Imperfect Harmony (20 page)

Rhys waited at the bar, sipping his drink until he caught sight of John working his way through the throng of people. John stopped before he reached Rhys, stooping down to talk to a group of people at a table. Rhys spotted Maggie and a couple of the other women from choir, plus two others he didn’t know. He must have walked past them when he came in but hadn’t noticed.

John looked up, caught his eye, and gestured towards him, talking to Maggie, who smiled and waved at Rhys. The other women nodded their greetings too. Rhys wondered if he should go and say hello, but while he was considering it, John made his excuses and left them to join Rhys at the bar.

John’s smile warmed Rhys from the inside out, and when John greeted him with a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek, he wondered if it was actually possible to burst with happiness. It meant a lot to him that John was content to be open about their relationship when there were people around who knew them.

“Hi.” Rhys grinned like a fool.

“Hi.” John’s gaze was soft as they stared at each other, lost in a little oasis of tenderness amid the noise and bustle around them.

“It’s busy.”

“Yeah,” John said. “Let me get a drink, and then we can get a little closer to the music.”

Once John had a pint too, they moved away from the busy end of the bar to a spot where they could lean undisturbed and had somewhere to put their drinks down so that they could applaud the performers.

The standard was mixed, but the audience didn’t discriminate, clapping everyone with enthusiasm. There were a lot of people playing guitars and singing, along with a couple of groups including bass and drums. A folk duo on accordion and penny whistle played a couple of great Irish folk tunes, and a quartet of a cappella singers did a version of a Beatles song.

John bought a second round when they’d finished their drinks, but Rhys switched to lemonade.

“I’m not much of a drinker,” he said in explanation. “Well… I used to be. But not anymore.”

John nodded. “I get it.”

Rhys offered to get a third round, but John declined. “That’s enough for me, and I’m too full of beer to need a soft drink.”

Rhys didn’t need anything either, so he didn’t bother to join the queue. They stood, pressed close by the crowd, and Rhys smiled as John took his hand.

“This is fun.” Rhys moved close to John’s ear so John would hear him over the current song, “Mustang Sally,” and said, “Thanks for persuading me to come.”

The last person to take to the stage was a young woman with an acoustic guitar.

“Hi. Okay, so I’ve never done this before,” she said, laughing nervously. “I wasn’t even planning on singing tonight, so I had to borrow a guitar. But some friends of mine dared me to do this.”

Her hands shook as she checked the tuning and Rhys felt a flutter of nerves in sympathy. He remembered that feeling—the buzz of anticipation and exhilarating terror that came before performing to an unknown audience.

She started playing and Rhys recognised the opening riff immediately. “I love this one,” he whispered to John.

“What is it?” John asked.

“‘Martha’s Harbour,’ originally by All About Eve. It’s beautiful.”

Her voice wobbled a little on the opening phrase, and Rhys broke into a sweat on her behalf. He gripped John’s hand tighter. But as she sang the second line, her voice grew in strength and she seemed to relax. By the time she reached the first chorus, the audience was entranced. She had a beautiful voice, pure and clear, and it suited the haunting melody perfectly. Even the people at the far end of the room had stopped chatting to listen.

She held the last note, fading out into silence, and you could almost feel the whole room exhale before thunderous applause broke out, by far the loudest of the night.

She looked up then, having avoided any eye contact with her audience throughout the song, and her face was flushed and radiant. “Wow, thank you… thanks so much!”

The crowd was shouting for more, but she shook her head. “Sorry, I only have time for one tonight. The landlord needs to go to bed. But I’ll be back next month.”

Rhys realised there were tears prickling his eyes, and he blinked them back, swallowing hard as he carried on clapping. Until now, he hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it, that exquisite fear and ultimate triumph of performing.

On the walk back to John’s house, Rhys was quiet for a while, turning things over in his mind. But by the time they got to the corner of John’s street, Rhys had made up his mind.

He stopped, tugging on John’s hand to make him turn to face him. “Next month, I’ll do it. I’ll perform.” By saying it, he was making a promise, to John and to himself.

“That’s brilliant.” John’s smile was wide. He cupped Rhys’s face with his gloved hands and kissed him on the lips. His nose was cold where it brushed Rhys’s cheek. “You’ll be awesome. Will you sing one of your own songs too?”

“We’ll see.”

John took Rhys’s hand as they started to walk again. “I hope you will.”

Rhys stayed at John’s all weekend again, just popping home to get his own guitar before going to play at Beech House.

“You Make Me Feel So Young” was now a regular fixture on their playlist, and Rhys asked Mrs Pickering to dance again. She clung to his hands as he guided her carefully, and she sang along, word perfect. Rhys marvelled at the way she could recall song lyrics, yet was incapable of remembering his name or John’s. And although she seemed to at least recognise Rhys, she had no recollection of meeting John before.

“Who is the nice man playing the piano? He’s very good, isn’t he?” She said when the song was finished.

“That’s John, Mrs P. And yes, he’s great.” Rhys guided her back to her seat. She didn’t have any visitors this week.

“Thank you, dear.” She patted his arm. “You’re a good boy.”

On Sunday morning, Rhys woke to the creak of the bedsprings as John got up. It was bright outside, and the clock told Rhys it was nearly nine, but Rhys wouldn’t have minded lying in for longer.

“Where are you going?” Rhys mumbled in sleepy protest.

“I’ll be back soon.” John leaned down and brushed Rhys’s hair away from his forehead, pressing a kiss there. “Go back to sleep for a bit if you want.”

Rhys dozed, dimly aware of sounds filtering up from the kitchen. He wondered what John was up to, but he couldn’t be bothered to get up and see, so he allowed himself to slip back under a blanket of sleep again for a little while.

The sound of John’s feet on the stairs drew him back into wakefulness.

The door creaked, and Rhys opened his eyes to see John with a tray in his hands and a sheepish smile on his face.

“What’s this?” Rhys sat up, pulling a pillow behind him for comfort and one next to him for John.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.” John deposited the tray in Rhys’s lap. “I couldn’t fit two plates on the tray as well as two cups of tea, so we’ll have to share a plate.”

“Oh my God, that’s so cute… I had no idea you were such a romantic.” Rhys grinned down at four pieces of toast, cut into slightly wonky heart shapes, topped with scrambled eggs.

“I do my best.” John slipped his dressing gown off and got back into bed beside Rhys.

Eating off one plate while sitting up in bed was a challenge, but they managed it somehow. Rather a lot of crumbs ended up in the bed, though, as well as in John’s beard.

“Are you still okay for dinner with my mum tonight?” Rhys asked once they’d finished eating and were sitting back finishing their cups of tea.

John had said yes to her second invitation, but Rhys could tell he was nervous about meeting Rhys’s family.

“Yes. Of course. Should I bring anything? Does she drink wine?”

“Yeah. A bottle of red would probably be appreciated.”

“And your brother will be there too?”

Rhys nodded. “He should be. He might hang out at his mates’ houses in the day, but he usually comes back for dinner, especially if it’s a roast.”

“Um. I just realised you’ve never mentioned your dad. Is he…?” John trailed off awkwardly.

“He doesn’t live with us. Mum and Dad split up a few years ago, and he moved away with work. I don’t see him very often.” Rhys fought down the hurt he still felt at his dad’s abandonment of the family. At least Rhys had been an adult by then and no longer living at home. It had hit Max harder, who’d only been thirteen at the time. Their dad had left—well, been thrown out by—their mum over an affair that hadn’t lasted more than a few months. He was remarried now, to someone different, and seemed happy, but Rhys found it hard to be glad about his Dad’s happiness when his mum was lonely.

“That’s similar to what happened with my dad. He left when I was sixteen. We kept in touch but were never particularly close after that. He knew I resented him for leaving Mum, and it made things difficult.”

Something in John’s voice made Rhys turn his head so he could see John’s face. “Is he still around?”

“No.” John looked down at the now-empty cup in his hands. “He died of a heart attack. It must have been… I’ve lost count, over seven years ago now.”

“I’m sorry,” Rhys said.

“It’s okay, really. It was a long time ago. But losing my mum brought it back a little, I guess. It’s weird not having any parents left.”

“It must be.” Rhys’s heart hurt for John and how many people he’d lost. The conversation had turned a bit serious for a Sunday morning, especially for Valentine’s Day.

The pause stretched out, and Rhys wasn’t sure how to lighten the mood.

Luckily, John changed the subject. “So, what do you want to do till it’s time to go over to your mum’s later?” His tone of voice was unmistakably suggestive, and when Rhys looked at him, there was a glint in his eye.

“Blow jobs, nap, shower, go out and buy a Sunday paper, sit around and read it with coffee… not necessarily in that order?” Rhys suggested.

John grinned. He put his empty cup aside, then took Rhys’s out of his hand and got rid of that too. “Sounds like a perfect way to spend a lazy Sunday, and that order works for me.”

Rhys reached for John, working his hand beneath the covers to find John’s cock. He gave it a squeeze and felt it start to thicken. “I think it’s traditional that the person who cooked the Valentine’s Day breakfast gets sucked off first.”

“Definitely,” John said, as Rhys started moving his hand. “It’s only fair.”

“Right, then.” Rhys rolled over and nudged John’s thighs apart so he could fit between them. That was the last thing he said for a while, because his mouth was otherwise occupied.

They had a perfect lazy Sunday, and Rhys’s spirits were high when they arrived at his mum’s house that evening. He let them in through the front door rather than the side, so they could hang their coats in the hall.

“Hi, Mum,” he called.

“Hi!” Her voice rang cheerily from the kitchen.

Rhys led the way with John on his heels.

“Mum, this is John. John, meet my mum, Liz.”

“Good to meet you, Liz.” John stepped forward and offered his hand.

“You too, John. Hello.”

John offered the bottle he’d brought. “I hope this is okay. Rhys told me red was your preference.”

“Oh yes, lovely. Thank you. I actually have a bottle open already—would you like a glass?”

“Um, yes. Thanks.”

“Rhys?” His mum looked at him.

“Yeah, okay, thank you.” Rhys didn’t particularly want wine, but he wanted to keep John company. “Dinner smells good. What are we having?”

“Roast lamb.”

“Nice. Is there anything I can help with?”

“Not now.” His mum poured the wine. “It’s all done. It’ll be ready in about half an hour. But there’ll be washing up to do later.”

“Of course. Thanks,” Rhys said as he took the proffered glass.

“Cheers,” his mum said, and John and Rhys echoed her as they raised their drinks.

“Have a seat.” She gestured to the kitchen table. “Or you could go and sit in the living room if you want. It’s more comfortable. But I need to get the veg on soon and make the gravy, so I’ll be stuck in here.”

The whole point of this evening was for his mum to get to know John, so Rhys said, “No, we’ll stay in here and keep you company, won’t we?” He smiled at John, who nodded.

“Of course. Are you sure there’s nothing we can help with?”

“Well, if you insist, you can help Rhys lay the table.”

So they did that, while Rhys’s mum was busy with boiling water for the vegetables and getting the meat out to rest.

“So, John. Rhys says you’re a teacher?”

Rhys bit back a grin. It was weird hearing his mum do the whole new-boyfriend grilling with John, when he was only a few years younger than her.

“Um… yes, that’s right.” John was occupied with table laying as he replied, so he didn’t need to make eye contact. His cheeks were pink and his natural reserve was back in full force.

Rhys was reminded of the night they’d first met, of the shy, gentle man who had captured his interest weeks ago. He realised how close they’d grown in the interim and how differently John behaved around him now.

“Supply at the moment?”

“Yes. But I’ve just applied for a full-time job at the Grove. A position came up in the music department—that’s my subject—and they asked me to apply.”

“Oh,” Rhys’s mum faltered, and as Rhys heard Max’s tread on the stairs, he suddenly made the same connection his mum had made. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t realised before that John might not be a total stranger to his brother. “That’s good, then.” His mum rallied.

Rhys wished he had time to warn John, but it was too late. Max was already walking into the kitchen, and when he caught sight of John, he paused, mouth dropping open in surprise before twisting into a grin of amusement.

“Well, Mr Fletcher. This is a surprise.”

John frowned in confusion and Rhys realised he didn’t recognise Max. He could hardly blame him. John must see hundreds of teenagers every week, and Max, with his short spiky dark hair and unremarkable features, was hardly distinctive.

Rhys swooped to John’s rescue. “John, this is my brother Max. He goes to the Grove, which is obviously where he knows you from. Max, this is John.” He set his jaw and gave Max a warning glare.
Be nice
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