Stories I Never Finished

Gaydar

There's many ways Calum enjoys spending his Sunday mornings, be it a coffee while he's seated at the kitchen table, sitting on the lounge sofa and watching classic cartoons—because he's a vibe, that way—or a sleep in, he usually spends his mornings with some form of calm.

This morning he'd taken to the garage while the sun was dancing with the clouds and the weather was just right—not too hot, not too cold. Though the home he shared with his husband was somewhat cosy, and Ashton often found it infuriating whenever he tried to shift their furniture around for some kind of Feng Shui bullshit, the garage had been their best buy.

Concrete floors covered in oil stains, dull white walls lined by tools and pressed against by toolboxes, the garage was large enough to sit two fully fledged range rovers inside. On the back wall, a few steps from the door between the home's kitchen and the garage, sat Ashton's desk—the width of two art desks side by side—of which he used for all the strange and unique crafts he often made.

Calum didn't mind, if anything, he adored how passionate Ashton was for something seemingly so mundane as carpentry. Not many people would understand but he did and he loved it, his shelves throughout the house were filled with every little statue or art piece Ashton slaved away making for him.

Currently, he was halfway beneath his car; the old beaten down vehicle from the 1960s having become his passion project over the past two years—after he spent four years fixing up an old beetle car to look like a Coca Cola advertisement for an old friend.

With the pale blue car hiked up on a car jack, he lay on a skateboard for easy access in and out from underneath the engine. Oil spilt on his skin, staining an already raggedy old grey singlet, and he couldn't recall how many times he'd wiped engine cleaner over the black of his trousers.

With the low humming noise of Call Me Maybe by Carly Rae Jepsen playing on the radio perched atop Ashton's desk, Calum heard the sound of his husband's black Jeep pull up on the side of the road; engine shutting off and door opening and closing.

He didn't bother moving, snorting back a chuckle when he heard Ashton call out to their next door neighbour who had been washing their car for the past twenty minutes.

"Could you do mine next?" Ashton cheerfully joked, waving a hand toward the thirty five year old strawberry blond. Niall put up with far too many dad jokes, living next door to Ashton.

Calum shook his head in silent amusement, hands tinkering with another tube, when the sound of splashing water hitting concrete merged with his husband's loud humorous "oi!".

Quiet laughter emitted from their neighbour as they returned to their car, leaving Ashton's laced up work boots thudding against the concrete as the man walked up to the open garage door from the street.

"What's the damage?" Calum spoke before his husband could say anything, smiling to himself when he heard Ashton stifle a laugh.

"Remember how you said we needed a new coffee table?" Ashton moved to stand barely a ruler's length away from beside Calum's figure, hazel eyes peering down upon the tall male currently tinkering on the engine.

When it came to clothes, Ashton was almost embarrassing—too dad-like for his own good, in work boots and white socks, beige shorts with pockets his friends were often silently thankful for—always passing him their phones or car keys—, and a dark blue button up shirt with a pattern of palm trees Calum would never understand.

"'Cause Mike spilt his Powerade and it stained the wood blue?"

Calum paused, halfway through unbolting a strange looking tube, and let out a heavy sigh. "Tell me you didn't..."