Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ken Rosa had always been the kind of man who carried warmth with him, like a soft flame in a storm. His art classes were where students came alive, the one place in PS38 where colours and imagination danced freely. But lately, even the paint seemed to dry duller on the canvases. The light behind Ken’s brown eyes had dimmed, and the faint smile that used to play on his lips had all but vanished. He tried to hide it—tried to keep up the same enthusiasm, the same passion—but everyone could tell something was wrong. He moved slower, dragging himself through the day like someone trudging through thick mud. His once-vibrant lessons had become a shadow of what they used to be.

Nate had noticed, too. He didn’t say much about it, though. What could a kid like him say to a teacher who looked like he’d lost the will to fight against something much bigger than a bad day? Nate figured Mr. Rosa just needed space. But that didn't stop him from worrying.

It was late one afternoon when Martin Wright came to collect Nate after school. The sky was a heavy grey, pregnant with the threat of rain, but it hadn't started yet. Inside, PS38 felt stale, almost suffocating. As Nate grabbed his things and darted off to meet friends, Martin lingered by the doorway of the art classroom, watching as Ken sluggishly cleaned up the last remnants of the day’s mess—brushes left soaking in cloudy water, half-finished projects stacked without care.

Martin’s brow furrowed as he observed the usually upbeat teacher moving like a man carrying a thousand pounds of invisible weight. He'd always liked Ken, admired him, even. There was something gentle about the art teacher, something Martin had always thought was rare—like the man saw beauty in places where most people didn’t even think to look. But today, Ken looked far from seeing beauty in anything. Today, he looked broken.

Martin approached slowly, not wanting to startle him. "Ken," he called softly.

Ken flinched, looking up as if he'd been caught off guard, his eyes glassy and red-rimmed from sleepless nights. "Oh, Martin," he said, quickly trying to muster some semblance of a smile. "Hi. Didn’t see you there."

Martin nodded toward the mess of art supplies Ken was half-heartedly organising. "Rough day?"

Ken shrugged, the movement barely noticeable. "You could say that," he muttered, his voice so low it was almost swallowed by the quiet classroom.

Martin could see it now, up close—the exhaustion etched deep into Ken's face, the way his shoulders hunched as if trying to protect himself from an invisible storm. He thought for a moment, weighing his words carefully.

"You know," Martin said, his voice soft but firm, "the kids are at a friend’s tonight. It’s just me at home. I was planning to make dinner… tuna noodle casserole." He smiled warmly. "I’m terrible at cooking, but it’s my favourite dish. How about you join me? It’ll be nice to have someone to talk to."

Ken blinked in surprise. For a moment, it was as if the invitation hadn't registered. Then he shook his head lightly. "Oh, no, Martin, I couldn’t… I don’t want to intrude."

"You're not intruding," Martin insisted. "Really. It’ll be good to have some company. And... well, I think you could use a break."

Ken hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. He hadn’t been home much lately. Home had become a battlefield, and everywhere else felt too lonely. The thought of sitting in his quiet apartment, picking at food he didn’t want to eat, filled him with dread. Martin's offer was like a lifeline. "I… I guess," Ken finally whispered. "Thank you."

Martin smiled again, that easy smile that made people feel like they weren’t alone. "Great. I’ll see you around six?"

Ken nodded faintly, still uncertain, but something in him relaxed.

That evening, as the rain began to fall in light patters against the window, Ken found himself standing outside the Wrights' modest home, clutching a small bouquet of red roses. He stared down at them, his heart heavy with doubt. He’d bought them on impulse, thinking it might be a nice gesture. But now they seemed inadequate, laughable even. Red roses? What was he thinking? He hadn’t bought flowers in ages. The petals were slightly wilted, the stems too short. They're not good enough, he thought bitterly. I should’ve just come empty-handed.

But before he could turn around and leave, the door swung open, and there stood Martin, a warm glow spilling out from the house behind him. His eyes landed on the flowers, and without hesitation, his smile broadened.

"Ken," Martin said softly, "you brought roses? That’s so thoughtful. Thank you." He took them from Ken’s trembling hands as if they were the most precious thing in the world.

Ken’s throat tightened as he nodded, following Martin inside. The smell of home hit him instantly—something warm and comforting, like freshly baked bread mixed with the faint scent of clean linen. It was a feeling Ken had long since forgotten.

They sat down to dinner, the small kitchen table illuminated by the soft, golden light of the overhead lamp. Martin had laid out two plates of tuna noodle casserole, and Ken’s heart twisted painfully at the sight of it. It wasn’t the food itself—it was the idea of someone cooking for him, of someone thinking of him at all. It felt like a kindness he hadn’t known in far too long.

"Hope it’s okay," Martin said, breaking the silence as he dished out portions. "Nate and Ellen hate this stuff, but it’s one of my favourites."

Ken took a bite, the warmth of the casserole filling him with a sense of comfort that reached deeper than he’d expected. "It's… it’s delicious," he whispered. And for the first time in weeks, he meant it.

They ate in silence for a while, the only sound the gentle clink of silverware against plates. Martin kept sneaking glances at Ken, noticing the way the man seemed to melt into the warmth of the moment, his tension slowly ebbing away. But there was still something there—something deeper, something that weighed on Ken like a stone tied to his chest.

"Ken," Martin said gently, his voice cutting through the quiet. "Is everything okay at home?"

Ken froze, the fork halfway to his mouth. His hand trembled slightly before he lowered it. He stared down at his plate, eyes unfocused, and Martin knew immediately that something had broken.

"I—" Ken’s voice cracked, and his breath hitched as if he were trying to hold back a flood. "Martin, I… I don’t even know where to start." His hands fell to his lap, fingers knotting together, white with pressure. "Everything's falling apart," he whispered, the words heavy, like they’d been building up for weeks, maybe months. "My wife… she’s pregnant, but… but it’s not mine."

Martin felt his heart constrict. He reached out without thinking, placing his hand over Ken’s, feeling the tremor that ran through him. "Oh, Ken," he whispered, the words soft but aching with empathy. "I’m so sorry…"

Ken squeezed his eyes shut, the tears spilling over before he could stop them. His shoulders shook as the sobs ripped through him, uncontrollable, raw, and full of a pain so deep it felt like it would never end. "I loved her," Ken gasped between sobs, his voice breaking. "I loved her so much. And now… I don’t even know who she is anymore."

Martin didn’t pull away. He held Ken’s hand tighter, offering the only thing he could—his presence, his understanding. "You didn’t deserve this," he said quietly, his own voice tight with emotion. "You didn’t deserve any of this."

For a moment, the kitchen was filled with nothing but the sound of Ken’s broken sobs, the kind of crying that comes from a place of deep, unspoken agony. And then, almost without realising what he was doing, Ken leaned forward and pressed his lips to Martin’s, the kiss soft and desperate, like he was reaching for something—anything—that would remind him he wasn’t completely lost.

Martin froze for a heartbeat, startled by the suddenness of it. But then, without thinking, he kissed Ken back. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness. Only understanding, only connection, only a shared loneliness that both of them had carried in different ways for too long.

When they finally pulled apart, Ken looked at Martin with wide, tear-filled eyes. "I—" he started, but Martin shook his head gently, still holding his hand.

"It’s okay," Martin whispered. "You’re not alone, Ken. Not tonight."

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Ken believed him.