wanted to see.” Linda moved over closer to the chair, and Tom sat back down close to her. “See, this was his first school play. Hamlet. That’s when he started reading Shakespeare.” Jimmy had to smile at the picture of a young Charlie in a godawful costume, grinning wider than any of the other kids around him.

After a while, Linda seemed to suddenly remember dinner, and she pushed both of the men into the kitchen, sitting them down at the table and setting plates of food in front of them.

While dinners with his parents had grown to be incredibly uncomfortable and silent, both of Charlie’s parents kept up a little bit of a conversation, and the silence there was wasn’t so bad.

“He loved you, you know.” Linda blurted, instantly looking like she regretted it, but also like she wanted to explain herself. “He…he wrote about you so much.”

“He was always different,” Tom added, looking almost afraid, and that was when Jimmy realized.

They knew, too. At least, they knew about Charlie. And it didn’t make them push him away. They didn’t seem to care.

“I loved him,” Jimmy said. “I…he made it bearable. All of it.”

And that was like opening a door he hadn’t realized he’d been putting so much effort into keeping closed.

Linda smiled, looking relieved, Tom nodded at him reassuringly.

“Did he write for you?” Linda asked.

“Every day. Poems and notes, mostly.” Tom laughed.

“His entire desk is full of poems. He thought we didn’t know, but he would say them out loud as he wrote them.”

“He wanted to write a novel. He told me all his plans. The next great American novel, he used to say.”

They were easy to talk to, they didn’t make him hide that oh so important part of his and Charlie’s relationship he’d been forced to hide from everyone else.

Maybe he didn’t tell them about how they used to sit in seldom used closets and talk for hours about how they could build a life together when they got home, how Charlie had sung quiet songs into his ear and danced with him like they were on a dancefloor instead of squeezed between shelves of ammunition, how they’d stolen kisses in the dark and hidden away to press closer than they were allowed in front of anybody else, but they knew there was more between them than friendship, and they didn’t care.

They shared stories of Charlie being Charlie, of the way he looked at everything like it was a story and always saw the best in people, how he was soft-spoken but passionate and always willing to argue his point.

Jimmy told them how he’d taken over the kitchen for a full week when the cook had been sick, and he’d stolen the recipes of the food he hadn’t liked and never given them back.

The Parellis told him how he’d staged a hunger strike against the school when he was in seventh grade, and they’d been worried about him until they’d caught him going to school with a backpack stuffed full of cookies and realized he’d been eating the whole time.

By the time Jimmy was standing to leave, he felt more at home with Linda and Tom Parelli than he had with his own parents in the months he’d been home with them already.

“Wait! I have…here.” Linda pushed a box into his hands. “His letters. If you want to read them.”

Jimmy walked home clutching the box tightly to his chest.

He didn’t open it when he got home, partly because he wasn’t sure he was ready to deal with all the emotions he knew the letters would bring to the surface, and partly because he knew once he started reading he wouldn’t stop, and he had rehearsal tomorrow morning and didn’t want to show up exhausted and tear stained.

He was pretty sure the band knew.

If they didn’t, they were idiots.

And anyway, he knew they wouldn’t care. Nick and Wayne had something going on, whether it was romantic or just a matter of convenience he wasn’t sure, and he was almost positive Donny and Michael had had something between them and Julia knew it and didn’t mind. Johnny didn’t care about anything other than if a person was nice, and Davy definitely flirted with anyone who looked at him twice.

They were his best friends, the only reason being home had been bearable with the way his parents had been acting, and he knew they wouldn’t care if they didn’t already know.

But having them know he liked men and having them see how broken losing Charlie had left him were two very different things, and he wasn’t ready at all for the latter. It was hard enough to hold his composure when they performed Love Will Come and Find me Again without them knowing why the song hit him so hard.

So instead, he set the box on the bedside table in his apartment and stayed up just long enough to read through all the notes Charlie had left in Romeo and Juliet.

When he got to the rehearsal studio, his friends noticed something was off.

“Are you okay?” Julia asked, concerned and motherly as always.

“I’m fine. Just tired.” Jimmy assembled his clarinet and saxophone without looking up at her.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Julia wasn’t the only one, either. Through the whole rehearsal, everyone kept looking at him funny. When they were packing up, all of them made a point of asking him if he was okay.

He wasn’t sure exactly what about him projected his emotions to all of them, but clearly, something was. Johnny even offered to walk him home, which he declined.

He had hours at home and a box of letters he might read or he might just stare at, he wasn’t sure which he was going to choose, but he wanted to get home and be alone either way, and he didn’t feel like making conversation with anyone.

He felt like sitting on his couch in silence, and that’s what he did.

The box sat in front of him on the tiny coffee table, and he just stared at it. It was a bread box, made of off-white tin with a bright red lid. There were three little red flowers on each side and red diagonal stripes. It was a cute little shiny tin bread box, and Jimmy couldn’t make himself open it.

He knew what he would find, and yet he wasn’t sure.

He knew Charlie wrote to his parents almost every day, and he knew there would be things written about him, since Charlie’s parents knew who he was and knew they had loved each other.

But he had no idea what words he would find, no idea if there would be poems or stories, if Charlie had used the same flowing language with his parents as he had in his letters and notes to Jimmy. He had no idea if Charlie had written the words “I love him” about Jimmy, or if it was just clear in the way he talked about him.

He had no idea how the letters would hit him, if he would even be able to read them through tears or if he’d go numb like he had been for the first month without him. He didn’t know if he’d be able to do anything other than trace the handwriting with his fingers, straining to remember the words Charlie had written for him, not his parents. Wishing he had his own collection of notes and letters and poems with his name on them. With the nicknames Charlie had used.

Cricket. He’d called Jimmy Cricket a lot, because of his music, he said.

And Bumblebee, because of his blond hair.

And he’d addressed anything longer than a pocket length poem “My primrose” or “Sunshine,” in case anyone found them.

And Jimmy had lost every last bit of that to the ocean, just like he’d lost Charlie himself.

He would give anything to have Charlie back, anything to have a box full of letters written for him, addressed to him, filled with words meant for him.

Instead, he had a shiny tin breadbox full of letters addressed to parents who loved and missed their son as much as Jimmy loved and missed his boyfriend.

He stared at the box sitting on the table, lost in thought, for about an hour, then for a few more minutes with it on his lap, still closed tight.

He finally convinced himself to open it, and that was as far as he got before he had to take off his glasses to wipe them off.

If the notes in the books had brought up emotions he didn’t quite know how to handle, the letters were even worse.

He could see the headings of four without touching any of them, neatly dated, on paper with the name of their ship, in his tiny, neat handwriting. The ones on top were dated just days before the ship had gone down, the last day ones Charlie had written before the last supply ship had come to pick up letters.

That hit him hard.

Four days, three days, two days before he’d died, Charlie had been sitting down writing “Dear Mama” and “Dear Papa.” Forty-eight hours before the ship had gone down, Charlie had been dating his paper and chewing his pen trying to decide exactly what words to use.

And he’d chosen his words so carefully, picked the ones that would show his parents exactly how he felt and what he wanted to say.

Jimmy’s hands were shaking as he held the first letter, the one dated two days before the ship sinking, and he had to put it down and light a cigarette to calm himself down. When he’d collected himself, he picked it back up and started to read.

“Dear Mama, dear Papa,” Jimmy could almost hear Charlie speaking his words out loud, like he was sitting right next to him reading it out loud. “I know I wrote yesterday and the day before, but we keep getting news of man after man not getting to write anymore, and I want to write as much as I can before that becomes me. I don’t want you to have nothing to hold on to, whether I’m a long time home or I never make it.”

Jimmy had to pause again, this time standing up and getting a glass of water.

It kind of felt like he had known, like he’d been ready.

Their last conversation had been the night before the ship sank, the night after he’d written that letter.

When they’d stood on the main deck while most other people were still finishing dinner and they were as alone as they ever were without sneaking away. Charlie standing as close to him as they could pass off as sharing a smoke break, waxing poetic about the stars and how everyone saw the same ones. Letting their hands touch on the railing in front of them, the safest way to hold hands in public.

He’d talked about how the same stars were shining on their future home in Cleveland, and laughed when Jimmy had pointed out the time difference probably meant the stars weren’t shining in Cleveland. He walked with Jimmy towards the bunks, and pushed him gently into an open closet to kiss him sweetly goodnight.

And forty-eight hours after that, Jimmy woke up in a hospital, alone, with a brand new scar on his left shoulder and the worst possible answers to his frantic questions about Charlie.

Every letter brought up more memories, of conversations shared, nights spent talking or hiding away together.

Charlie had written about their first kiss, telling his parents everything, even though it could have gotten him in serious trouble, and it let Jimmy relive that moment through Charlie’s eyes.

He remembered thinking Charlie was going to hurt him, that Charlie had noticed the way Jimmy looked at him and hated him for it. He remembered the butterflies in his stomach, first from one emotion and then from another as Charlie closed the door behind him and kissed him on the mouth. He remembered Charlie smothering a laugh in his hand when he pulled back and saw Jimmy’s blush and the expression on his face.

Charlie wrote about how he’d mentioned Jimmy before and how he’d finally convinced himself to act on his own attraction because he’d finally convinced himself Jimmy had been looking at him the same way. How he’d seen how nervous Jimmy had gotten but gone through with it anyway. He wrote that Jimmy was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen and how kissing him had felt like every movie romance he’d ever seen.

Jimmy had eventually taken all the letters out and rearranged them chronologically, so he could read the story Charlie wrote in order.

He didn’t make it all the way through the letters that night. He couldn’t. It was exhausting to try and process emotions he’d been pushing away for so long, and there were so many memories resurfacing with every letter he read.

The first time they’d met, when they arrived at the ship for the first time. When they’d started talking, how they’d grown close. Other people they’d known, some who Jimmy knew had survived and plenty who he knew had not. It was painful and tiring, as much as it did make him feel better.

And when he did finally carefully stack the letters he’d already read back into the box and just as carefully stack the ones he hadn’t read yet next to the box and go to bed, for the first time in a long time he didn’t wake up crying in panic after reliving the worst moments of his life, he woke up crying over love lost and reliving the happiest pieces of his relationship with Charlie.

It took him a few days to finish reading all the letters and stack them up inside the box.

He slipped two into the copy of Romeo and Juliet. The one where Charlie wrote about the first time they met, and the one that described their first kiss in all the details Charlie had written down.

He hoped they wouldn’t realize, knew they probably would, and hoped, even more, they wouldn’t mind. He’d lost every last connection he’d had to Charlie, he justified, and those letters were more connection than he could ever hope to regain from anywhere else, and he hoped they’d understand that.

Not to mention those moments were so private he didn’t quite want to share them, even if they already knew. He wanted to be selfish with those moments, he’d only had so many and he wanted to keep them close and to himself as much as possible.

He brought the box back exactly a week after he’d visited the first time.

The door was still shiny and clean, like they’d scrubbed it again, and when Linda answered the door and pulled him into a hug immediately, he noticed that the entire house was as unnaturally clean as the door, and he realized that cleaning was her way of getting rid of the nervous energy grief filled a person with, the way he played saxophone and how he’d thrown himself into his studies when he’d first gotten back.

Linda took the box and set it on a bookshelf on the side of the living room and offered Jimmy a seat while getting lemonade and cookies from the kitchen, and they fell into the same easy conversation they had at dinner when Jimmy had first visited.

And when Tom joined them, the conversation didn’t stutter to a stop, it just dragged him in, and for the first time in a while, Jimmy didn’t have to force a single smile over dinner, they just came naturally.

They invited him back for dinner on Sunday, making a point to clarify they wanted him to come every week.

Sundays quickly became the best days of the week.

He hadn’t gone to church much since getting home, feeling out of place and knowing everyone there likely hated him without knowing it for who he was attracted to. He spent Sundays home alone, playing his saxophone and waiting for the call he got from his parents every Sunday afternoon, asking him to come to dinner.

He hadn’t said yes yet, hadn’t seen them since he’d found out they knew about him and Charlie.

Part of him thought he was being selfish. His parents had almost lost their son. In a sense, they had. He’d come home a very different person than he’d left.

But he knew they would never accept him just as he was. They’d never be happy for him if he found another guy to love, they’d never invite him to bring a boyfriend home for dinner.

They’d try to pressure him into finding a girl, try to make him marry a girl and have kids and all of the things they’d had planned for him when all he didn’t want any of that. When he’d already had everything he’d wanted and lost it, and they didn’t care at all.

So Sundays weren’t exactly his favorite day.

And now he had something to look forward to every Sunday other than playing music alone in his apartment. It was a nice and entirely welcome change.

For the first time since he’d gotten home, time spent with the band excluded, he felt really at home. Like he was really starting to adjust to life again, and it was because he had found some semblance of a family with the Parellis. A family that accepted who he was and who he loved without question.

And obviously he had found something similar with the band, but at the same time, it was entirely different.

He didn’t want to admit why he felt like the band was completely different, even to himself, but in those rare moments when he was completely honest with himself, he knew.

Donny and Johnny.

The first time Donny had talked to him, he’d called Jimmy good looking within five minutes, and after that, Jimmy had been well and truly fucked on the subject of Donny Novitski.

He was almost unbearably attractive with his dark hair that looked so soft and his big brown eyes, and his singing voice. God, his singing voice.

Jimmy could listen to Donny sing all day. He had, many times, and it was impossible to get sick of the way his voice sounded.

Even when he’d only been home for a month and still missed Charlie so much it physically hurt sometimes, he couldn’t really deny that he was very much attracted to Donny.

He just had this charismatic sort of aura, he made people want to root for him and be around him, and Jimmy was no exception to that.

And it was the same with Johnny, and yet impossibly different.

Johnny wasn’t so impossibly handsome, he didn’t look like Paul Muni or sing like Frank Sinatra, but something about him drew Jimmy to him the same way Donny did. He definitely wasn’t unattractive, he had cute, floppy curls and Jimmy definitely had a thing for tall guys, but he didn’t look like a movie star, either.

He wasn’t quite ready to deal with having crushes on anyone yet, but sometimes, when it was really late at night and he couldn’t sleep, he tried to categorize exactly what he was feeling, so when he was ready to deal with it, he’d know where to start.

With Donny, he’d decided, it was almost pure attraction. Yes, there was a bit of it being an actual crush, but mostly he was at the point where he knew if Donny were to ask him to come home to bed, Jimmy would have a hard time saying no. Or pretending he wanted to. But he wasn’t sure how much he wanted a relationship with Donny.

Part of that was how happy he could see Julia and Donny were together, and he didn’t want to mess that up, but he also just wasn’t sure he and Donny would be a great couple.

With Johnny, it was exactly the opposite. Jimmy wouldn’t have complained, at all, not one bit, if Johnny had invited him to spend the night, but he also wanted to cuddle into Johnny’s side, and dance with him, hold him close. They were close friends already, and Jimmy just knew they’d make a good couple. Even if it was a hopeless crush, and nothing would ever come from it, he couldn’t help but want it.

And even if the band felt something like a family, he felt weird calling it one when he felt like that about two of them.

There was none of that with the Parellis, obviously, and it did feel like he’d found a family with them, and he liked that.

Loved it.

He loved being able to laugh and smile without having to force it, he loved being around people who knew exactly who he was and still treated him exactly the same, who knew him and had him over for Sunday dinners and asked about his personal life and pretty much just treated him like their son.

Not like he was a replacement for Charlie, at all, but more like they knew he needed them and they needed him just as much.

It was a piece of the healing process they’d both been missing, without even quite realizing it.

Jimmy could tell he was doing better in that he sometimes made it through the night without waking up from a nightmare, in that he found himself able to believe more and more in the lyrics of Love Will Come and Find Me Again. He didn’t have that constant urge to be doing something, to be taking notes or practicing, never just sitting still.

Even at rehearsals, he was less jittery. When they took a break, he wasn’t running through his fingering silently, always needing to be in motion, to be doing something. It was easier to relax.

He knew it was not only because he’d found a home he liked, but also because he was actually working through his emotions rather than forcing them away until they bubbled up into an anxiety attack or tears.

And it was wonderful.

He was able to relax. To sit on his couch and read a novel, to play his saxophone or his clarinet without any sense of urgency to be better, to be the best, to be the best because if he wasn’t, anything that went wrong would be his fault, and he couldn’t handle anything else being his fault when he already blamed himself for so much.

He was able to enjoy rehearsal, to actually enjoy playing music like he hadn’t since before the war, to get lost in the music and enjoy the moment instead of constantly looking forward to the next note, the next measure, the next song.

“Sounds great, Jimmy, just keep it quieter after the bridge.” Donny had been more relaxed since he and Julia had finally gotten together, but he still ran rehearsal the same way. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing; clearly his methods had been working for them, and Jimmy wouldn’t have really been able to say no to him anyway, even if he wasn’t bossy and somehow managing to make that attractive.

Nick made eye contact with Jimmy and rolled his eyes, having gotten very similar criticisms from Donny himself, and Johnny smiled at him, flipping his drumsticks in the air and making Jimmy’s stomach flutter.

“I like hearing the saxophone.” He said, and Jimmy blushed.

“Sure, but not when it overwhelms everything else.” Donny had already turned back to his sheet music, making another of his endless adjustments and scribbling more notes in his notebook.

When rehearsal was over, Johnny kept playing as everyone else cleaned up, and it was eventually just him and Jimmy in the rehearsal space.

Johnny was playing a simple rhythm, a swung one-two-three, once in a while spicing it up with a variation. Whenever Jimmy looked up with him, he had an expression on his face that was a mix between concentration and complete happiness, like there was absolutely nothing he’d rather be doing than sitting in a rehearsal studio after being there all day already, playing rhythms Jimmy knew were well below his skill level.

It always took Jimmy longer than most of them to clean up; usually the order was Donny, Julia, Johnny, Nick, Wayne, Jimmy in terms of who went home when, mostly because he had two instruments and he was almost as picky as Wayne about how clean they had to be before he packed them away.

“Where do you live?” Johnny asked, not really looking up at Jimmy as he played something much more complex than he had been for the most part.

“Just a few blocks away, why?”

“Which direction?”

“South of here.” Johnny nodded, closing his eyes, and Jimmy realized it wasn’t concentration on his face, it was pain. “You okay?”

“I ran out of pills in that bottle.” Johnny nodded at the pill bottle on the table closest to him. “And it’s almost time to take another one. I was hoping you could walk me home, in case it gets bad before I make it.”

“Of course I will, Johnny.”

“Well, you live the opposite direction of me.”

“It’s still plenty early, Johnny, I’ll walk you home.”

“Thanks.” Johnny stood up, and Jimmy saw him wince as his back stretched.

“It’s not a problem, I promise.” Jimmy clicked the latches shut on his clarinet case and picked both cases up, jerking his head at the door since he didn’t have a free hand.

Now that he’d noticed that Johnny’s back was bothering him, he noticed how he was walking differently. By the time they made it to Johnny’s apartment building he was gasping every time he moved his legs, and he had to lean on Jimmy a few times to make it up the stairs.

“Go sit.” Jimmy helped Johnny to the couch. “Where are the rest of your pills?”

“Bathroom,” Johnny said, looking like he barely wanted to breathe.

Jimmy found the bottle of pills in the bathroom and got a glass of water, too, and brought both to Johnny.

“Thank you.” Johnny took his pills and sighed, and Jimmy sat down across from him, wanting to make sure he was feeling better before he left. “You don’t have to stay. I’ll be okay in a few minutes.”

“I’ll stay for a little while. Just in case.” He settled into his chair, pulling his feet up under him.

“In case what?”

“I don’t know. Just in case.” Johnny adjusted himself so he was lying across the couch, and he closed his eyes, clearly still in pain.

“Thank you for walking with me. Sometimes it gets real bad, and I don’t like to walk alone in case it does when I feel it coming.”

“Any time, Johnny, any of us are there whenever you need us.” Johnny smiled, his eyes still closed.

“Especially you.” Jimmy froze, not that he had been moving all that much anyway, instantly overthinking what Johnny had just said.

He could be referencing the fact that he and Jimmy were close friends, or that Jimmy had promised him he’d always be there before, or any number of other things that could have implied that Jimmy would always be willing to help.

Or he could have noticed that Jimmy spent far too much time watching him, that Jimmy had a hard time not blushing whenever Johnny touched him, that Jimmy, no matter how much he refused to admit it even to himself, was falling for Johnny Simpson in a pretty major way.

“Why especially me?” Jimmy asked.

“You’re the one who’s nicest. I dunno. You don’t make the same jokes as all of them. Easy to trust, I guess.” Jimmy could tell Johnny was getting fuzzy around the edges, meaning his pills were starting to take effect. “I trust you, y’know. Guess I never told you that. Less I forgot. I forget a lot.”

“I know.”

“I don’t ever remember who I told stuff to.” Johnny laughed a little bit, keeping his eyes closed. “Davy says I musta told him how my Jeep flipped more than a hundred times. Mostly I just don’t tell stories much to you guys anymore, ‘cause I usually already told them.”

“We don’t mind that, you know.”

“I don’t want to be annoying to anyone.”

“You’re not annoying, Johnny. Nobody thinks that.”

“Plenty of people do. I can tell.”

“I don’t,” Jimmy said softly, and Johnny smiled, opening his eyes to look at Jimmy.

“I know. You’re my favorite.”

“Favorite,” Jimmy said.

“Yeah. Guess that’s a little mean to say. I just like you a lot. I like all of them a lot, but you’re my favorite.” Johnny frowned. “That’s not what I mean, just I don’t know how to say it.” He sat up a bit, his frown deepening, and Jimmy could almost see him thinking. “I’m not good with words. I just like you a lot.”

“I like you a lot, too.” Johnny’s smiled returned, and he patted the couch next to him.

“You can sit here if you want. It’s more comfortable than the chair.” Jimmy moved across to sit next to him, and Johnny reached out to touch his shoulder, almost like he was reassuring himself Jimmy was really there.

“I probably won’t stay much longer, you know, it’s getting later.”

“I know.” Johnny moved like he was going to stand up, but he let out a little gasp and settled back down.

“What do you need?”

“No, I just wanted to put music on. It’s quiet.” Johnny gestured at his record collection, tucked on a shelf near the drum kit set up in the corner.

“What did you want to listen to?” Jimmy stood up and moved over to the records.

“Maybe Ella Fitzgerald. The Webb Orchestra.” Johnny said.

Jimmy found the record tucked in with the rest and put it on the record player, the music instantly filling the apartment. Johnny smiled again.

“I love this song.” Jimmy sat back down, and this time Johnny’s hand stayed on his shoulder where it landed. “I love her voice. You know she’s going solo now.”

“I heard, yeah.” Johnny’s eyes shut again, but this time more like he was almost falling asleep, and within a few minutes, he’d drifted off, leaning towards Jimmy.

By the time Jimmy realized how late it had gotten and that he should really be getting home, Johnny had shifted to be leaning completely against Jimmy, and if Jimmy had moved, he would have woken up. Jimmy didn’t want to wake him up.

The record was still playing quietly, and Jimmy could lose himself a little in the music, forget where he was or who he was with.

This scene was so close to the promises Charlie had made him. A small, cozy apartment, quiet music, dozing on the couch. It was so perfect, and yet so wrong, even if he was happy in the moment, even if he maybe was falling in some kind of love with Johnny, it felt wrong.

He felt himself start silently crying, tears wetting his face, which he hated. He hated the feeling of being wet, hated the feeling of not being able to stop himself from crying.

Johnny shifted against him until he was much closer to lying down with his head in Jimmy’s lap.

Jimmy couldn’t stop crying over lost love, over what should have been and wasn’t, over what could be and wasn’t. Over Charlie, who he’d lost, over Donny, who he’d never have, over Johnny, who he wasn’t sure of anything with at the moment.

He wiped his face on his sleeve, not done crying but also unable to take the tears on his face anymore.

His life was upside down. Everything was backwards from how it should be.

His parents hated him for how he fell in love, his boyfriend was dead, his boyfriend’s parents had given him a home, he was on the couch of somebody he was at least kind of falling in love with, crying over all of those things.

All of those things, because as much as he told himself otherwise, he missed his parents. He missed his mom making him breakfast, his dad giving advice. And he hated how he felt like he was taking advantage of Charlie’s parents, he hated not even knowing himself exactly how he felt about anything that was going on around him. He was confused and lost and broken, barely sure of his place in the world that had seemed so sure before the godforsaken war and the godforsaken ship that had taken away everything good and normal and easy about his life.

He was stuck.

Stuck in place, unable to move on, or maybe unwilling, confused about himself and everything and everyone.

He wasn’t shaking as he cried, which he was grateful for, since he still didn’t want to wake Johnny up, but he couldn’t stop the tears from coming, and he knew if he didn’t stop soon the discomfort of his wet face would likely trigger a panic attack. He couldn’t stop the tears from coming, and the way Johnny was lying across him and the couch only left one arm free enough to get to his face. It was claustrophobic, wet, and not getting any better.

“Jimmy?” Johnny said sleepily, shifting in his lap. “You okay?” Jimmy nodded, even though he knew it was pointless, since he was still crying, and as soon as he knew Johnny was awake, swiping at his face with both shirtsleeves, trying to dry his face off. “What’s wrong?”

Jimmy shook his head, trying to take a deep breath.

It was the kind of breath that made him feel like he was shaking, but he couldn’t tell if he really was or if it was just from him being on the edge of a panic attack.

Johnny sat up, reaching to the side of the couch and pulling a blanket from somewhere, passing it to Jimmy wordlessly. Jimmy buried his face in it, trying to control his breathing and dry his face and stop his tears without having to look up at Johnny.

It took a few minutes to get himself under control. The music had stopped, he was sitting on his couch with his head almost on his own knees, still on the edge of panic but at least the tears had stopped and he was dry again.

Johnny was rubbing circles into his back gently, sitting next to him silently.

“I’m sorry.” Jimmy managed to say. “I should go.”

“No, Jimmy, stay.” Johnny didn’t stop rubbing Jimmy’s back, even as Jimmy sat up. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing. I’m…I’m okay, I just need to go home and sleep.” Jimmy stood up and haphazardly folded the blanket. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” Johnny frowned, but nodded.

“Thanks for everything.” He said as Jimmy opened the door, still looking concerned.

“You, too.” Jimmy forced some kind of smile in Johnny’s direction, hoping to reassure him.

He didn’t sleep at all once he got home. Instead, he had a whispered, one-sided, almost prayer-like conversation with Charlie, wishing more than anything he could get a response.

He re-read the letters he had tucked away inside the book, closing his eyes and almost hearing Charlie’s voice.

Charlie was good at advice, he was wise and sweet and would have known exactly how to flip Jimmy’s world right-side up again if he were here.

Of course, if Charlie were here, his world wouldn’t have been nearly so upside down in the first place. If Charlie were here, he’d probably be here, Jimmy would be tucked into his side and already asleep. If Charlie were here, the scene that had been so close to perfect in Johnny’s apartment would have been here in his home, Charlie and Jimmy would have danced to quiet music and dozed off pressed together on their own couch. Charlie would have been writing in one of his notebooks, Jimmy would have been reading.

If Charlie were here, so much more would make sense.

But Charlie wasn’t here, and he was sitting on his couch in the living room alone, still on the verge of tears but unwilling to cry when he still wasn’t recovered from earlier.

Rehearsal the next day was hard.

It wasn’t like he’d expected to never have a bad day ever again because of how much better he’d been feeling recently. He knew as well as anyone that healing wasn’t linear, that a whole bunch of good days in a row didn’t mean he could never have a bad day ever again, but that didn’t make the bad days any easier or more expected or better.

He couldn’t focus on anything, he was jittery and jumpy. Donny couldn’t get him to focus on the music, his head was spinning, he was just on this side of a panic attack. He almost felt like he was getting sick, even if he knew it was just in his head.

He could feel everyone watching him when he messed up, when he missed an entrance or let his reeds squawk on a high note. They knew this was abnormal for him. Normally, he was the one who had it the most together. He was generally good at bottling his emotions up until he could explode when he was alone.

He didn’t put nearly as much time or care into cleaning and packing his instruments, just needing to get home as fast as he could to actually go to sleep.

“Jimmy!” Johnny caught up to him before he made it all the way home.

“Hi, Johnny. Do you need something?”

“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. You seemed nervous today.”

“I’m not feeling great.”

“Did I do something last night?” Johnny asked sincerely. “You didn’t talk to me all day.”

“No, Johnny, no. I’m just having a bad day.”

“You’d tell me if I did something, wouldn’t you?”

“What would you have done, Johnny?”

“I don’t know, I just feel like…” Johnny trailed off. “You helped me, and then you kind of…freaked out. I don’t remember everything from last night, I just wanted to make sure.”

“You didn’t do anything, Johnny. I…I had a rough night.” Johnny nodded.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really, no,” Jimmy said honestly.

He wanted to go home and hopefully get some sleep. Realistically, he was going to get home, be unable to sleep, and practice until he didn’t make any more mistakes, even when he was exhausted, depressed, and barely a step above a panic attack.

“When you do...I’m here.”

“Thanks, Johnny.”

Johnny patted him on the shoulder and gave a sympathetic smile before walking away.

And Jimmy appreciated Johnny’s offer. Really. He knew Johnny would be willing to listen, but he wasn’t willing to talk.

If anything, he was less willing to talk to Johnny than ever after how hard something as simple as sitting on the couch with him had hit him.

He did need to talk about it with somebody. All of it.

He needed to talk about Charlie and their relationship and his nightmares and Charlie’s parents and his parents and everything about his life that was so upside down and terrible. He needed to get it out, because keeping it in for so long was starting to wear him down.

And it probably had to be somebody from the band, since they were pretty much the only people in the world he could trust with all of those details.

But not Johnny, not when he was so confused about how he felt about Johnny. And not Donny, not when he was completely sure of how he felt about Donny and it wasn’t something he was willing to share.

Maybe Julia, except for the fact he was very much attracted to her boyfriend.

Davy was notably bad at advice for practical purposes. Abstract life advice about loving yourself? Davy was the man to go to. Advice for a specific situation that needed solving fast? Davy was the last man to go to.

Nick was also a maybe, although his advice was probably a bit gruff for Jimmy to handle when his mental state was already so bad.

Which left Wayne. Wayne who was neat, organized, had a family. Wayne who knew what it was like to lose his family the same way Jimmy had lost his, after his wife had left him. Wayne who was actually really good at listening, and probably really good at advice. Wayne who was probably in some kind of relationship with Nick, who probably wouldn’t judge him for who he was and hopefully would be willing to listen to him.

Not right now, though, right now he desperately needed to just be home.

Walking alone through Cleveland at night was relaxing. The city was busy, sure, but at night nobody paid any attention to anybody else. He walked further than he had to, almost positive he wouldn’t have been able to sleep, anyway, enjoying the night.

Walking forced his muscles to relax, to fall into the rhythm he just hadn’t been able to find during rehearsal. By the time he did finally open his door and step into his apartment, the exhaustion of the last two days was really catching up with him.

He didn’t really expect to fall asleep, even with how tired he was, but he tried anyway, and was surprised when it was three in the morning the next time he looked at the clock.

He couldn’t fall back asleep, though, and it was too late to play his saxophone without making his neighbors hate him for it more than they already did.

He was in a weird mood, now. The fluttery, shaking anxiety was gone, but he still didn’t feel normal. He needed to do something.

He tried to read, first one of his textbooks, then a novel, eventually he picked up Charlie’s copy of Romeo and Juliet and read his letters, but nothing held his focus.

For a little while, he sat on his couch, staring off into space, bouncing his leg. He found himself having another conversation with Charlie, talking about his day, how terrible it had been, how he was feeling.

It helped to get it out at all, even if he was talking to a ghost that probably wasn’t even there, but a ghost couldn’t offer him advice, tell him what to do, help him figure it out.

He needed a living, breathing human being for all of that, and that meant he had to do more than tell himself he was going to talk to Wayne, he had to actually talk to Wayne.

Getting Wayne on his own was harder than he’d really expected. He hadn’t been paying attention to how much time Wayne and Nick really spent with each other. They were never not together. During breaks in rehearsals, they sat together. Wayne lived with Nick, so they left together and arrived together. During days off, they stayed home together, or did stuff together. The only time they didn’t was when Wayne had his kids for the day, and the conversation Jimmy needed to have wasn’t one he wanted to have kids hear, for the sake of everyone involved.

He waited for almost a week before there was finally a chance to get Wayne alone, when Davy distracted Nick with some stupid joke and Wayne shook his head and walked away.

“Wayne-” Jimmy almost put a hand on Wayne’s shoulder, but stopped himself, knowing how much that would bother him.

“What?”

“I was wondering if...if you had time to talk sometime?”

“About what?”

“I...I’ve just been...having a rough time recently. And I thought talking about it would help.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’ll get it.” Wayne looked a little bit surprised that Jimmy would approach him before anyone else, but he nodded slowly after a second of thinking.

“I suppose we could talk. After the set tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Wayne.” Wayne nodded again, still looking a little bit confused and surprised.

The set went better than he’d expected.

He’d missed an entrance, but recovered hopefully without anybody in the audience being able to tell, and he never lost control of his reeds and let a squawk come out. When they were cleaning up in the greenroom after, everyone seemed happy. Nick stood by the door, holding his trumpet case, and Jimmy watched a silent conversation pass between him and Wayne before he finally shrugged and was the first to leave. Donny and Julia followed not long after, and Davy was right behind them, probably making a beeline for the bar they’d just been playing to. Johnny left after a few more minutes, looking between Jimmy and Wayne like there was a question he wanted to ask, but he didn’t say anything.

“Why do you think I’ll get it more than the others?” Wayne asked, not looking up from the cleaning snake he was running through his disassembled trombone over and over again.

“Because you will.” Jimmy focused on his saxophone and his breathing for a moment, trying to make sure he was calm enough to talk. “Because you lost your family the same way I lost mine.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wayne’s head snap up. He knew he’d touched a nerve; talking about Wayne’s family was almost as much of a no-go as talking about Michael to Donny. But he also knew he hadn’t told anybody how he hadn’t seen his parents in almost two months because telling them that would require him to explain why.

“What is that supposed to mean, Jimmy?” Wayne asked slowly, and Jimmy could hear the anger in his voice.

Which was fair, Wayne had lost his family almost completely because of something he couldn’t really control. It wasn’t his fault that his schedules and cleanliness had only been made worse by everything he’d seen and experienced in the war.

“I...I haven’t seen my parents in months.” He paused, trying to figure out exactly what words to use. “They...I...I don’t like women, Wayne, I never have. And...and there was a guy. In the Navy. My parents found out and...and I haven’t seen them or talked to them in months.”

“Oh.” Jimmy looked up at him, trying to read his face. Wayne had paused and was looking back at him.

“And I guess I figured...you’re the only one who lost family anything close to that way. Everyone else still has theirs, or else they’re really gone. My parents are ten blocks away and still gone.”

“And my wife and kids are four streets away and I’m not.” Wayne nodded. “But still. Why would you come to me?”

“I need somebody to talk to. About everything. I haven’t talked to anyone about everything since I’ve been home, Wayne, and I can’t handle it anymore.” Jimmy’s voice shook and he paused again, taking a breath. “Please.”

“I’m not going to say no, Jimmy.” Wayne put one piece of his trombone in its case, and Jimmy turned back to his own instruments, avoiding eye contact again. “What happened?”

“He died when the ship went down. I was out of it in the hospital. I asked to many questions. I called him my boyfriend. My parents didn’t say anything until I told them I was going to see his parents. They told me I wasn’t allowed to go and I left.”

“You left them, then.”

“They were pretty clear that they didn’t want me unless I pretend Charlie never happened. I’m not doing that for anyone, Wayne.” Jimmy said earnestly. “Maybe I can’t broadcast who I am and what we had, but I’m not pretending he never existed to somebody who already knows about him. And not to people who should be able to love me no matter what.” He looked up at Wayne for a second.

“Is that why you had such a bad day last week? You miss them?”

“No. I...Johnny had a rough night. I walked him home because his back was bothering him.”

“Did he do something?” Wayne asked, a little too sharply it to be a random response to what Jimmy had seen.

“What? No. He fell asleep. Why would you ask that?” Wayne shook his head, but couldn’t completely hide the relief he obviously felt at Jimmy’s answer. “Okay, whatever. He fell asleep on the couch, and I was sitting with him, and it was almost exactly like what Charlie used to say we’d have. That hurt, Wayne.” Jimmy paused to collect himself again. “Everything is upside down from what I thought it’d be. I’m confused.”

“About what?” Another piece of Wayne’s trombone went into his case. Jimmy felt himself flush, knowing that this was one of the things he had really wanted to get out but finding himself completely unsure of how to say it.

“I still love Charlie.”

“Okay.”

“But...but I think...I think maybe I love Johnny a little bit, too.” Jimmy swiped at his eyes. He wasn’t crying, but he could feel the pressure building. “I don’t know. I’m confused, Wayne. He...he put music on, and fell asleep. And Charlie used to promise things just like that, and I guess even though I can maybe imagine myself with Johnny eventually, it was too soon. That’s why I had a bad day.” His saxophone was all the way put away, and Wayne was almost done with his trombone.

“Everyone has bad days,” Wayne said. “All of us are still trying to be okay. Some days I have to stay home because I can’t handle being anywhere but there. You aren’t expected to get completely better quickly, Jimmy. And nobody expects you to do things you aren’t ready for.” He was talking slowly, like he was thinking about everything very carefully before he said it. “Nick and I…” He trailed off. “I guess you probably figured out that we’re seeing each other?” Jimmy tilted his head in acknowledgment. “It wasn’t like that happened overnight. Being attracted to somebody and wanting to be with them are two different things. It took a while for both to happen at once to both of us. It takes a while for any couple.”

“I know that, Wayne.”

“So you don’t need to push yourself. If you want to see Johnny, nobody here is going to say anything against it. But don’t try to force yourself.”

“I’m not.”

“You are trying to force yourself to be better faster. Recovery takes time.”

“I know that, too.”

“So what do you want me to tell you?”

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Cope.” Wayne laughed, and Jimmy couldn’t miss the bitterness in it.

“How do any of us? Music. Nick helps. All of you do. But the truth is, it’s not going away. Even good days can be hard.” Wayne put the last piece of his trombone away and clicked the case shut, watching Jimmy finish running his swab through his clarinet. “Maybe someday you’ll be okay enough to know if you really love Johnny or if you just wish you did. And maybe that will come soon. But maybe not. I don’t know what advice I can give you other than to wait until you know you’re okay.”

Jimmy put the bell of his clarinet away and closed his case, too.

“And I’ll just know?”

“Maybe.” Wayne paused with his hand on the door. “You don’t have to ask to talk to me, you know.”

“You’re never alone. Ever.” Jimmy smiled a little bit though. “But thanks.” With that, Wayne stepped out of the door, leaving Jimmy alone to glance around and make sure nobody had left anything behind.

The walk home from the club they’d played at was much longer than the walk home from the rehearsal studio. The winter wasn’t quite starting to break yet, but as March got going the snow was getting wetter and the cold was damp, too, hopefully pointing towards warmer weather coming soon.

It was still cold, though, and the damp seemed to seep through his coat and gloves so that by the time he finally got home he was shivering and really wanted a cup of tea or something warm before trying to sleep.

Wayne hadn’t really given him advice he didn’t know, but talking had helped. Maybe it was just knowing that Wayne had actually been through something similar to him and it wasn’t just him projecting onto somebody who seemed like he might have, but he felt better.

Not good, not even really okay, but better.

Better enough to finally be able to fall asleep and sleep the whole night through, and when he woke up in the morning, he finally felt like he’d completely recovered from his breakdown the week before.

Recovery wasn’t linear. Wayne had pretty much said as much, and he’d already known that. He had good days and bad days, and so did the rest of the band. Donny had days when he was just as angry and bitter at everyone and everything as he had been when he started the band. Davy had days he was so drunk he was unintelligible, Johnny had days when he had to take so many pills he was loopy. Nobody in the band was okay a hundred percent of the time.

It sucked. It wasn’t fun or fair that all of them had days where it seemed like it hurt to be alive, whether physically or mentally.

But they were still healing. The bad days came less and less frequently, for all of them, as time went on.

After the week of somewhat bad days caused by his really bad day, waking up well rested and feeling ready for the day was something he couldn’t take for granted.

They didn’t have rehearsal that day, since it was Sunday and they’d played four sets in three days, anyway. He woke up at nine am after sleeping all night and not having any real nightmares.

He woke up to his phone ringing. He knew who it was, who it always was on a Sunday morning, but unlike every Sunday for the last two months, he made himself walk to the phone and answer it.

“Hello?”

“Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy, we’ve been trying to call for weeks.”

“Hi, Mama.”

“Are you coming home, Jimmy? For dinner, today. We miss you, Jimmy.”

“Am I welcome home?”

“Always, Jimmy.”

“No, Mama, am I welcome home. You know about me and Charlie. That’s not changing.” Jimmy couldn’t quite miss the sniff his mother had turned away to hide from the receiver.

“Jimmy, can’t you just…”

“Just what, Mama? Pretend? Try? I’ve spent my whole life pretending and trying. I’m not doing that with you anymore. I’m your son, Mama, isn’t that enough?”

“Of course it is, Jimmy, but-”

“Mama, I can’t come home until I know I belong there. Until I know I don’t have to pretend for you to love me. I love you, Mama.” Jimmy took a deep, shaking breath. “I love you but I don’t think I can come home yet.”

“We miss you, Jimmy, we miss you so much.”

“I miss you too.” Jimmy wasn’t crying but his mother was, he could hear her. “I love you, Mama, goodbye.” He hung up the phone.

The fact that even that conversation hadn’t managed to swing his mental state over into “bad” territory meant he was having a really, really good day.

A normal person’s bad day, but a good mental health day.

He made himself a cup of tea, not hungry yet, and curled up on his couch.

His window had a nice view. He hadn’t spent much time looking recently, but whoever lived in the apartment directly across from him had plants in their window. In the summer, he remembered, there were brightly colored flowers. Now there were still bright poinsettias lining the windowsill, left over from the holidays. He could see the street, too, full of people dressed in their Sunday best on their way to church.

As he watched, a family with two young kids pranced past. The little boy tugged on his sister’s long braids and skipped ahead, laughing. The mother smoothed the girl’s coat and hat and shook her head at the little boy, but the father just laughed and scooped him up to ride on his shoulders.

It was relaxing to just sit on his couch, sipping his tea and watching the people pass by, occasionally zoning out on the poinsettias across the street.

By ten, the people had thinned out when most of them had gone into a church or finished making their way home from church, but there were still plenty wandering around.

A woman clutching two packages wrapped in brown paper tightly to her chest, the wind whipping her scarf into her face.

A couple holding hands and walking without talking.

A man holding a bouquet of flowers, walking very quickly.

All visible for no more than a minute while they walked past his building on the other side of the street.

It was a quiet, peaceful winter morning, and it was wonderful.

He lost track of time, which was completely unlike him, watching people pass by until his tea was cold and when he looked at the clock, it was almost one in the afternoon, meaning he’d spent four hours sitting on his couch doing nothing.

Normally, that would have driven him crazy. He should have been studying, or practicing, or cleaning, or doing something other than staring out the window, thinking.

But he hadn’t had a day, even one of his good days, in a long time when he could sit and just think for so long without working himself up to a panic attack over things he couldn’t change, and today the thing that had upset him most was noticing his tea had gone cold.

It was nice.

He did end up playing his clarinet for a while, pulling out sheet music he hadn’t touched since he’d been home other than shuffling them from folder to folder as he organized the music from the band.

Some of the music he found was copies of concertos and symphonies, some he’d played in high school, some he’d played before the war, some were solos and some weren’t.

He found a couple things he’d started writing for himself, mostly for saxophone, but none of them were done or very good.

He spent the afternoon playing anything and everything he found, purely for the sake of doing so, and by the time the sun was setting he was making pasta in the kitchen and cleaning up his music and instruments in the living room.

And when he went to bed, he fell asleep without having trouble, and when he woke up, he hadn’t had any bad nightmares.

He had a great rehearsal on Monday, too, and slept well that night, too.

He’d had a good long streak of good days before, and he felt pretty good about another one starting now.

That’s how it went for weeks, just like it had before. He had good rehearsals, good days, good nights.

“Good rehearsal tonight, guys. We’re at the Rio tomorrow night, at eight. Not before. Davy. Davy. Not before.” Davy winked at Donny, grinning.

“If I stay late…”

“You better be at rehearsal Thursday on time.”

“Am I ever late?”

“One in four times.” Wayne muttered, making Johnny giggle.

Slowly, everyone started to filter out of the rehearsal studio. It took longer now than it had at first, since the studio had slowly filled up with all their stuff in the months since New York. There were posters from a few different places that had them booked regularly and group photos hanging on the walls, stacked chairs and scattered music stands and sheet music everywhere. It had practically become home away from home for all of them.

Nick waited for Wayne, and they left together. Donny and Julia left together, too, and Davy left after telling Johnny a new riddle, laughing at the way Johnny’s whole face wrinkled in concentration as he puzzled it out.

Jimmy was again left alone with Johnny, listening to him play drums while he cleaned and packed his instruments away. When he was done, he put his cases on the table Johnny had his sticks and extra drumheads on and sat on a stool, watching.

Like the last time this had happened, Johnny looked like there was nowhere else in the world he wanted to be, but this time it didn’t take Jimmy quite so long to pick out that he was in pain.

“You alright, Johnny?” Johnny didn’t stop playing, he just jerked his head towards the table, and Jimmy noticed a pill bottle. When he picked it up and shook it, it was empty.

“Forgot.” He said simply. “It’s not bad yet.”

“Do you want me to walk you home?”

“Are you sure?” Johnny flipped his sticks, grinning when he caught them, but wincing right after.

“Yeah, Johnny, I’m sure. You want me to?” Johnny nodded.

“Yes, please.”

It was worse than last time, Jimmy could tell. By the time they were halfway to Johnny’s apartment, he was leaning on Jimmy for support, and Jimmy could feeling him get more tense with every movement, especially once they were climbing the stairs.

Jimmy helped Johnny over to the couch, and didn’t need to ask where to get the pills and water this time. This time, too, he sat down next to Johnny on the couch right away, instead of on the chair across from it first.

“Thanks, Jimmy.” Johnny said, the two pills he’d swallowed obviously already starting to take effect. “Can always count on you.”

“Always, Johnny.”

“A shadow!” He said suddenly, startling Jimmy.

“What?”

“The part of the bird that’s not in the sky, who can swim in the ocean and yet remain dry. A shadow! Davy’s riddle.” Johnny laughed and settled down further into the couch. “I like riddles.” He said. “Davy’s good at riddles.”

“He is, isn’t he?” Johnny was blinking slowly, and Jimmy could tell he was going to fall asleep pretty soon.

He didn’t say anything else, even though he opened his mouth once like he was going to, and he kept shifting further and further towards Jimmy, until his head was in Jimmy’s lap.

It was different this time. Maybe it was because the music wasn’t playing, or just because he really was feeling better, but it didn’t freak him out like it had last time.

This time, he found himself humming something, a song he couldn’t quite place but he thought he’d heard at one of the clubs, and mindlessly running his fingers through Johnny’s curls.

He was still thinking about Charlie, but instead of it making him break down, it was okay. Good memories, good thoughts, good things.

He finally placed the song he was humming as one Charlie had sung when they danced together.

“Hold me, never let me go.” He sang quietly, trying to remember every word. “Take me, honey won’t you take me, never to forsake me, ‘cause I love you so.”

He must have dozed off, since the next time he had a coherent thought Johnny was sitting up next to him, tapping the side of his face.

“Jimmy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you.”

“What time is it?”

“Late.” Johnny shrugged. “I just woke up. I fell asleep on top of you.”

“I know. It’s okay, Johnny, it’s not like I had somebody waiting for me at home.”

“You don’t?” Johnny sounded genuinely surprised, which made Jimmy laugh.

“No, Johnny, I don’t. Did you think I did?” Johnny was still a little bit woozy, obviously, and he nodded.

“How come somebody so pretty doesn’t have a girl?”

That made Jimmy cough, both because of how confused Johnny sounded and because he had called Jimmy pretty.

“I, um, I don’t like...girls. Johnny. I don’t like girls.” Johnny’s eyes widened.

“Oh.” He sat back against the armrest of the couch, blinking at Jimmy. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, well...I don’t have a girl. Or want one.”

“Oh.” There was an awkward pause where Johnny stared at Jimmy and Jimmy stared at Johnny.

Jimmy wasn’t sure what Johnny was thinking, but he was thinking about the first time Charlie had ever kissed him. When Charlie had pushed him into a closet and kissed him even though they’d both been scared.

And how Wayne had said that maybe someday he’d know if he really did love Johnny.

And how the way Johnny was staring at him was reminding him more of Charlie every second.

Charlie had made the first real move with them.

It was only fair he make the first move with Johnny.

For once in his life, he didn’t pause to overthink and overanalyze everything or anything before he did it.

The way they were sitting, they were facing each other. It was easy enough to lean forward and kiss Johnny on the mouth.

He was shaking and already apologizing when he leaned back again, glancing towards the door like he was going to make a run for it.

And then Johnny leaned forward and kissed him back.

Johnny kissed him back.

Johnny leaned forward across the couch and kissed him just like Jimmy had kissed him, only he stayed closer and let the kiss last longer.

“Johnny…”

“Is that okay?” Johnny asked earnestly.

Jimmy had to think about that.

He loved Charlie. He still did, he probably always would, that hadn’t and wasn’t changing.

But he was pretty sure he also loved Johnny. And wanted to be with him. And really liked the way kissing him had made him feel.

So he nodded and leaned forward again and kissed Johnny again, this time bringing a hand up to touch Johnny’s cheek.

He lost track of time a little, sitting on the couch kissing Johnny. It made his stomach fill with butterflies, and every little place Johnny touched, his cheek, his hands, his hair, burned with a blush so bright he knew he looked like a cherry.

After a while, though, Johnny pulled back farther than he had been.

“It’s really late, Jimmy. We should go to sleep.” He stood up and offered Jimmy a hand, and he was blushing, too, which was cute. Adorable, even. “You...you can stay if you want. I...the bed’s big.”

“I’d like that.” Jimmy said quietly. He followed Johnny towards the bedroom and didn’t even bother changing more than pulling off his button down shirt and curling up to next Johnny on the bed, falling asleep close enough to be touching.

When he woke up, he was still okay. More than okay.

He was good.

He’d somehow managed to reach some kind of an inner peace, and waking up next to Johnny didn’t make him feel conflicted at all.

It made him feel happy.