Archive of Our Own

“So, at ten we have Hamilwimper Primary School–”

Connor looks up from where he’s diligently polishing a glass display case. The acidic scent of the cleaning fluid sits heavily in the air, displacing the usual museum smells he’s accustomed to – jacket potatoes from the cafe, faint dusty mildew, and an earthy metallic tang. “Naba, you’re shitting me.”

Nabulungi wrings out her hands, looks back at the information slip. “Hamilwimper Primary School,” she says again, “It’s three classes – Year Three, I think. They’re learning about the ancient Greeks.”

“I know that,” Connor says, holding: a printed stack of worksheets in a binder, a rucksack full of questionably Greek artefacts that the kids can pass around and guess at their meaning, and a bag of fidget toys. “I didn’t know they were called Hamilwimper.”

“It’s in Surrey,” Nabulungi tells him.

“Of course it is,” sighs Connor.

“Not a private school, though,” she says, “I googled it.”

“Great.” Connor fundamentally refuses to deal with private school kids at 10am on a Monday morning. “And they’re called Hamilwimper.”

“I might be shitting you,” admits Nabulungi with a sharp, sweet smile. “I just wanted to see if you would believe me.”

“Ugh, I hate you,” Connor says. 

“Now, Mormons don’t lie,” Nabulungi hits him with a feather duster. He turns and attempts to flick her arm with a cleaning cloth in retaliation. Nabulungi ducks out of the way in time, and he rather embarrasses himself by twisting and almost falling–

“Never should have told you that,” he grumbles.

“No,” agrees Nabulungi cheerfully.

Connor realises ten minutes before the primary school is due to arrive that he never actually found out their actual name from Nabulungi – his notes are consulted, and as it turns out, they’re Hammerdown Primary School. He practices saying the name a few times, walking laps around the display holding Ancient Greek weaponry and farming tools – whispering restlessly to himself. A member of the public catches his frantic chanting and sharply turns away, down to the Romans. Connor pinches the skin of his wrist and tells himself get it together.

Connor is good at his job; he doesn’t doubt that. It’s not exactly what he feels he was made to do, but it’s – good. It’s a resting point. A moment of passage. Something fitting between now and the next. 

He graduated from university entirely unsure what to do with himself; at some point during his second year, it had gotten so tiring lying to his family and putting off bringing a girlfriend home that he’d just blurted Would they let it be a boyfriend? and that had been The Worst Decision Maybe Ever. He hasn’t been home since that Christmas; he’d finished his Musical Theatre degree and hung around in London working two different jobs mornings and evenings while taking various courses with the Open University to give himself something to do.

Connor McKinley considered himself an entirely restless person: unable to slow down, never wanting to stop, always always needing too much on his plate. Back Before, that had been cramming scriptures in the hopes that something would change – now, it’s the museum in the morning, tap classes in the afternoon, community theatre in the evenings. Partially to block his thoughts out, partially because he’s not sure how to function without being in a constant state of motion.

He’s good at his job, but everything about it can make him so anxious – especially primary school tours, which are usually quietly delightful things, but when he’s in the wrong headspace, can be calmerious. Children, he thinks, can be unfortunately judgmental beings, and they also tend to jump on nerves like sharks in bloodied water. Most days he’s fine, but today he’s feeling on the edge of being awake and not; he has a cold coming on; his leg is weirdly stiff from pulling a muscle at tap. 

He checks his watch. 9:58am.

The Ancient Greek gallery is open to the public – they’ll be tourists filtering by as he does his best to explain the origins of the Olympics and the historical context of the Odyssey to a rambled mass of seven-to-eight-year-olds. He makes sure he has his no photographs sign – double-checks his rucksack again – very briefly blinks into a polished metal pole to make sure there’s nothing in his teeth.

Nabulungi struts into the gallery, holding a clipboard, looking focused.

“You ready to go, McKinley?”

Connor gives her a jaunty thumbs-up. The moment she’s asked – the nerves steadily drilling into his marrow dissipate, mellowing out. His cold is forgotten, his leg feels a-okay, he’s fully awake. “So ready.” 

“Good, because they’re here,” she gestures to the staircase, grabs his hand, drags him over to look down on a horde of children. “Early. Whoever heard of a punctual coach?”

“Beats a school showing up an hour late still expecting a full-length tour,” Connor mutters. “Shall I go down to greet them? I don’t mind–”

He breaks off. He physically cannot form the sentence he wants to say next, the words get stuck in his throat, suffocating – he genuinely, truly cannot talk because Lordddd that is a gorgeous man.

He’s walking up the stairs to them, looking thoroughly lost. A purple lanyard hangs around his neck – an identity card, a keychain bizarrely shaped like a moose, a selection of communication cards. He waves, a little hesitant. Connor needs to quiz him about his haircare routine. Also his skincare routine. Also his workout routine.

“Hello,” he says, “I was told that the tour guides for my group would be on this floor – is that you two?”

Connor might still be staring. Beautiful, wonderful, incredible Nabulungi seems to sense that his brain has blipped completely offline – off the radar, even, Connor doesn’t think he’s regaining the ability to think sensibly any time soon – because she steps in, clearing her throat. “Yep,” she says, “You from Hammerdown?”

“Kevin,” says the angel-from-this-earth, and Kevin isn’t an entirely angelic name but Connor still wants to say it – “I mean, the kids will call me Mr Price, but you two can call me Kevin. Just not in front of the kids.” He pauses. “Um. And you–”

“Nabulungi Hatimbi,” Nabulungi announces, holding out her hand for a handshake, grinning at him widely. “And that’s Connor. He’s shy.”

“I’m not shy,” blurts Connor, deciding that he is, in fact, At Work and being employed and On The Clock meant he couldn’t just gawk at gorgeous teachers. Even if they were gorgeous. 

Connor is of the opinion that there were some men who were put on the earth to challenge him. Mostly in a negative context – a situationship from university, a situationship from a bar job, motherflipping Steve Blade – but also. Also. Men like Kevin Price, sent to stand in front of him with perfectly tanned skin and beautiful big brown eyes and moles. He supposes that it’s less challenge and more see if he can retain some professional dignity. Working hypothesis: maybe?

“You’re not shy,” says Kevin. “Okay. Uh. That’s good. Can’t have shy people with these kids, they’re like bloodhounds.” He clears his throat. “They’ll be fine. If you’re not shy.”

Oh. Lord. This is even worse. Not only is Kevin Price devastatingly attractive, he’s also a little bit of a loser. Which is another kind of problem for Connor – the moment, the moment he senses in a pretty boy a general aura of being a little bit Awkward and Flustered Sometimes then a switch in his brain flips and all of a sudden he wants to appear as hypercompetent as possible. For him that generally translates as stage-esque performance and also probably flirting. He looks at Kevin again and wills him to say something cool and poised so Connor can shove that instinct to the very back of his mind and flick the turn it off switch. He’d really rather be intimidated and avoidant of Kevin, not –

“So. Uh. I guess I’ll go and bring the children – do you have a cloakroom? Coatroom. They’ll need somewhere to eat lunch. And put their bags–”

Ohhhh. Oh dear.

“Why, Mr Price,” Connor might flutter his eyelashes a tiny bit. Nabulungi side-eyes him. “Have you never been on a school trip before?”

Kevin’s shoulders give out. “Oh gosh. Can you tell. This is my first time.”

There’s something in the set of Nabulungi’s jaw that suggests Connor do not Connor do not Connor Do Not ConnorDoNot. Connor elects to avoid the warning signs. They can’t stop him; he’s not wearing his reading glasses. How is he supposed to see that this is a bad, awful, terrible idea?

“Your first time?” his voice lilts up, “Don’t worry, I’ll show you the ropes.”

Maybe he winks. He’s ashamed of himself.

Kevin is beautiful. Kevin is so beautiful, and so stupid, because he doesn’t appear to notice that Connor is determinedly and terribly flirting with him. He just smiles.

“Would you? That’s kind. Anyway. Uh. Cloakroom?”

Connor gives up, vaguely. “It’s on the third floor. If you want to bring your classes – I’ll show you the way.”

“Right. Yes. Thank you.” Kevin squints at him, pauses, taps at his own ID card. “Connor.” Then he’s spinning on his heels and sprinting back down the stairs. Connor breathes in and out and deliberately ignores Nabulungi.

She clears her throat sternly. “McKinley?”

“Mmmhmm?”

“Why are you incapable of acting normal around handsome autistic men?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Connor–”

“Oh, would you look at that,” says Connor, ignoring her, “We need to show the kids how to walk single-file. What a fun task.”

“Connor–”

“Fun fun fun,” Connor sing-chants, and Nabulungi presumably Gives Up.

The cloakroom is a cramped, poky room – Connor thinks it started life as something else, maybe another gallery, and over the years has been demoted to – this. It’s positively writhing with approximately sixty school children and none of them are listening to instructions and Connor despises Monday mornings.

Kevin comes trotting over to where Connor is waiting by the side with Nabulungi, keen not to get caught up in the chaos. He’s dragging a short, chubby guy with him – quite literally, fingers closed over his wrist. Not the teaching assistant, Connor knows that – he’d been briefly introduced to the TA, a pleasant, smiling man called Ghali. Nabulungi gives the newcomer a quick little wave when they both come to a stop, and he starts giggling. 

“This is Arnold,” says Kevin. “He’s with class 3AC – they’re the second group for the workshop portion.”

“Arnold,” says Connor, smoothly. “It’s good to meet you. I think you’ll be paired with Nabulungi for that part of the timetable – and you’ve got me, Mr Price. Aren’t you lucky?”

Kevin half-nods, half-maybe-chokes on water. “Oh. Oh! Okay.”

“I love Ancient Greece,” blurts Arnold desperately. “None of the kids like it as much as I do. It’s devastating. Please make them love Ancient Greece, Naba-jamba, you’re my only hope. I’ve pulled out every stop, and even Percy Jackson doesn’t work.”

There is so much in that series of sentences for Connor to digest. He exchanges quick, Telling eye-contact with Nabulungi – a flick of her pupils which he translates as what the fuck. “Nab-u-lungi,” says Nabulungi, spelling her name out with far, far more patience than Connor thinks she should have.

Kevin waves his hands. “Please ignore him, he’s given every single person he’s ever met a stupid nickname and I don’t want any of them to stick.”

“Priceslice,” says Arnold, “Kevdawg. Pricetag. Pricetingle. Kevsicle.”

“Too many of those are Christmas themed for my liking,” says Kevin, and turns back to Connor and Nabulungi. “The less attention you give the names, the quicker they’ll go away.”

Nabulungi’s brief fluttering expression is easily read to Connor as a more subdued, slightly wondrous what the fuck? – more of a hallelujah there’s people here weirder than you and me and Monday is suddenly fun. “You tried Percy Jackson and it didn’t work?” she asks Arnold.

Arnold waves his hands about furiously – Connor’s noticed, so far, that he’s almost animated with his movements, all big, all wild. “No! I tried the book, I tried the movie, I tried the show–”

“But did you try the musical,” asks Connor dryly, not really intending to be overheard.

Arnold somehow hears him. “I didn’t try the musical. There’s a musical?”

“There’s a musical,” Connor confirms. “Why don’t you go on a school trip to see it. I’ll chaperone.” Nabulungi Looks At Him Again. He avoids looking back.

“Is it that good?” asks Kevin. “To chaperone?”

“It’s that good, and I like good company.” Connor smiles at him. Internally, he’s thinking pleaseee notice my pathetic flirting and shut it down put me out of my misery please. If that happens, then he can note Kevin Price down as gorgeous, socially awkward and totally unavailable heterosexual, and his life can continue as normal. Otherwise, if Kevin responds gosh-forbid positively then he can spend a happy morning flirting away with a school teacher, debate if he’ll lose his job, and promptly forget about the whole thing the next day. Either way, he would just like to know if Kevin is for the gays. Currently, it feels very Schrodinger's cat. Which is fine and all but Kevin being hypothetically simultaneously gay and straight is fucking with his ability to not vibrate out of his skin with nerves and also perform his job and also act like a normal human being. 

“Good company?” repeats Kevin, and scowls, for whatever reason. Unfortunately, it does everything for his whole looking-like-an-advert-for-a-sexy-teacher-calendar thing. It actually might just make it worse. “Wait until you see this lot on a Friday afternoon.”

Connor sobs internally. Externally, he waves a hand toward the scrambled horde of children. “Let me hope I won’t ever see the day,” he mumbles, “If we start in ten, does that work for you?”

“Perfect,” Kevin smiles. 

Connor nods, content because he’s managed to do a tiny aspect of his job and he didn’t implode, gay him. Yay him. Even. (His working hypothesis drills to no way.)

He turns around. “Nabulungi, if you–” and pauses, because Nabulungi, whilst he was focused on Kevin being in a gay-not-gay-maybe-straight box, started arguing with Arnold class 3AC. She has one finger planted against his chest and he’s staring down at it like it’s the greatest thing to ever happen to him. Three of the children on the far side of the room are staring at the whole scene and Connor gets the impression that this might become playground gossip tomorrow. “Nabulungi,” he says, softly.

“Star Trek is not better than Star Wars,” she’s saying, “And I cannot believe you would come into my museum with your wrong opinions, and that anybody would trust you to educate young minds.”

“You are so right,” says Arnold, “But I also just think the general existence of the Last Jedi counts as the entire franchise being shot in the foot seventy-five times and then staggering to the NHS and getting told that there’s no appointment for three months. So.”

“I mean, you are right, but–”

“Nabulungi,” Connor says again. “The tour?”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

Kevin Price is not doing great.

Firstly, he’s tired. Exhausted, more than tired. Bone-weary, eyes-slipping exhausted because he couldn’t get to sleep until 4am and his alarm is set for 6am sharp and – Arnold had to shake him awake on the coach, it was that bad. He feels like he’s sleepwalking, and he’s maybe a tiny bit delirious, which doesn’t help with anything else.

Secondly, he’s nervous. He trusts his class – lie, actually. He doesn’t trust his class. That is the problem. They’re good kids, and he’s lucky to be placed in Year Three for his first year teaching-teaching. He’s not at the school on placement anymore, and there’s no mentor breathing down his neck, meaning he can just Do Whatever. However a direct consequence of him Doing Whatever means that his children aren’t – quite-entirely fit for public interaction. He’s scared of whatever questions they’re going to ask.

And thirdly.

Thirdly.

Kevin has approximately one and a half friends in the whole world: Arnold Cunningham, and the class hamster he talks to before the kids arrive. He’s not sure which friend he’s classing as the half – Arnold would make sense to be the full, complete friend, but also sometimes he’s a little bitch and during those times Kevin would maybe place it at 0.75 Arnold, 0.75 hamster. However, both Arnold and Wotsit (the hamster) know one fact for sure about him – Kevin Price Doesn’t Date.

Kevin puts it down to a mix of things: his general lack of attraction towards most people he meets, his personality, his job, his LDS upbringing and also his confusing relationship with his own sexuality. He’s met, in his life, maybe all of three people that he’s found attractive and one of them, he thinks, he just found their intense enthusiasm for the Moana soundtrack more sexy than their actual appearance. 

So point three, thirdly, trois, tres – is perhaps the main reason he isn’t Doing Great. Because –

“Kevin,” Arnold whispers to him, moments before they’re about to be separated from each other, “Do you have a crush?”

Kevin, when he was a bit of a shithead in his youth/when he first met Arnold at university, would have previously told Arnold to fuck off. He can’t do that now, mostly because he’s surrounded by a plethora of seven-year-olds, so he settles for bashing his fists together twice because Arnold, of all people, should get a Friends reference.

“You doooo have a crush,” Arnold sounds, vindicated and delighted. “You’re getting all defensive.”

“I am not getting defensive,” protests Kevin. 

Arnold just beams at him in response and turns around to compliment someone’s labubu. 

The unfortunate matter is: Arnold is completely right. It’s not a crush, per se, but it’s something and Kevin entirely doesn’t know how to handle himself. 

Connor no-last-name is disgustingly pretty. It’s actually offensive. He’s going to file a report to the museum, complain about distractions while he’s supposed to be in charge of thirty small children. Because – it is – distracting. 

He’s just so – sure of himself, and so smiley and he said he’d show Kevin around. None of those things in combination usually elicits an emotional response in Kevin. Not that he isn’t emotional. It’s just – those things, and that smile and freckles and offering to come to a musical, what the hell. 

Kevin needs to get a grip. 

He swallows, tugs in a breath, breathes out, turns back to Connor. “So,” he says, “Where to now?”

Connor claps his hands together. “Up the stairs, on the right.”

Connor likes the first part of workshops the most: the children are still settling into the novelty of having an adult who isn’t a teacher or a parent talk at them, and so they’re determinedly quiet. He gets them all seated in front of a marble statue before he starts talking, and launches into it. He tells them facts about the Gods and the Olympics and democracy and Plato. He talks about inventions and language and handwriting and Aristotle and Hercules. He talks and talks. 

Finally, the introductory portion comes to a close. “Any questions?” he asks. Hands fly up. So far, so good.

He gestures at a kid in the front row. “Yes?”

“Did the Greeks play Roblox?”

Which is. Um.

Connor looks at Kevin, which he’d been very much avoiding, due to the whole Kevin-being-too-handsome-for-his-eyes-at-10am thing. Kevin sinks slowly into the chair he’s perched on, and pinches his nose. Connor clears his throat.

“No,” he says, “I mean, they couldn’t. They didn’t have the technology to. Um. Play Roblox.”

The kid gestures towards the statue, a little manically. “I know that! But. You said they had the Olympics and the Olympics sound like a game I play on Roblox and I’m actually really, really good at it, I’m better than Sarah. So did they play Roblox?”

Oh. Gosh. This is going to be a long day.

“They would have played games,” says Connor diplomatically, “As we go around this gallery, I’ll show you some artefacts, because a lot of their games are very similar to the games we still play today. But. Um, no, they didn’t play Roblox.”

Silence after that. Connor moves on. “Second row, black hat?”

“What do Gods eat?” asks a girl with big, rounded glasses. “Because if I was a God I’d want to have chicken nuggets like every single day but I don’t know if the Greeks had chicken nuggets but surely if you were a God you could click your fingers and – boom – invent chicken nuggets.”

Okay, if he ignores most of that question he can actually answer it. “The Gods mostly ate special food called ambrosia, and drank nectar,” he explains, “And sometimes people would burn food as offerings, and I think the Gods would have eaten the burnt food. But no, there weren’t any chicken nuggets.”

“So why didn’t they invent chicken nuggets?”

“I don’t–”

“Mr Connor,” says another kid. Kevin, from the back, might say something about hands up. “Do you have a favourite dinosaur?”

Cue frantic whispers of stegasarus trex spinosarus. Connor shuffles his worksheets together. “Triceratops,” he says, noncommittal. “Now. Who wants a worksheet?”

Nods. Thank God. Connor hands a stack of worksheets to Ghali, goes to find Kevin to hand some over too. Their fingers brush. Connor tries to ignore the violent childish eruption of butterflies in his stomach and just Can’t. “Now, if we give them twenty minutes,” he says, “That should be enough time for them to have a proper exploration around this gallery.”

“Sounds good,” Kevin murmurs. 

A child tugs on Kevin’s shirt. “Mr Price,” he says, “You told us we would see a minotaur. Where’s the minotaur?”

“I did not–” 

“Mr Price,” tuts Connor, because he truly cannot help himself, “Don’t make promises if you can’t keep them.”

Kevin glares at him. It’s delightful.

“I didn’t say that.”

Connor smiles at him, over his shoulder. “I’m sure I could maybe show you a minotaur,” he says to the kid, “But you gotta do the worksheet first, okay?”

“Okay!” chirps the kid, and scuttles off.

Which means it’s just Kevin-and-Connor and Nabulungi isn’t around to cast disapproving glances his way so Connor is free to make bad decisions all by himself. “So,” he says, adds a smile, steps a little closer to Kevin so their shoulders press lightly together, except not really because Kevin is tall. “How are you finding your first time?”

Kevin goes red. “My what.”

“Your first school trip,” Connor says, “How are you finding it?”

“Oh,” he’s still very red. “Um. Great. Yeah. I like museums.”

“Do you?” Connor asks. Conversationally. He’s just making conversation. Nothing wanton here. Not at all. 

“I mean,” Kevin makes a face, “This is actually only my second time ever in a museum.”

“Second time?” 

“The first time, I was six, and I think it was just so my mum could go to the cafe,” Kevin admits, looking a little sheepish. 

“Heretic,” scolds Connor, “No respect for history.”

Kevin shrugs. “I like art galleries?”

“Ohhh, maybe I can forgive you,” Connor flashes him just the slightest hint of a smile; crooked and sweet at once, flutters his eyelashes. It’s almost a challenge, seeing how stupid he can make himself look without this gorgeous man noticing. 

Kevin –

Kevin looks at him, head-to-toe, noticeably, audibly swallows, and mutters, “Oh. Okay.” Like he’s digesting some glorious, new-world truth. Then swivels his neck, eyes to each corner of the room, then locks eyes with Connor again. Kevin’s gaze is piercing when it’s centralised on him – those big, doe-like eyes, bright as burnt amber, circles of gold and green ringing his pupils, long, long lashes –

“Will you? Really?” and he sounds maybe a fraction pleading, and woah. Woah woah woah. Just what is happening here.

An embarrassing noise escapes Connor’s mouth. The front he’d put up of someone with their shit together suddenly falls down, collapses. “Erm,” he squeezes out, “If you fill out a worksheet, Mr Price. How will we be able to tell that you’re paying attention?” It’s a fucking dumb thing to say, and it can’t even really be perceived as flirting. 

Kevin smiles at him, that stupidly million-watt smile. “You’ve gotta give me one. I’ve got none spare.”

“Right,” Connor shuffles through a stack of papers, and hands one over to Kevin. Roots a pencil up from his pocket and gives that up as well. The pads of Kevin’s fingers brush his index finger as he hands over the worksheet and his hands are – soft, not calloused at all, and warm. Connor feels gooseflesh run from his wrists to his shoulders, feels a quiet thrill splice through his veins, a gentle sunburst, a firework screensaver. “Off you go, then. I’m expecting full marks.”

Kevin gives him a jaunty salute. “Don’t worry. You’ll get them.”

He scurries off to heaven-knows-where and Connor might just fall against a pillar with relief the moment he can’t see him anymore. He’s unable to hold onto any stream of thought except a frantic iteration of whatjusthappenedwhatjusthappened because – Kevin wasn’t supposed to know he was flirting. Except – somehow, he seems to have realised, maybe because Connor is the least subtle person on the planet and also he’s terrible at flirting and a terrible flirt. Meaning he dramatically overdoes it without any kind of finesse. Except — somehow, maybe, Kevin – might have flirted back?

Kevin walks around the museum in a daze. A worksheet flaps in his grip: crumpled, just-so, from how tight he’s gripping it. A pencil dangles from his fingers. Occasionally, overly-excitable children approach him and drag him to different displays and exhibits and all Kevin can do is mumble.

There is entirely too much going on right now for him to process any of it.

Firstly: there’s the whole Connor Problem. In that Connor is here, and Connor is a Problem. Because he was – he is – talking to Kevin like – with that smile – and Kevin can’t even phase what any of that means or how it makes him feel. All he knows is that he likes talking to Connor and he likes making Connor smile and he’s actually known him for all of three hours so the entire thing is completely ridiculous and he’s overreacting but also. Wow. What a smile.

Secondly: there’s the whole Fact He’s On A School Trip and he is in Charge of thirty small human beings and being in charge of thirty small human beings was, surprisingly, not a pleasant state of being for having the catastrophic wave of emotions he’s feeling right now. Arnold would likely inform him that he’s being dramatic and catastrophic was a word you were only supposed to use in dire situations but this feels pretty dire. Because after twenty-three years of living on this earth he has a crush for the first time. He’s beginning to realise why they call it a crush: something weighs on his chest, heavy and immovable. The phase butterflies in your stomach spins around his mind; his feelings are more like science displays, pins poked into the veins of colourful wings. Still, watched, observed from afar rather than something presently happening to him.

Thirdly: there’s the fact that Despite the fact he’s on a School Trip and in Charge, Kevin still very much wants to keep attempting to flirt with Connor. 

This is a bad idea, he’s thinking, as he ticks another box on the worksheet. This is a bad idea, he’s thinking, as he scribbles another answer. This is the worst idea ever, he’s thinking, as he’s snaking backwards through the gallery to look for their tour guide.

He sees Connor before Connor sees him, and it gives him a chance to just stare. Not like a creep, Kevin tells himself – he’s just. Looking. 

Connor isn’t short, but he’s shorter than Kevin is, and Kevin has never thought about height differences or gaps or anything like that before, but right now, all he’s thinking about is how nice it is, their height difference. But also Connor’s hair, the way he’s styled it, the way it smells faintly of coconut, and his freckles. Like being kissed by the sun. So, so many. Too many to count. 

Connor turns around. “Worksheet done?” he asks, with That Smile. Someone should trademark it.

“All finished,” Kevin hands it over, “Full marks, I assume.”

Connor squints at it, reaches for a pencil, and scribbles something on the inside of a page. “Very good,” he says. And all of a sudden he’s stepping closer, into Kevin’s space, right inside Kevin’s precious Personal Bubble and pressing something to his shirt – Kevin finds he doesn’t mind much that Connor is inside his space and that’s a whole new thing – and then he’s away again before Kevin can breathe normally. “See. You did such a good job you got a sticker.”

Kevin looks down. It’s shaped like a star, coloured dandelion yellow, and proclaiming good job!

Kevin feels his cheeks slowly turning red. This is heavily mortifying. “Um. Yeah. Thank you.”

Connor’s smile falters. It’s plastered back on, right away, but more practised. Less genuine. “Anyways. It’s almost lunchtime so if you want to get your class ready we can head down–?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Kevin, tucks the worksheet into his pocket and starts the frantic business of herding 30 children to get their hands washed.

Kevin crosses paths with Arnold for about three minutes whilst the children are eating, and he’s getting coffee, in a secluded museum staffroom. 

“So,” says Arnold. “How wassss itttt.”

“He’s flirting with me,” Kevin admits, sounding sort of dazed.

“Oh!” Arnold pauses. “Nabulungi gave me her number.”

Kevin processes that, and reaches out for a fist-bump. “Nice,” he says, still slightly stunned.

“She might just be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” Arnold goes on, “Neither of us are being very professional.”

“Safeguarding,” mutters Kevin, “I’m gonna whistleblow you.”

“Don’t you dare,” says Arnold, “I’ll whistleblow you.” He pauses. “Actually, don’t you want Connor to–”

“Rightokaythatsenoughofthat,” Kevin says very quickly. 

The rest of the trip rushes by, mostly because Connor is put with another group and doesn’t see Kevin again for an hour. His new group is fine; quieter; unfortunately Kevin-less. It’s only really in his absence that Connor starts to think about how truly dreadful this crush is. He thinks it’s only because of the potential within it that he’s unable to stop thinking about it but he so rarely meets cute boys that might like him back that it’s hard to keep from being fixated. 

It’s just – there are few moments as he’s trailing the tour that he’s not thinking about Kevin. It’s stupid and foolish, to be so gone over a boy he has quite literally only just met, but he’s still – well. Gone. 

He meets back up with Nabulungi and she tells him that she’s given Arnold her number and he briefly jokingly scolds her for being unprofessional, and she reminds him soundly about his whole not-being-normal-around-awkward-handsome-men-thing. Then it’s a blur when he walks the classes out and briefly spots Kevin, on a different side of the hallway. He waves at him, somewhat frantically, and Connor almost feels – regret – that they hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye.

Connor goes to walk away with Nabulungi. She shakes her head, looks around at the slowing-filling coaches and says, “I could message Arnold and ask for his number.”

“Oh, do not do that. That’s lame.” Connor clears his throat. Tells himself to shut down whatever he’s feeling; close it off. “Anyways – talking of Arnold–”

He’s about to launch into teasing her when Kevin appears, out of absolutely nowhere. He’s out of breath when he puts one hand on Connor’s shoulder, and Connor inwardly tenses at the suddenness of it. “Sorry,” Kevin says, and his fingers slip off. Connor doesn’t relax. “I left – there’s a medical bag. Can I just–”

Connor waves towards the building and thanks God that Kevin was forgetful. “Sure. Of course! I’ll come with you.” He looks back at Nabulungi, who gives him a thumbs-up and an exaggerated wink. “We can take the lift – it’ll be quicker–” he’s saying, grabbing Kevin’s wrist and walking at full-tilt towards the museum. Kevin staggers after him.

When Kevin catches up, Connor is already talking at him. It’s a nervous habit; he can’t help it. “This way, there – it’s between Greece and Rome. Also –” he looks to the side, “Did you have a good afternoon?”

“Me?” asks Kevin, like there’s anybody else around. Connor rolls his eyes. “Oh. Yeah. It was okay.”

“Just okay?” Connor says conversationally as he turns the corner into Greece and walks to the lift. They’ve just cleaned the floors, lime-wash hanging thick in the air and he’s careful not to slip up as he comes to a halt. “Boring.”

“The morning was better,” admits Kevin as they brush into the lift. Connor calls for the 3rd floor. It starts moving, and gosh he much prefers taking the stairs. “More interesting.” 

“Good,” says Connor. 

The lift stops. 

At a midpoint between floor 2 and floor 3. 

Kevin squints at the panel: the emergency call button, the numbers, the weight-warning sign. “Is it supposed to do that?”

Connor kinda wants to call him an idiot, but he doesn’t think they’re close enough for that, and also he’s freaking out a tiny bit. “Um,” he says, “No?”

“Oh,” Kevin says, and then, “Oh.” His eyes go wide.

Great, thinks Connor. “It’s fine,” he says, “Security will get us out quick, it’s just – an electrical fault. Or something.” Though in truth he has no idea and he’s freaking out steadily more and more. He taps the emergency call button and gets through to a control room somewhere and they promise they’ll get them out but there’s no timeline on when or how and oh dear oh dear oh dear oh –

“Are you okay?” asks Kevin. There’s a shifting expression marring his face that Connor can’t quite place; halfway concern, halfway panic.

Connor shrugs. Wraps his arms around himself. Closer, tangled, tries to control his breathing. “Fine,” it comes out squeaky. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” says Kevin, and he’s quiet for a minute. Connor’s breathing eventually evens out, but inside his head, he’s not calm, not one bit. All he’s thinking about is being trapped and staying trapped and tight, tight boxes. No escape from darkness. No escape from being damned, getting locked in a closet in secondary school, boys laughing through the cracks, their voices – the names they’d call him, the names they shouted through the keyhole, banging on the door, not being let out, not being able to breathe, not– “Are you sure you’re fine?”

Connor drops his gaze. “I am completely okay,” he says. Because – he should be, he should be, he really– “I swear, it’s just– I don’t really like lifts.”

Kevin blinks at him, takes that in, offers a small smile. “Oh, me neither.” He pauses. “We could play a game or something. Pass the time.” He steps a little closer to Connor, nudges his shoulder. “Distract ourselves.”

Now, usually, hearing a deliriously pretty boy say that in that tone of voice would do terrible, terrible things to Connor’s insides, but he’s only just able to say that he’s not actively having a panic attack so it hardly even registers. “Sure,” he says, even though he only understood about five words Kevin said. “Distract ourselves.”

“Let me think,” Kevin, for whatever reason, sits down on the floor.

Connor stares down at him. He’s judging. “What are you doing?”

“If we’re going to be here a while,” says Kevin, “Then I’m going to make myself comfortable.”

“I hardly think that floor is comfortable,” Connor decides, “It’s probably going to give you like, three different diseases.”

“Nothing worse than anything I’ve caught from the kids, and hey – nothing wrong with developing your immune system, right?”

“I don’t think that’s how the immune system works,” mumbles Connor, but goes to sit next to Kevin on the floor anyway. He knocks his knee, just slightly, against Kevin’s. Kevin bumps his back. Their backs rest against the walls of the lift, and sitting down makes everything feel – somehow – less unstable. Connor worries less about being trapped in here forever and more about what Kevin Price is like as a teacher and how any children might have learned something from being educated by him.

Which is wholly unfair, but hunting for flaws will make saying goodbye just that hint easier.

“Well, you never know,” Kevin says. He reaches for his phone, frowns at it. “There’s no service here.”

“The walls are too thick,” Connor explains, “Who are you trying to message?”

“Arnold,” says Kevin, “Tell him to leave without me, if we’re any longer than ten minutes.”

“How will you get home?” Connor asks.

“Uh,” Kevin frowns, “I don’t know. Get Arnold to come and rescue me?”

“Great,” Connor sighs, “What game did you want to play?”

Kevin claps his hands together. The sound echoes in the lift, tinny. “I-spy.”

“Nope.”

“Would you rather?”

“No.”

“Truth or dare.”

“Mr Price,” says Connor, “Do you think this is a sleepover?”

Kevin blushes. It’s a whole affair, in the too-bright overhead lights, and his whole face goes a dizzying red. “Um. No. I just–”

“I’m teasing,” Connor takes pity on him. “Never have I ever?”

“Mr–” Kevin breaks off. “I don’t know your last name.”

“McKinley.”

“Mr McKinley,” says Kevin, seemingly adopting the exact same tone of voice Connor had used, which is just plain rude, because Connor does not sound like that. “Do you think this is a Year Ten houseparty?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Connor shrugs, “Never went to one.”

“Me either,” Kevin admits. “My parents didn’t let me.”

“Neither did mine,” says Connor, “They were worried I would drink or start kissing boys, so.” There, it’s out in the open. Kevin can do what he likes with that.

Kevin looks at him and his eyes are wide in the fluorescence. “Same,” he says, and Connor heart does about seventy-five backflips. “The. Drinking, I mean. Not–”

“The kissing boys?”

“I mean, they didn’t have any reason to guess that I might have,” says Kevin, sort of coyly. “At the time.” 

“How about now,” says Connor, as casually as he dares.

Kevin swallows, visibly. “Um. More of a reason now.”

“Nice,” is what Connor says, and Lord he is debating, really, seriously, just lying down and doing his best to die.

Kevin makes a sound like he’s trying not to laugh, but Connor can’t look at him. He stares down at his hands and the impassiveness of the lift surrounds him again, the four-walled prison, the sensation, the feeling of trappedtrappedtrapped. 

“So never have I ever?” Kevin says and when Connor looks up he looks – flustered, but – not. His mouth is set in a determined line, eyebrows furrowed. Focused.

“Never have I ever,” agrees Connor, because why the hell not.

Kevin is not having a great time right now but also having the best time of his life. Not having a good time, because in the back of his anxious clawing mind all he’s thinking about is the implications of this and the consequences. The couch is going to be back at school past pick-up and there’s going to be angry parents and also – also, he was counting on being back at school because he has marking to get done and also a powerpoint for his TA to give tomorrow whilst he’s on PPA and – basically, there’s a Lot of Reasons this is Bad.

But also, he’s spending more time with Connor, and it’s tricky to be angry about that.

“Never have I ever,” Kevin says, “Gone rock climbing.”

Connor puts down a finger. “When I was ten for my friend’s birthday party,” he says, “I was terrible at it.”

“You were terrible at it,” repeats Kevin.

“I ended up upside down, somehow,” Connor sighs. “My turn. Never have I ever – been to America?”

Kevin puts a finger down. “I have family in Utah,” he says.

“Me too,” Connor peers at him, a little suspiciously. “Some of my family are LDS, so–”

“So are some of mine,” Kevin blinks slowly. “I used to be, actually–”

“Same,” Connor says. Kevin stares at him.

“Really?”

“Really, I swear.” Connor’s smiling for whatever reason. “Huh. Someone’s probably writing a bad joke about us right now.”

“What,” Kevin looks around, “Two ex-LDS gays walk into a lift?”

Connor flushes pleasantly. “Something like that,” he says. “I can’t think of a punchline.”

Kevin sighs. “Hopefully something like and they sat on the floor for a bit and then the doors opened, tada.”

“I can’t imagine that being a zinger in a bar,” says Connor.

“Did you just say zinger,” asks Kevin.

Connor pouts. “Stop making fun of me.”

Kevin laughs. “I’m not. I promise.”

“Spoken like someone mocking me,” says Connor, but his tone is light and easy. His head tilts back, bumping against the wall, and Kevin feels weird watching him so intensely but also – he can’t imagine not following Connor’s every move.

When the lift doors had first slammed shut and the shuddering mechanics ground to a halt, Kevin had been filled with a sense of immoveable terror. He’s violently claustrophobic, not that he’ll ever tell anyone. But then Connor had looked – scared, more frightened than Kevin was, and he’d been able to shove it to the side. The fear, the terror, the imposing walls around him. All he’s focused on now is Connor.

“I swear, I wouldn’t dare,” Kevin offers him a crooked pinkie. “Promise.”

“Hmm,” Connor tilts his head to the side. “I don’t know about your promises, Kevin Price.”

Kevin crosses his fingers. “C’mon. Scout’s honour.”

Connor folds their pinkies together. When he drops his hand, his eyes are narrowed. “Were you ever a Scout?”

“Uh, I was a Beaver, maybe.”

“Lord,” Connor shakes his head. “Never have I ever been a terrible, terrible liar.” 

Kevin snorts. “Stop.”

“Never have I ever lied about being a Scout,” snips Connor, and Kevin draws one finger down.

“Never have I ever said my favourite dinosaur was a triceratops,” says Kevin. Connor frowns at him.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Lamest favourite dinosaur choice ever,” Kevin might use a sing-song voice, just to be annoying. Connor’s eyebrows draw together. “Clearly the best dinosaur is a velociraptor.”

“You’ve been corrupted by Jurassic Park,” tuts Connor. “Never have I ever been given the nickname Pricetingle.”

“I hate Arnold,” blurts Kevin.

“It’s a great nickname,” says Connor, the corners of his lips twitching, like he wants to laugh. Kevin scowls. “One of the best.”

“Seriously, he sucks. He’s the worst best friend ever.”

Connor looks down at his knee, flicks away a fleck of dust. “He’s head over heels for my best friend.”

“Does she give you terrible nicknames?”

“No, but she bullies me for my taste in men,” says Connor dryly.

“There you go. They’re perfect for each other.” Kevin pauses. Looks to the side. He can feel the shape of the words he wants to say on his lips before he says them, and in that time, he wonders if this is a good idea, really. Impulse wins out. “What is your taste in men?”

Connor looks at him, and really looks at him. Nearly head-to-toe. Kevin wants to shrink in on himself. “You know,” he says, “Tall, dark, handsome.” He puts on a voice, like a Valley Girl, and Kevin laughs down into his lanyard. “Uh. I don’t know. Tall losers, mainly.”

Kevin honestly doesn’t know if it’s a compliment or a pass at him or an insult. All of the above options are fine. He’ll take every one if it means Connor keeps staring at him like that.

“Really,” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady.

“Yeah,” Connor says, and bumps their knees together again. It’s a slow, steady movement, but undeniably purposeful. And – oh, this is so so very unprofessional and he literally only just realised that he Likes Men in a gay way and he’s never liked anybody this bad in his life before but – even with all of those reasons screaming no at him, Kevin Price Isn’t A Quitter. He’s started Something, and somehow, he’s going to finish it. “Tall, pretty boys who don’t know their way to cloakrooms.”

Oh gosh oh gosh oh gosh.

“Um.” Kevin swallows. “Never have I ever flirted in a professional setting?” 

He blurts it before he’s done with mulling over if he wants to speak. Connor looks at him, a little dazed, and lowers a finger. Kevin does the same, and Connor pouts at him again.

“You colossal idiot,” he says. “You’re only supposed to ask a question that you haven’t done yourself.”

“Yeah, but–” 

“So not only are you a liar, you also suck at Never have I ever,” Connor tuts. But he’s smiling, slowly, and – leaning closer, fractionally, slowly, hesitantly. Waiting for Kevin to make his move. Kevin swallows and shifts a little closer and thinks really? but by the time he’s done with doubt Connor is kissing him.

It’s a frantic press against his lips, barely lasting for a breath – Kevin closes his eyes, because that’s what he thinks you’re supposed to do when you kiss someone – and Connor is gone before he can kiss him back. He gains the faintest impression of lipbalm, cocoa vaseline. 

Connor looks – wide-eyed and nervous and it’s not an expression Kevin likes on him so he leans in again. This time, he’s anticipating the feeling of Connor’s lips against his before the collusion happens and when it does starbursts unfold in his chest. It just all feels – right, like a puzzle piece falling into place.

Kevin pulls back. He’s breathing deeply, shaky. “Can I–”

“Yeah,” says Connor, and doesn’t ask whatever it is Kevin wants. Kevin wants –

Kevin wants to touch him, wants to get his fingers on the cute knit cardigan he’s been staring at all day and feel the softness of the fabric as it shawls Connor, wants to run his hands along Connor’s arms, against the planes of muscle and softness there, wants to frame his face with his palms and pull him close. He wants and he wants and what he wants he usually gets. 

He’s kissing Connor desperately, near reverently, when three things happen in rapid succession. One: the lift grates suddenly downward. Two: it stills to a halt. Three: the doors pop open.

They pull away, but the damage is done. 

“Oh, score,” says Arnold, “Nabulungi, you owe me a Kitkat Chunky.”

“I didn’t make that deal.”

“Oh, I came up with it in my head.”

Kevin stares up. He’s red-faced, and Connor is sprawled next to him like a baby deer, eyes wide, caught in the headlights. He looks distinctly embarrassed and Kevin feels bad but also not really because he’s still caught in the afterglow of what might just be the best experience of his entire life sans Disneyland Paris aged ten and the day the class got Wotsit. 

There’s an engineer in front of them, plus Arnold and Nabulungi which presumably means that the coaches haven’t left and Jesus they’re so so behind schedule. Nabulungi looks amused; Arnold looks thrilled; the engineer looks bored. “The lift is fixed,” declares the engineer to approximately nobody and walks away. 

“It isn’t what it looks like,” says Connor, the moment she’s gone.

“Connor,” Nabulungi sounds like she’s scolding a cat.

“Nabs–”

“McKinley.” She crosses her arms. “I really cannot leave you alone for five minutes.”

“It’s actually been half an hour,” Arnold says cheerfully and shit shit shit –

“Half an hour?” repeats Kevin.

“Yeah, the school keep phoning, but I told them that we’re waiting for you.” Arnold beams at him. “I told them that you were being heroic and saving the medical grab-bags, but they’re more concerned about – uh, parent complaint emails. Don’t worry, I’m sure we can spin it to make you sound more heroic-ish.”

“Oh gosh,” mutters Kevin, and hauls himself to his feet. Connor is still on the floor, a crumpled pile of a person, and Kevin offers out his hand. Connor takes it, springs up, drops Kevin’s hand as soon as he’d been offered it. It sort of stings, but Kevin can’t worry about that right now. “Oh gosh oh gosh.”

“It’ll be fine,” says Arnold, and sticks his arm into the lift to yank Kevin out of it. “But we do really have to go right now like right now otherwise SLT are going to eat us both alive tomorrow and–”

“I get it,” says Kevin and Arnold drags him a little further and – he wants to turn around, wants to ask Connor if he’s okay, wants to say that meant something to me but Connor is talking to Nabulungi and he’s lost his chance, it’s gone, and he’s gone.

“You are an idiot,” Nabulungi says, some twenty minutes later when they’re dusting display cases.

“I know,” says Connor miserably.

“Also, weirdly, I am proud of you,” Nabulungi pats his shoulder. “Like, score. But also. Idiot.”

“Thank you?”

“Don’t mention it.” And she beams at him, and the tiny sad creature in Connor’s chest gives up, just a bit.

The coach is almost back when he starts going through his belongings: he’s halfway hoping he’d left something integral behind at the museum and he can make an excuse to return perhaps, say, tomorrow, but he has everything. It’s more than annoying. He says as such to Arnold, who rolls his eyes.

“I’ll just ask Nabulungi for his number,” says Arnold, “Then we can be a gross friendship group who goes on double-dates and skips down alleyways or something.”

“I don’t know if I want you to do that?” Kevin says, and it comes out like a question.

“Kevin,” says Arnold, “Of all the things to get weird and Kevin-y about, this is not one of them.” It’s said fondly, though. Giving him some grace. Kevin hasn’t even really properly told Arnold that he likes men and he’s just sort of taken it in his stride. 

Arnold goes back to his seat and Kevin sighs, and puts his bag down. He remembers, about five minutes from the school, that there’s paper in his pockets and he needs to wash his coat when he’s home. The worksheet in his hands is neatly-folded and when Kevin opens it up he notices two things: one, that Connor wrote good job with a sincere little smiley-face and two, that Connor gave him his number.

There’s no message with it, but it’s a phone number, enough digits, and this – this is different. Arnold isn’t having to message Nabulungi. He’s been given it.

He hesitates for half a minute before keying the number into his phone and opening up the message bubble; it takes him another five minutes to think about what to say.

Kevin: so about u chaperoning for that school trip 

No reply for the last stretch of the coach journey. It arrives back at the school – they empty out into a carpark of forty parents who complain at him – he gets his marking done feeling overstimulated. He’s home by six and finally gets a chance to look at his phone as he’s making a mug of tea – he has three unread notifications.

Connor McKinley: Kevin!

I mean, I wouldn’t mind

Though maybe you should see it first though. For research

His heart sort of rockets in his chest as he types out a reply. Nothing's messed up, and he can only focus on that exclamation mark, and it's a funny thing to focus on, but all he can think is how it makes it sound like Connor is genuinely excited he messaged him. 

Kevin: would you come with me

It’s probably too forward and maybe he should have said something else first but–

Connor McKinley: You know what, I have a day off next Saturday :) 

It’s a date

And Kevin has never typed out YES so fast.