Chapter Ten
Jack, I know you're upset with me. But I would rather my rage be silent then have it escalate, and your letters cease.
Still here, Clyde
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It had only been a few days since he stayed over at Issaky’s, and Ellis still didn’t quite know what to do with the new feelings bubbling in his chest.
Not the memory—he knew where to put that.
The memory lived neatly in the back of his mind, catalogued and contained the way he did with most things that threatened to get too big.
It existed as warmth, as pressure against his ribs, as the quiet certainty that something had shifted without breaking.
He could revisit it carefully when he wanted to, turning it over like a smooth stone in his palm.
What he didn’t know what to do with was the way the world had followed him afterward.
Because everything was still there. The record store still smelled like dust and paper and old plastic sleeves.
The front windows still rattled when buses went by.
The counter still had the same faint chip along the edge where someone—years ago, before Ellis—had dropped something heavy and pretended it hadn’t happened.
The bell on the door still rang half a beat late.
Nothing had changed. And yet.
Ellis woke up easier in the mornings. Not faster—he still needed his time, still lay staring at the ceiling fan until the rhythm of it settled his breathing—but easier, like gravity had loosened its grip by a fraction.
His chest didn’t feel so tight when he stood behind the counter.
The silence didn’t press in on him the way it used to.
He found himself humming sometimes, quietly, without noticing until the sound startled him into stopping.
It was…nice. Suspiciously nice.
He’d learned a long time ago that happiness was rarely a stable condition.
It was a spike, a brief elevation before the drop.
Something you enjoyed quickly and quietly before the floor gave out beneath it.
But this felt different. Smaller. More domestic.
Less like standing on a ledge and more like discovering a step where you’d expected a gap.
Ellis didn’t trust it. But he didn’t fight it, either.
The heater clicked on and off with a sound that made Ellis flinch every time, no matter how many winters he’d endured it.
Customers came and went. Regulars lingered.
New faces drifted in, brows furrowed as they adjusted to the dimness, to the way the space seemed to ask for quiet without demanding it.
Ellis handled them all with practiced efficiency. But there was a lightness to him now, something Clyde noticed before Ellis did.
“You’re smiling,” Clyde said one afternoon, squinting at him over a stack of puzzle boxes.
Ellis froze. “I am not.”
“You are,” Clyde said. “Just a little. Like you’re about to get away with something.”
Ellis frowned, reaching up to touch his face as if it might betray him. “I’m not—”
Clyde huffed a laugh. “Relax. It’s not a crime. Just…different.”
Ellis didn’t have a response for that. He turned back to the register, fingers tapping lightly against the wood. After a moment, he realized he was still smiling and made a conscious effort to stop.
It returned anyway, uninvited, as soon as he thought about Issaky.
They’d been going to dinner most nights.
Not anything fancy. Noodles from the place down the street with the hand-painted sign.
Sandwiches eaten on park benches when the weather cooperated.
Once, pizza on Issaky’s couch, the box balanced precariously between them while they argued—gently and amused—about which movie should play next.
They didn’t talk about what had happened between them.
Not directly. Not in so many words. But it was there, threaded through everything.
In the way Issaky checked in before touching him.
In the way Ellis didn’t flinch when Issaky’s knee brushed him under the table.
In the way the silence between them felt less like a void and more like a shared pause.
It was careful and intentional. It was safe.
So, Ellis let himself have it.
He and Clyde still did their weekly puzzle, sprawled across the small table in the back room, coffee mugs pushed dangerously close to the edges. Yesterday had been a landscape—too much sky, Clyde complained, too many pieces that looked exactly the same.
Ellis liked it anyway. The repetition. The quiet focus. The way Clyde muttered to himself like a disgruntled wizard while Ellis sorted pieces by color and edge.
Normal things.
That was the danger of it, Ellis thought, standing behind the counter on Thursday afternoon. Normal things made you forget that disaster was always a possibility. That raised voices could turn sharp without warning. That love could curdle into something unpredictable. That people could change.
Ells knew he had anxiety. His therapist years ago had diagnosed him within the first thirty minutes. And he could usually handle it. Could put it in a lock box just behind his sternum where Issaky could never see it. He liked what they had, what they were doing. He didn't want to scare the man off.
Issaky came in just before closing, hair wind-tousled, scarf looped loosely around his neck. He didn’t announce himself, just leaned against the counter and grinned at Ellis like he belonged there.
Ellis's chest warmed.
“Hey,” Issaky said.
“Hey,” Ellis replied, softer than he meant to.
Issaky glanced around. “Quiet day?”
“Mostly,” Ellis said. “Guy earlier tried to convince me a first pressing of Rumours should be half off because ‘it’s old.’”
Issaky snorted. “Bold strategy.”
Ellis hesitated, then said, “You want to grab dinner after I close?”
Issaky’s smile widened. “Yeah. I was hoping you’d ask.”
It should have been perfect. And for a while, it was.
They walked, hands brushing occasionally, the city settling into evening around them.
Issaky talked—about a mural he’d seen getting painted over near his apartment, about a client who kept changing their mind, about a song he couldn’t get out of his head.
Ellis listened, content to let the sound of Issaky’s voice fill the space.
Somewhere between the restaurant and the record store, between the comfort and the routine, the topic shifted.
“I was thinking,” Issaky said, stirring his noodles absentmindedly. “About the shop.”
Ellis tensed, just a little. “What about it?”
Issaky didn’t notice, or if he did, he didn’t understand it yet. “It’s got good bones. Great, actually. But there are some things that could be…updated. Not changed, just—enhanced.”
Ellis's fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Updated how.”
“Nothing drastic,” Issaky said quickly. “Just—better lighting in the back, maybe. New shelving. Fresh paint, even. Something warmer.”
Ellis set his fork down carefully. “Why.”
Issaky blinked. “Why not?”
Because it works, Ellis thought. Because it’s survived this long. Because if you start changing things, you don’t know where it stops.
Aloud, he said, “It’s fine the way it is.”
“I know,” Issaky said. “I’m not saying it isn’t. I just think—”
Ellis felt it then. The shift. The way his stomach tightened, the way his shoulders crept upward like they were bracing for impact.
Issaky leaned forward, animated now. “You could make it more accessible. Brighter. Less intimidating for new customers.”
“It’s not intimidating,” Ellis snapped.
Issaky recoiled slightly. “I didn’t mean—”
“You think me and Clyde don’t know how to run the store?” Ellis said, the words sharper than he intended, tumbling out before he could stop them. “You think I haven’t thought about this?”
“That’s not what I said,” Issaky replied, voice calm but strained. “Ellis, I’m just offering an idea.”
“I didn’t ask for ideas,” Ellis said.
The air between them thickened.
Issaky’s brow furrowed. “Okay. But I thought—since we’re together—”
“We’re not—” Ellis started, then stopped himself, breath hitching. The word together echoed unpleasantly in his head, heavy and dangerous. He swallowed. “This place is…important to me.”
“I know that,” Issaky said gently. “That’s why I care.”
Something inside Ellis twisted.
Care had never been gentle in his childhood. Care had been loud, and erratic, and often followed by apologies that smelled like alcohol and regret.
His mother’s voice rose in his memory, slurred and sharp. I’m just trying to help you. Why are you always so difficult?
Ellis's fingers curled into fists under the table. “You don’t get it,” he said, bitterness seeping into his tone. “You come in here, you see a project. A fixer-upper. Something you can improve.”
“That’s not fair,” Issaky said, hurt flashing across his face.
Ellis laughed, a short, humorless sound. “Isn’t it? You always want to change things. Make them better. What are you going to start treating me the same? Like some project to fix? Maybe you should find something else to work on.”
Ellis felt his face grow hot and his hands started to shake.
He knew it was mean and unfair. He even knew that it was most likely not true. Issaky was a good person. He’d been nothing but kind and respectful to Ellis. So why did Ellis say that to him?
Issaky went still. The silence stretched, brittle and sharp.
“Wow,” Issaky said quietly. “Okay.”
Ellis knew, distantly, that he was crossing a line. He knew the words were cruel, aimed not at the argument but at the fear underneath it. He couldn’t stop.
“Maybe you should stick to your own space,” Ellis continued, voice flat now. “This isn’t yours.”
There it was. The look on Issaky’s face—shock giving way to anger, then something like disappointment—hit Ellis harder than he expected.
“Is that what you think?” Issaky asked. “That I’m trying to take something from you? Trying to change what makes you, you?”
Ellis didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His chest felt tight, breath shallow, the edges of his vision fuzzing. The restaurant noise faded, replaced by the echo of raised voices from years ago, the clatter of bottles, the slam of doors.
Engage, a part of him whispered. Explain. Apologize. Another part—the older, more entrenched one—knew better. Silence was safer.
Ellis stared at the table, at the swirl of sauce on his plate, and shut down.
Issaky waited. Seconds passed. Then more.
“Ellis?” Issaky said. “Hey. Say something.”
Ellis didn’t move. He couldn't. His fingers and toes were numb and the chattering in the restaurant seemed to be dialed up.
From Issaky’s perspective, it felt like hitting a wall. One moment they were arguing—messy, emotional, but alive—and the next, Ellis was gone, eyes unfocused, body rigid.
“Are you serious?” Issaky asked, frustration creeping in. “You’re just…checking out?”
Ellis flinched, but still didn’t respond.
Issaky pushed his chair back, scraping loudly in the suddenly too-quiet space. “You don’t get to say things like that and then disappear on me.”
Ellis's throat tightened. He wanted to explain. Wanted to say I can’t, wanted to say I’m trying. The words stayed trapped.
Issaky stood, hands clenched at his sides. “If you’re going to ignore me, then—fine. I’m leaving. I don't deserve this and you know it..”
“I’m not—” Ellis tried, voice barely audible.
Issaky didn’t hear him. Or maybe he did, and it wasn’t enough. “I need some air,” Issaky said, voice tight. “We’ll talk later.”
He turned and walked out. The bell on the door rang, too loud and final.
Ellis sat there, unmoving, the world rushing back in all at once. His hands trembled under the table. His heart pounded like it was trying to escape his chest. He didn’t know how long he stayed like that.
By the time he made it back to the record store, the sky was dark and the streetlights buzzed faintly. Clyde was there, in the back room, sorting inventory.
Ellis closed the door behind him and leaned against it, breath shallow.
Clyde looked up immediately. “Hey. You okay?”
Ellis shook his head once, but didn't speak. It was like his voice had abandoned him. Like Issaky had abandoned him.
Clyde didn’t press. He stood and walked over to the light switch near the back, before dimming the lights. The change was subtle but immediate.
Ellis's shoulders dropped half an inch in relief and Clyde watched him quietly, understanding in his eyes, but didn't say anything at all.