Chapter Text
Summer 1976, somewhere near a city park in Ontario
The engine of Todd’s borrowed and aging Dodge Charger clunked in protest as he twisted the key back and forth. It was almost midnight. He’d been circling the same three streets for close to an hour, a vinyl of The Guess Who’s Road Home collecting condensation on the back seat, his stage makeup still caked around his jawline and collar. Todd hadn’t changed out of his performance gear entirely—faux leather jacket, too tight jeans, and the band shirt from their last gig—still soaked with the scent of beer, sweat, and a hint of nervous adrenaline. He told himself it was for convenience. But it wasn’t. It was armor.
Todd stepped out of the car. The park was quiet, a patch of trees and grass pressed up against a stretch of broken sidewalk and rusted chain-link. Farther back, shadows whispered movement. It wasn’t a coincidence. This was the place. The place.
He’d overheard the roadie talking about it at that scummy dive off Queen Street. The one with no working air conditioning and a jukebox that only played early Rush. Heard whispers about the rules. Heard enough to look it up in magazines he wouldn’t be caught dead buying—flipping through behind mirrored sunglasses at newsstands, hiding them between the pages of his guitar rags.
No names. No talking. No sudden moves. Eyes and hands only.
Because there were always cops. And in a place like this—with men like him—they’d chew you up and spit you out in a heartbeat.
Todd’s boots crunched the gravel as he stepped closer to the trees. The park lights barely reached here. Shadows danced. He didn’t know where to look. His jaw was clenched. His hands shoved in his pockets to hide the way they trembled.
He hated how much he hated himself.
He hated how he couldn’t stop imagining some guy’s lips on his neck, couldn’t stop the fantasies at night when he was too tired to fight them. Couldn’t stop feeling wrong about them either.
This wasn’t about a relationship. Or a name. It was about proving to himself that he could do it. Be with a man. Be that. Just once.
Todd leaned against a tree, pretending not to scan the area. A figure passed by—tall, burly, looking through him. Another—wiry, older, eyes narrowed like he was waiting for a signal Todd didn’t know how to give.
Then he saw him.
Shorter than the others. Smooth dark hair parted with a precise kind of carelessness. Tight shirt, pale in the low light. Slim trousers. And that smirk—easy, devil-may-care, like he’d walked out of a French noir film and into this gravel-laced shadow world. He didn’t look nervous. He didn’t look afraid.
Todd stiffened. He thought about turning and walking away.
Then the man looked at him.
Long. Deliberate. His eyes flicked down, then up again. Not a leer—an invitation. A challenge.
Todd looked back. Briefly. Then looked down.
The man stepped closer.
Todd’s heart kicked up a gear. He swallowed hard. He glanced around. No cops. No one else was close enough to see.
The man stopped a few feet away, leaning casually against the tree adjacent to Todd’s. Just waiting. Not speaking. Not forcing.
Todd’s stomach twisted.
He wanted to run. But he’d come this far.
Slowly, awkwardly, he turned his body toward the man. Not all the way. Just enough to make it obvious he was open to something. The man’s eyes tracked the motion, and for a second, Todd wondered if he was laughing inside. At him. At how new he looked. How scared.
But then—the man stepped forward.
His hand brushed Todd’s.
Just barely. Todd flinched anyway.
The man tilted his head. A question, silent.
Todd exhaled. Shakily.
And then—he let his hand relax.
The touch returned. Firmer now. Still light. Fingers barely interlacing.
Todd let himself look—really look—at the man’s face. The black hair. The cheekbones. That smirk, again, softer this time. Almost kind. He wouldn’t get a name. He wouldn’t give his. That was the rule. But something in the man’s eyes said he understood everything. Like he’d seen a hundred Todds before. And still—he wasn’t judging.
They stood like that for a long time. Quiet. Breathing.
Until, with a tilt of his head, the man gestured toward the trees deeper into the park.
A question. No pressure.
Todd’s pulse pounded in his throat.
But he nodded.
They walked side by side into the darkness, not speaking, never touching again until the brush of leaves closed around them like curtains. And in that hush, in that fleeting hour where the world could not see them—Todd let himself be someone else.
Not a bass player. Not a boyfriend. Not even a man with a name.
Just a body. A need. A want he couldn’t erase, no matter how much he tried.
The shame would come later. It always did.
But tonight, he moved by moonlight. Watched. Chosen. Seen.
And he didn’t run.
Wallace Wells lit the end of a menthol cigarette with the corner of a matchbook from Club Tangerine. The filter tasted faintly of cologne and regret. He leaned against the iron spine of a lamppost and exhaled toward the amber glow above. Smoke caught the light for a half a second before the breeze pulled it apart like silk.
Midnight. A good time. Not the rush of eleven, when the loud, sloppy boys showed up trying to prove something, but before one a.m., when the creeps crawled in, stinking of desperation and vodka.
He pulled his jacket tighter. It wasn’t cold, but the air had that edge—the kind that told you June was over and July didn’t give a damn about your feelings. His eyes swept the park lazily. Wallace knew the place like the back of his palm by now. Every broken bulb, every slanted bench, every scrap of overgrown hedge where someone might tuck themselves if they weren’t ready to be seen.
There was a rhythm to it. A pattern.
A man passed—a guy Wallace had already turned down twice. Too twitchy. Another came and went, and didn't make eye contact. Fine. Not everyone wanted him, and Wallace wasn’t in the mood to play therapist tonight.
His cigarette was half ash when he spotted him.
Tall. Broad. A little stiff in the neck, like he wasn’t used to looking side to side. He hovered too close to the edge of the trees, like maybe he thought this was all a dream and that if he stepped in, it might become real.
Wallace narrowed his eyes, assessing. Jacket. Band tee. Hair still a little too styled, like he hadn’t quite shaken the stage off.
A musician. Probably. Those types had a look.
And he was new. Very new.
Wallace watched the way he shifted weight, the half-hearted way he scanned the shadows like he was expecting a sign, a blinking neon arrow that read: YES, THIS IS THE QUEER TREE.
He smirked. Poor bastard.
If Wallace were more charitable—or more bored—he’d write this guy off as a lost puppy and call it a night. But there was something about the look in his eyes. Like he wanted to ask for help but didn’t know the language.
Wallace had been that kid once. Eager. Raw. Got cuffed for it, too.
The first time had been all heart—stupid, reckless heart. He hadn’t even seen the badge coming. One second they were behind the shrub, and the next he was being shoved face-first into the hood of a cruiser, the cop's breath hot in his ear, sneering words he still couldn’t say out loud.
The second time had been worse in a way. He’d played the rules perfectly. No talking. No touching until it was clear. But the guy? Loud. Handsy. Drew attention like a beacon. Wallace had slunk away just in time, ducking between hedges, heart in his throat.
Since then? Caution. Precision. No exceptions.
But tonight…something about this tall drink of shame and anxiety had character. Like a Greek statue that hadn’t figured out it was gay yet.
Wallace let the cigarette burn out and stepped from the lamplight into shadow. Quiet as a cat. Confident as always.
He walked slowly. Let the guy see him coming. Kept his face soft. Friendly. That smirk, the one that said: I know things. You can, too.
When their eyes met, he knew.
The guy wasn’t a cop. Wasn’t a predator. Just scared out of his goddamn mind.
Wallace let his gaze linger. Dropped it down. Brought it back up. Ask me, it said. Tell me with your eyes.
The guy looked away. Then looked back.
Wallace stepped closer. Not too close. Just enough.
They stood like that. A standoff of sorts. He’d seen this before. The man had already fought with himself for hours. Days, maybe. Weeks.
And now he was here. Which meant something.
Wallace reached out. Just a brush of fingers.
The guy flinched, shoulders tight like a coil.
Wallace didn’t move. Didn’t pull back. Waited.
And then—slowly—the tension eased.
Contact.
No words. That wasn’t how this worked.
But Wallace let himself breathe easier. For all his posturing, it was always a relief when the moment went well.
They stood there for a long while, hands ghosting each other's bodies at just enough of a slant to read mutual consent.
Then Wallace tilted his head toward the woods.
He didn’t need this. But he wanted it.
And tonight, maybe this guy needed it even more.
The man nodded. Just once. Jerky. Like he wasn’t used to saying yes to himself.
They slipped between the trees, quiet as fog.
No names. No history. Just skin and air and the rustle of leaves like rain.
Wallace had done this hundreds of times.
But tonight, for whatever reason, he felt something rare. Not connection. Not romance. That was for other lives.
But recognition.
And that, for a place like this—for men like them—was almost holy.
Tangerine Club, Summer 1976
The first thing Todd noticed about Club Tangerine was the lighting—soft purples and golds bleeding into red like a bruise that couldn’t decide how deep it wanted to go. Everything inside looked slightly too polished, like it belonged to another city, one with actual culture. Or maybe just one that didn’t smell like hot beer and broken dreams.
They hadn’t meant to play here. The booker had given them a name and a time and mumbled something about a decent payout and “a crowd that likes weird stuff.” Todd assumed that meant prog-heads or glam freaks. Maybe a few barflies who’d mistake their leather jackets for edge.
Then Envy clocked the crowd—guys with eyeliner sharper than her cheekbones, women in suits and silk, a boy in a mesh tank top dancing alone with his eyes closed like he was floating.
“Ugh,” she groaned. “Now we have to play all our pop shit or we’ll get booed.”
Todd shrugged. “Maybe they’ll like our heavy stuff—”
She stared at him like he’d just suggested covering Rush.
“Yeah,” he added, tightening his jaw. “Totally. Pop set.”
Lynette snorted from behind her kit, then stood and tapped her nose with two fingers. “Gonna hit the ladies’. You two try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”
Todd muttered something about string tension and bent his head over his bass. But his fingers didn’t move.
The place was buzzing with queerness. Not loud, not in-your-face, just there. Gentle, glittering. Like everyone was in on a secret he wasn’t supposed to know.
Todd tried not to feel like a traitor.
He hadn't told Envy or Lynette anything. Not about last night. Not about the shadowed trees, or the man whose smirk had made his knees feel like water. He’d barely slept. Every time he shut his eyes, he felt the man’s breath against his neck, soft and warm like it belonged there.
He told himself it was just a one-time thing. Just curiosity. Just…
He strummed a few chords, absently, trying to focus on tone.
Then he looked up.
And saw him.
Same black hair. Same stylish clothes. Same smirk—but now it had a twist of surprise. Just a flicker. Gone almost as soon as it showed.
Their eyes met.
Todd froze.
He could feel his pulse in his palms.
The man didn’t look away.
Didn’t smile, didn’t wink. Just looked at him. Real, direct, no cover of shadows this time.
And Todd—he didn’t look away either.
It was like some invisible tether had wrapped around them.
No names. That was still true. No words had passed between them. But in that single second of eye contact across a crowded club, Todd knew exactly who he was.
He also knew—knew in that sharp, low way that truth cuts through denial—that the man recognized him too.
He looked different in this light. More relaxed. Louder clothes, tighter fit, like he was actually choosing to be seen here. Not hiding. Not cruising. Just existing. Like it was allowed.
Todd’s breath caught in his throat.
What the hell was he doing here?
What the hell was Todd doing here?
“Todd.” Envy snapped her fingers near his face. “Earth to dumbass. You gonna plug in or not?”
He blinked, eyes tearing from the man—too quick, too obvious—and nodded. “Yeah. I—uh. Yeah.”
Envy frowned at him like she was trying to read something on his face. Todd gave her nothing. Just the usual boredom and static.
He turned back to his amp, but his mind was spinning.
He’s here.
In this club.
Where people knew how to touch without shame.
Where you could maybe dance with someone of your own gender without having to memorize exits first.
And Todd had never, not once, seen the man in daylight.
But here he was.
Looking just as real.
Todd reached down to adjust his cable, hands shaking so slightly that the hum in his amp buzzed higher.
And he couldn’t help it—he looked back again.
The man was still watching. Still there.
And still—that smirk.
Only this time, it wasn’t just flirtation. It was knowing. Curious. Almost amused.
Todd didn’t know if he wanted to bolt or walk straight over and ask the question he wasn’t supposed to want to ask.
He didn’t even know what the question was.
But the night had just begun. And this time, they were both visible.
Which, in Todd’s mind, was somehow a lot more terrifying than the dark.
Tangerine Club, 11:13 p.m., Summer 1976
The last note fizzled out into a strained ripple of feedback.
Todd let it hang a second too long before killing the amp with a clumsy flick. He hadn’t even realized how sweaty his hands had gotten until the strings on his bass squeaked under his fingers.
Scattered applause. Polite, restrained. No boos, but definitely no dancing either. Just a few claps from the corners, and one guy in a mesh top who shouted, “Do you know any Blondie?” before realizing the band was already walking offstage.
Envy muttered, “Fucking waste of eyeliner,” as she unplugged her mic and rolled her eyes at no one in particular.
She hadn’t done any of her usual stage banter—no eye contact with the crowd, no sarcastic shout-outs, no calling Todd “her emotionally constipated wall of sound.” Just the set. Quick and sharp like a blade through fabric.
They packed up in silence.
Todd’s brain was stuck in that thick molassesy loop of What now?
What did you do when the guy you hooked up with in a dark park now knew what you looked like under stage lights?
What did you say to someone who still didn’t know your name, but had touched you like a secret?
He avoided looking at the bar.
Avoided looking toward the corner where he knew the man still was.
Lynette swung her snare into its case and stretched with a grunt. “Wanna get a drink?” she asked, glancing between him and Envy.
Envy shrugged, too cool to care but not cool enough to hide that she did. “I guess. If they’ve got decent gin.”
Todd wanted to say no. Wanted to say, “Actually I’m gonna go walk into traffic, thanks.” Wanted to say he needed to leave before something cracked open in him that couldn’t be shut again.
But he also wanted to stay.
To hover near the man in the black shirt and catch another glance. Maybe talk. Maybe not talk. Maybe just see if anything else was possible, now that they weren’t in the woods pretending not to exist.
He wanted the floor to open and swallow him before he had to make the choice.
“Yeah,” he said finally. His voice came out weird, low. “Sure. Drink.”
Lynette nodded and slung her jacket over one shoulder. “Good. I need something cold and illegal.”
Envy had already begun to walk, her boots sharp against the sticky floor, leaving Todd and his churning stomach behind.
He looked up. Looked right.
There he was.
Still there.
Still watching.
Still smirking—just a little.
And for a second, Todd felt like he was seventeen again, caught with a shirtless Bowie poster under his bed and the overwhelming urge to smash his own face in the mirror for what it meant.
The man raised his glass in a small, wordless salute.
Todd’s throat closed up.
He looked away. Followed Envy and Lynette like a ghost trailing after its own body.
Because right now, he was split right down the middle:
Half of him terrified to be seen.
The other half hoping that man wouldn’t look away.
Wallace Wells took a slow sip of something bright and citrusy with a cherry stabbed onto a plastic sword. It tasted like melted candy and mild rebellion, which was exactly how he liked it.
Across the club, the band had just finished their set—tight, short, a little lifeless. Like they were trying to get through a funeral without crying or tripping over the coffin.
He’d spotted the bassist the second they walked on stage. There was no mistaking him.
Same hulking frame. Same moody intensity. The guy looked like he bench-pressed his guilt every morning and called it cardio.
Park Boy. Or whatever his name was. Wallace didn’t need it. Didn’t want it, technically. But that didn’t stop the little spark of amused disbelief that crackled through his chest when their eyes met.
He hadn’t expected to see him again—especially not lit, center stage, standing next to a girl who looked like she’d gut a man for complimenting her shoes wrong.
“Oh, I know these guys!”
Scott's voice cracked through Wallace’s head like a firework going off too close to his ear.
Wallace turned with a wince. “How…?” he asked, raising a skeptical brow.
He was still processing, still filing away the fact that Park Boy was in a band, and not just any band—but a semi-competent one with gear, real chords, and a fuck-me scowl that didn’t entirely read as an act.
Scott was already halfway through some enthusiastic ramble, pointing toward the stage like he’d just discovered them. “They’re just, like, another punk band in the scene, you know? We all know each other.”
Wallace narrowed his eyes. “You mean you know of them.”
Scott frowned thoughtfully. “Well…yeah. I mean, they probably don’t know about my band, but…I dunno. It’s just cool.”
Wallace sighed and leaned back, letting the straw rest against his bottom lip. “At least the girl’s got a good outfit on.”
Envy—apparently—wore firetruck red pants, a mesh tank, and a look of righteous disdain. She carried herself like the stage owed her rent. Wallace respected that.
Scott laughed. “That’s Envy! She’s like, terrifying. And the guy on bass is her boyfriend.”
Wallace nearly choked on his drink.
He managed to recover without a visible flinch, but his grin grew like a balloon being filled too fast. He swirled his ice with the cherry sword, tone casual. “Her boyfriend, huh?”
Scott nodded, utterly oblivious. “Yeah, they’ve been together a while. I think. She yells at him a lot.”
Wallace turned his gaze back to the stage. The bassist—Park Boy, he’d call him that in his head, since it felt right—was halfway through unplugging his gear, shoulders tight, hands fumbling with cords like he’d forgotten how they worked.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Wallace tilted his head slightly, smile lazy and sharp.
Did Envy know?
Did she have any idea what her loyal little bass-playing boyfriend had gotten up to last night? The way he'd shaken, hesitated, and then melted under Wallace's hands like snow on a furnace? How he’d wanted it, even if he’d spent half the time pretending he didn’t?
Probably not.
Wallace took another sip, purely for dramatic timing.
Maybe he should leave it alone. Let the poor closet case spiral in peace.
But then again…
Maybe not.
He looked toward the stage one more time, caught Todd glancing his way—eyes wide, then immediately yanked back toward the ground like he’d been caught looking at the sun.
Wallace grinned, leaned closer to Scott, and said, “Let me know when your band plays. I want to compare stage presence.”
Scott beamed. “Really? Sweet!”
Wallace just hummed, gaze sliding back toward Park Boy.
Tonight was looking way more fun than expected.
Todd felt like his skin was stretched too tight, like every nerve ending was a live wire humming under his clothes. The heat from the club pressed in on him, the thump of the bass from the next band washing over his chest like a tide he wasn’t ready to ride.
Envy and Lynette were already deep in conversation by the bar, the two of them leaning close, laughing like the night was just another routine. But Todd? He was stuck somewhere between wanting to disappear and wanting to be seen.
He wasn’t sure which was worse.
His fingers absently toyed with the strap of his bass case, tapping rhythms only he could hear. Every time he stole a glance toward the corner where he’d seen that man again—him—his heart skipped, then slogged. The smirk was still there. Easy, knowing, like the guy had been waiting for him all night.
Todd’s mind was a mess of static.
Do I say something?
Do I pretend I didn’t see him?
Does he want me to come over?
He didn’t even know if that was allowed.
Because everything Todd had learned about this world—this secret world—came with rules. No names. No talking. No mistakes.
But seeing the man there, so calm and open in the bright club lights, made Todd feel raw and clumsy and desperately out of place.
He thought of Envy calling him her “emotionally constipated wall of sound.” Maybe she was right.
Maybe he was terrified of feeling too much.
Or maybe he was terrified of feeling at all.
Todd closed his eyes for a second and took a shaky breath.
The night was far from over.
But right now, all he wanted was a safe place to be himself—even if that place was just a shadow in the corner of a crowded queer club.
And maybe, just maybe, someone who knew exactly what that felt like.
Back Alley Behind Tangerine, 11:26 p.m., Summer 1976
The air outside was still hot, heavy with that summer city reek—beer, piss, pavement, cheap perfume—but at least it was quieter. Todd leaned against the brick wall behind the club and stared at the cigarette between his fingers like it was a puzzle he didn’t know how to solve.
He flicked the lighter. Once. Twice. Nothing.
Flicked again. Hands too shaky. Thumb slipping.
He cursed under his breath.
He wasn’t even sure why he’d brought the pack. He didn’t usually smoke. It just felt like the right thing to do after whatever the hell tonight was.
The stage, the crowd, the look across the club—him.
The lighter clicked again, useless.
Then—
“Need help?”
Todd’s heart leapt into his throat so fast it nearly choked him.
He turned.
It was him. The man. From the park. From the club. From his goddamn dreams now, apparently.
The smirk was smaller tonight. Less of a weapon, more of a knowing curve. But still, it was there.
“S-sure,” Todd managed, holding out the cigarette with fingers that didn’t feel like his own.
The man struck a match instead of using a lighter, like this was a movie and he’d written the script. The flame flared for half a second, lighting the guy’s face in a sharp, amber glow. Todd caught the black lashes, the glint in the eyes, the effortless cool in the way he lit his own cigarette first before leaning in to light Todd’s.
The moment was stupidly intimate—too close, too quiet.
Todd inhaled automatically, desperate to fill the silence with something.
“So…” he exhaled smoke like a question mark, “was our music any…good?”
The man—whatever-his-name-was—leaned against the wall, a casual shoulder pressed to the brick. He took a long drag before replying, tone dry and unapologetic:
“Mmm…no. But you tried.” A smirk. “Just not the right crowd.”
Todd gave a half-laugh that came out more like a cough.
Of course he’d say that.
There was a beat of silence, awkward and stretching.
Todd couldn’t stand it.
“Look, I’m not stalking you or anything, it’s just—pure coincidence that I’m here. It’s a gig, and I didn’t know—”
“Relax, guy,” the man said, voice smooth as the smoke leaving his mouth. “It’s whatever. World’s small and all that.”
Todd’s shoulders sagged. He stared at the ground. His smoke was burning too fast, like it wanted to get this over with as badly as he did.
Then the man said it.
“’S just funny. I heard the singer’s your girlfriend.” A pause. “Does she know?”
Todd froze.
His brain screamed. His body tensed.
He didn’t look up.
He couldn’t.
“No,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
The man said nothing.
Todd kept going, needing to fill the space before it swallowed him whole. “She’s…she wouldn’t get it. And she doesn’t ask. She just wants me onstage and quiet. I’m good at that.”
Another long exhale from beside him.
“Seems like a lonely arrangement,” the man said.
Todd laughed bitterly. “Yeah. Well. It is.”
They stood in silence again, both smoking down to the filter.
The alley buzzed with a neon flicker from the back sign. A dog barked blocks away. Somewhere inside, a jukebox kicked on.
Todd dared a glance.
The man was already watching him.
Not judging.
Just seeing him.
It was somehow worse.
Todd looked away again, crushed the cigarette under his boot, and didn’t know what to do with his hands anymore.
He wanted to speak. Ask his name. Say something real.
But all he managed was: “You got another one?”
The man pulled a fresh cigarette from his pack and handed it over without a word.
Their fingers brushed.
It was nothing.
It was everything.