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When Hank was nine years old, his mom told him not to throw a baseball in the house.
He did it anyway. Broke the living room window. Shattered glass everywhere, his mom's favorite curtains torn, and Hank standing there with the ball still in his hand, absolutely terrified.
He'd thought that was the worst feeling in the world that sick drop in his stomach, the way his hands shook, the certainty that he was in huge trouble.
He was wrong.
Because right now, staring at the broken guitar on the floor of his dorm room, Hank Olson knows what real terror feels like.
And he is a dead man.
The headstock is cracked clean through, one string dangling like a severed nerve. The wood is splintered in a way that looks final, irreversible, fatal. Art's guitar the one he learned to play on, the one he takes to every gig, the one that matters more than anything else Art owns is broken.
And it's Hank's fault.
"Shit," Hank says to the empty room. His voice sounds distant, like it's coming from underwater. "Shit. Shitshitshit."
His hands are shaking. His heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. He can't breathe right short, panicked gasps that aren't getting enough air.
This is how it happened:
Hank had been trying to study for his statistics exam a class he was already half-behind in because numbers made his brain feel like it was melting. He'd been staring at the same problem for twenty minutes when he glanced at his phone.
His tutoring session started in five minutes.
Started. Not ended. He was supposed to be across campus right now.
"Shit!" He'd scrambled, grabbing papers, half-stuffing books into his bag, knocking over an empty energy drink can. The room was a disaster more cans everywhere, clothes on the floor, textbooks scattered across his desk. And Art's guitar, propped carefully against the wall where it always was, right by his bed.
Hank had been moving too fast. Wasn't thinking. His foot caught the strap.
There was a crack sharp, final, like a bone breaking.
The guitar hit the floor.
And Hank's entire world stopped.
He'd stood there for a full ten seconds, just staring, hoping that maybe it wasn't as bad as it sounded. Maybe it was fine. Maybe the crack was just the strap hitting the ground.
But when he picked it up, the headstock shifted wrong. The wood had split right through.
Now Hank stands in the middle of the room, guitar in his hands, and his mind is racing through every possible scenario:
He could hide it. No Art would notice immediately. Art plays every day.
He could say someone broke in. No that's insane and also Hank can't lie to save his life.
He could run away. Transfer schools. Change his name. Move to another state.
"Oh no," he says out loud. "Oh no no no. He's gonna kill me."
Not literally. Art would never. Art is the most patient, understanding person Hank has ever met. But this is different. This guitar is different. Art's uncle gave it to him before he died, and it's all Art has left of him.
And Hank broke it.
His stomach churns. He thinks he might throw up.
He needs help. He needs someone to tell him what to do, how to fix this, how to make this not be happening.
Hank carries the guitar into the common room like he's carrying a body.
His hands are still shaking. His throat feels tight. He's pretty sure he's going to have a panic attack, but he needs to hold it together long enough to get advice from someone, anyone.
The guys are all there Pete and Ray on the couch, Stebbins reading in the corner, Collie and Barkovitch arguing about something, Harkness sprawled in the armchair with his feet up.
They all look up when Hank walks in.
There's a beat of silence.
Hank can feel their eyes on him. On the guitar. He wants to disappear.
"Is that" Pete starts.
"I broke Art's guitar," Hank says. His voice comes out flat and dead, like he's announcing his own execution.
The room erupts.
"Oh shit," Collie says, eyes wide.
"You what?" Harkness sits up straight, feet hitting the floor.
"Holy fuck, Olson," Barkovitch says, and he's grinning like this is the funniest thing he's heard all week. "You're so fucking dead."
"I know," Hank says miserably.
"Like, actually dead," Barkovitch continues. "Art's gonna murder you."
"Not helping!" Hank snaps, voice cracking.
"Jesus, Barkovitch, shut up," Collie mutters.
Pete jumps up and crosses the room, taking the guitar from Hank's hands. He examines it carefully, turning it over. "Okay. Okay, we can fix this. We can glue it, right?"
"You can't just glue a guitar," Stebbins says without looking up from his book.
"Why not?"
"Because it's wood and tension and structural integrity. It's not a ceramic mug, McVries."
Ray leans over Pete's shoulder to look at the damage. "That's a clean break. A luthier could probably fix it."
"A what?" Hank asks.
"Guitar repair person," Ray explains. "But it won't be cheap."
Hank's voice gets higher, more panicked. "How much are we talking?"
"Enough that you'll be eating ramen for a semester," Collie says grimly.
Hank puts his face in his hands. This is a nightmare. This is the worst day of his life.
"Just tell him the truth," Ray says gently. "Art's reasonable. He'll understand it was an accident."
"No," Hank says immediately, shaking his head. "I can't tell him. He's gonna be so mad."
"He's Art," Ray points out. "He doesn't get mad."
"He will this time."
"Lie," Barkovitch says, leaning back against the wall. "Always lie. Tell him it fell off the bed on its own. Freak accident. Act surprised when he finds it."
Harkness shakes his head. "Bad plan. Hank can't lie to save his life."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Hank asks, offended despite everything.
"Remember Curly's birthday?" Pete says, almost apologetic.
Hank groans. "Oh god, don't"
"You spoiled the surprise party in the first five minutes," Harkness says. "We weren't even asking you about it. You just walked up and confessed."
"And the canyon trip cover story," Barkovitch adds, grinning. "You cracked in like thirty seconds flat."
"Plus that time you ate Ray's leftovers and told on yourself before anyone even noticed they were gone," Collie says.
"Okay, okay, I get it!" Hank's voice is getting louder, more desperate. "I'm a terrible liar! You guys are no help!"
Inside his head, Hank is screaming. They're all just standing around talking like this is some casual problem, like he didn't just destroy the most important thing his boyfriend owns. His chest feels tight. His hands won't stop shaking.
What if Art breaks up with him over this? What if this is the thing that finally makes Art realize Hank's too much of a disaster to date?
Stebbins finally looks up from his book. "Just tell Art the truth. He'll forgive you."
Hank shakes his head, voice breaking. "I can't. He loves this guitar. Like, really loves it."
"All the more reason to be honest," Stebbins says calmly.
Hank looks around at all of them desperately. His friends. The people who are supposed to help him. And they're all just throwing out suggestions that won't work or making jokes or in Barkovitch's case actively enjoying his suffering.
"So what do I do?" Hank asks, and he hates how small his voice sounds.
Stebbins closes his book with a quiet thud. "You be honest. You apologize. You offer to pay for repairs. And then you accept whatever happens."
"Easy for you to say," Hank mutters. Stebbins isn't the one about to face his boyfriend with evidence of complete and total failure.
"Not easy," Stebbins corrects. "Just necessary."
The group eventually disperses Pete patting Hank's shoulder sympathetically, Ray offering a "good luck," Barkovitch still grinning as Collie drags him out. Hank sits alone in the common room, staring at the broken guitar in his lap.
His mind is still racing. Maybe Art won't notice. Maybe if Hank positions it really carefully against the wall, the crack won't be visible.
He knows that's bullshit. Art will notice immediately. Art notices everything.
Hank spends the next hour pacing. He tries to rehearse what he's going to say.
"Art, I have bad news." No, too dramatic.
"Hey, so funny story" No, not funny at all.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to" God, he sounds pathetic.
He sets the guitar carefully on the table and keeps pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth. His stomach hurts. His hands won't stop shaking.
When he was nine and broke that window, his mom had hugged him. Told him it was okay, accidents happen, they'd fix it together.
He doesn't think Art's going to hug him.
He's a dead man.
The door opens around seven.
Art walks in, tired but smiling, still in his work shirt from the music shop. There's sawdust in his hair and on his shoulders. He looks good he always looks good and Hank's heart does that stupid flip it always does when Art comes home.
Followed immediately by a wave of nausea so strong Hank thinks he might actually throw up.
"Hey, babe," Art says casually, dropping his bag by the door. "You eat yet?"
Hank spins around. He probably looks like a ghost pale, wide-eyed, shaking. "Uh-yeah. Hi."
Art frowns, picking up on something immediately. His smile fades. "You okay?"
Hank opens his mouth to say he's fine. To lie. To deflect.
Instead, a strangled sound comes out. Then another.
And suddenly he's crying.
Big, ugly, can't-breathe crying. The kind that's been building for hours and finally breaks through all at once.
In the common room down the hall, Pete freezes mid-sentence.
"Oh no," he whispers. "He's crying."
"Shit," Ray says. "We should've stayed."
"No," Stebbins says, standing up. "Everyone leave. Now."
"But" Collie starts.
"Now," Stebbins repeats firmly.
They scatter Pete practically dragging Ray toward the stairs, Harkness and Collie bolting for the exit.
Barkovitch pauses at the door. "Think Art's gonna dump him?"
"Jesus Christ, Barkovitch" Pete starts.
"What? I'm just saying-"
Collie reaches back and smacks him upside the head. "Have some fucking empathy."
"Ow! Fine, I'm going!"
The door closes, leaving the building quiet except for the sound of Hank's sobbing from his room.
"Whoa, hey" Art drops his keys and crosses the room in three strides. "Hank, what's wrong? What happened? Are you hurt?"
Hank tries to explain through hiccups and gasping breaths. "I broke it your guitar I was late for tutoring and I was rushing and I tripped and I didn't mean to I'm so sorry"
Art follows Hank's gesture to the table where the guitar sits, headstock cracked, string dangling.
There's a moment of silence.
Hank watches Art's face, waiting for anger, for disappointment, for the moment Art realizes Hank isn't worth the trouble.
But Art just walks over, picks up the guitar gently, examines it for a moment, then sets it back down. He sits next to Hank on the couch.
"It's okay," he says quietly. "It was an accident."
"It's not okay!" Hank's voice cracks. "I should've been more careful. I should've been paying attention. I wasn't thinking and I just I broke it and I'm so sorry"
Inside his head, Hank is spiraling. He broke Art's guitar. One of the most important things Art owns. He's the worst boyfriend in the world. Art's going to leave him. Art should leave him.
"Hank." Art's voice is soft but firm. "Breathe."
"I can't"
"Yes you can. Look at me." Art waits until Hank meets his eyes. "In through your nose."
Hank tries, his breath hitching and stuttering.
"Good. Now out through your mouth."
It takes a few tries, but eventually Hank's breathing starts to even out, even if tears are still streaming down his face.
"I'm sorry," Hank says again, quieter this time. "I know how important it is. I know I fucked up."
"It is important," Art agrees. "But getting mad won't fix it."
Hank looks up at him, tear-streaked and miserable. "Can you just be mad? Please? So I can stop feeling like this?"
Art smiles a little, sad but genuine. "Mad won't fix you either, babe."
"I don't know what to do."
"You don't have to do anything right now." Art reaches out and takes Hank's hand, squeezing gently. "It's fixable. Guitars break. It happens."
"But"
"And now it'll have a story," Art says. "My boyfriend broke it in a study panic. That's a pretty good story, actually."
Hank lets out a sound that's half-laugh, half-sob. "That's a terrible story."
"Yeah, well. You're a terrible liar, so it's the only one we've got."
That gets a real laugh out of Hank, even if it's watery and pathetic.
Art pulls him in, and Hank goes willingly, pressing his face against Art's chest. The height difference has always been funny Art's taller, broad-shouldered, and Hank has to tilt his head up to kiss him most of the time. Right now, Art has to lean down to press a kiss to the top of Hank's head.
"I really am sorry," Hank mumbles into Art's shirt.
"I know."
"I'll pay for the repairs. However much it costs."
"We'll figure it out together."
Hank pulls back slightly, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. His eyes are still red and puffy. "You're being way too nice about this."
"What do you want me to do? Yell at you?"
"Kind of, yeah. I deserve it."
Art shakes his head, smiling. "Not my style."
"I know. It's annoying."
"You love it."
Hank sighs, and some of the tension finally starts to drain from his shoulders. "Yeah. I do."
They sit in silence for a moment, Hank still tucked against Art's side. He can hear Art's heartbeat steady, calm and it helps ground him. Reminds him that the world isn't actually ending, even if it felt like it was for the past two hours.
"I guess this means I'm instrumental in destroying our relationship," Hank says weakly.
Art groans. "That was awful."
"Too soon?"
"Way too soon." But Art's laughing, and that makes Hank laugh too, and suddenly the crushing weight on his chest lifts just a little bit.
They stay like that for a while, the broken guitar sitting on the table like evidence of a crime scene.
Eventually, Art starts talking telling Hank about his shift at the music shop. There was a customer who tried to tune a banjo like a guitar and couldn't figure out why it sounded wrong. Another guy who'd played the same rock song opening riff for twenty minutes straight without stopping, just that one part over and over.
"Twenty minutes?" Hank asks, incredulous.
"I timed it. My coworker wanted to ban him from the store."
"Did you?"
"Nah. He bought a strap and left eventually. Probably went home to keep practicing that same five seconds."
Hank laughs properly this time soft and real, the anxiety finally starting to drain away.
Art brushes Hank's hair back from his forehead, gentle and careful. "See? World's not ending."
Hank sighs, leaning into the touch. "You're too good for me."
"Nah," Art says, grinning. "You're mine."
"Lucky me."
"Damn right."
They sit together in the dim light of the common room, shoulders pressed together, Art's arm around Hank's waist. The broken guitar sits on the table soon to be fixed, eventually to be whole again, but not tonight.
Tonight, this is enough.
"I love you," Hank says quietly. He needs Art to know. Needs him to understand that Hank would never hurt him on purpose, would never disrespect something Art cares about.
"I love you too," Art replies. "Even when you destroy my stuff."
"I'm never living this down, am I?"
"Not a chance. I'm telling this story at our wedding."
Hank groans, but he's smiling. "Fair enough."
And for the first time since that terrible crack of breaking wood, Hank Olson doesn't feel like a dead man anymore.
He feels like someone who made a mistake.
Someone who was forgiven.
Someone who's going to be okay.