Guitar Strings and Taxidermy Crows

The house on Vanderbilt Avenue smelled like old wood, dust, and that faint metallic tang of guitar strings. Y/N stood in the doorway of what was supposed to be his new room, clutching his duffel bag strap so hard his knuckles went white. The room was small but undeniably theirs—mismatched furniture everywhere, stacks of vinyl, and a taxidermy crow wearing a tiny top hat on the windowsill. A sign above the bed read: “This is not a pipe.”

It was the strangest, most welcoming place he’d ever been.

Behind him, John Flansburgh’s voice boomed down the hallway. “—and that’s the bathroom. The showerhead’s temperamental, you gotta talk to it. I recommend flattery. Linnell just yells at it, but that’s because he’s a pessimist.”

“I’m a realist,” came Linnell’s dry correction from somewhere deeper in the house. “The showerhead is a pessimist.”

Y/N smiled despite himself. They’d been like this all afternoon—constant, overlapping patter of inside jokes and gentle needling that felt less like conversation and more like a duet. He’d only been here four hours, and already he could tell: these two didn’t just live together. They orbited each other.

He set his bag on the bed and turned just in time to see Flansburgh lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. Nervous energy filled the room—fidgety hands, too-bright smiles. “You settle in okay? Need anything? Towels? Snacks? A signed acceptance of our mutual emotional contract?”

“Flans,” Linnell said, appearing behind him. Shorter, quieter, those pale eyes sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses. “Let him breathe.”

“I’m breathing. I’m just also being a good host. Multitasking.”

Linnell’s mouth twitched. “It’s not multitasking if you’re only doing one thing badly.”

Y/N watched them exchange a look—one of those long, weighted glances that carried entire conversations. Linnell’s hand came up and brushed Flansburgh’s sleeve, just for a second, then dropped. Flansburgh’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly.

Weird, Y/N thought. That was… weird.

---

The first week, Y/N told himself he was imagining things.

They were just friends. Bandmates. Housemates. Two middle-aged men who’d known each other since their early twenties, written hundreds of songs together, shared a life so deeply intertwined they sometimes finished each other’s sentences. That was normal. That was fine.

But then he came downstairs at two in the morning for a glass of water and found them on the couch, watching some obscure documentary about Soviet-era bus stops. Linnell was tucked against Flansburgh’s side, head on his shoulder, legs curled up under him. Flansburgh had an arm around him, fingers absently stroking through Linnell’s fine, mouse-brown hair.

Y/N froze in the hallway, barely breathing. The television cast blue shadows across their faces. Linnell’s eyes were half-closed, content. Flansburgh looked down at him with an expression so soft, so unbearably tender, that Y/N felt like an intruder on something sacred.

He retreated to his room without getting the water.

The next morning, Flansburgh was making pancakes and Linnell sat at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper aloud in a monotone. “Local man discovers his basement is a portal to the fourth dimension; experts are baffled.”

“That was last week,” Flansburgh said, flipping a pancake. “The basement’s just a basement, dude. I checked.”

“You didn’t check the east wall.”

“All walls are east if you face a different direction.”

Y/N slid into a chair across from Linnell, who glanced up and offered a small, genuine smile. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah.” He hesitated. “You guys stay up late?”

Flansburgh shot him a glance, a flicker of something like embarrassment crossing his face. “We were watching Soviet Bus Stops. It’s a masterpiece.”

“It’s a painstaking catalog of brutalist architecture,” Linnell corrected. “And yes, we’re aware we have the social lives of retired librarians.”

“Retired cool librarians,” Flansburgh said. “We have jazz records and a theremin.”

“The theremin only plays ‘Also Sprach Zarathustra.’ ”

Flansburgh shrugged. “It’s a niche audience.”

Y/N laughed, and the tension in his chest loosened. Maybe he was imagining things. They were just… weird. They’d always been weird. That was the whole point.

---

But the moments kept piling up.

The way Linnell would hum melodies under his breath and Flansburgh would join in, their voices weaving together like they’d been doing it for decades—which they had. The way Flansburgh’s hand would land on Linnell’s lower back when guiding him through a doorway, lingering a beat too long. The way Linnell would lean into his space, not quite touching, but close enough that Y/N could feel the heat between them.

It wasn’t just friendship. Y/N had seen enough—watched enough movies, read enough books—to recognize the shape of repressed longing when he saw it. His dads were pining.

The realization hit him one evening while they were all in the living room. Linnell on the floor, tuning a bass guitar. Flansburgh on the couch, pretending to read a book about anomalous weather patterns. But every few seconds, Flansburgh’s eyes would lift from the page and land on Linnell’s bent head, and his expression would go distant and hungry and sad.

Linnell caught him once. Their eyes met. Linnell’s cheeks went pink, and he looked down at the bass, fingers fumbling with a tuning peg. Flansburgh cleared his throat and turned a page he obviously wasn’t reading.

Y/N, curled up in an armchair with his phone, watched the whole thing.

Oh, he thought. They’re idiots.

---

The kitchen moment happened on a Tuesday.

Y/N got home from school early—first week of senior year, new school, new everything, and he’d already finished his homework during study hall. The house was quiet when he stepped inside, which was unusual. There was always music playing, or Flansburgh talking to himself, or Linnell making some odd percussive noise.

But today, silence.

He followed the muffled sound of voices into the kitchen, stopping just short of the doorway. Through the crack, he could see them: Flansburgh leaning against the counter, Linnell standing close, so close their chests almost touched. Linnell’s hand on Flansburgh’s arm, and they were staring at each other with an intensity that made Y/N’s stomach flip.

Flansburgh’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “John.”

Linnell’s free hand came up, fingers brushing Flansburgh’s jaw. “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know.” Flansburgh’s eyes were dark, vulnerable. “I don’t know anything when you look at me like that.”

Linnell leaned in. An inch. Another. His lips parted.

And then Flansburgh’s phone rang—a stupid, loud, cartoonish ringtone that made them both jump apart like teenagers caught making out by their parents. Flansburgh fumbled for his pocket, swearing under his breath. Linnell stepped back, face flushed, and busied himself stacking dishes that were already stacked.

Y/N slipped away before they could notice him. His heart was pounding.

Holy shit.

---

That night, Y/N lay in bed, staring at the cracked ceiling, and made a decision.

These two idiots were clearly in love. Had been for decades, probably since before Y/N was born. And they were too scared—or too stubborn—to do anything about it. They needed a push.

He was going to be the push.

---

It started small.

Y/N left a copy of The Art of Loving on the coffee table, open to a chapter about overcoming fear of intimacy. Flansburgh picked it up, frowned, and said, “Is this yours?”

“School project,” Y/N said innocently.

“Oh. Okay.” Flansburgh flipped a few pages, then set it down with a thoughtful expression.

Y/N also rearranged the couch cushions so that any two people sitting there would naturally slide toward each other. He made sure the bathroom door was always ajar when one of them was in the shower, just to see if the other would linger in the hallway (they did, both of them, but never entered). He started leaving sticky notes around the house with song lyrics that were definitely about love—“I love you, I love you, I love you” from “Don’t Let’s Start,” “We’re the only ones who know what it’s like” from “The End of the Tour.”

Flansburgh found one on his amp and read it aloud. “ ‘Everypony’s got a something they’re hiding.’ ” He looked at Linnell. “Is there a pony in the house?”

“I don’t think so,” Linnell said, not meeting his eyes. “But I wouldn’t rule it out.”

---

The big move came on a Friday.

Y/N convinced them to have a “family movie night” in the living room. He picked Amélie—romantic, whimsical, exactly the kind of film that would make two repressed middle-aged men feel things. He arranged the seating so that the only spot left on the couch was between them, and he made himself a bowl of popcorn that he insisted on eating on the floor, leaving them squished together.

They spent the entire movie pressed shoulder to thigh. Linnell’s breathing was shallow. Flansburgh’s hand kept twitching toward Linnell’s knee, pulling back at the last second.

Y/N watched them out of the corner of his eye. Come on, he thought. Just hold hands. It’s not that hard.

They didn’t.

After the movie, Y/N said he was tired and went to bed early. He left a piece of paper on the kitchen table that read: “Love is not a feeling. It’s a choice. — Mildred Newman”

He hoped they’d talk about it.

Instead, the next morning, Linnell was quiet and withdrawn, and Flansburgh was overly cheerful in a way that made his smile look like it hurt. They barely looked at each other.

Y/N’s stomach sank.

---

“I think I made it worse,” he told himself in the mirror that night, brushing his teeth. “They’re not talking. Flansburgh keeps laughing at nothing, and Linnell just stares out the window like he’s waiting for the apocalypse.”

He spat and rinsed. The plan had backfired spectacularly. Instead of bringing them together, he’d made them self-conscious. Now they danced around each other like wounded animals.

He needed a different approach. Something drastic.

---

Sunday afternoon. Both Johns were in the recording studio, a converted room in the basement that was soundproofed and full of vintage equipment. They were working on a new song—Y/N could hear the faint thump of a drum machine through the floorboards.

He crept downstairs, heart hammering. The door to the studio was heavy, with a deadbolt Flansburgh had installed after a particularly paranoid phase in the ’90s. Y/N had found the key in the junk drawer last week.

He turned the lock. Click.

Then he walked back upstairs, grabbed his headphones, and settled onto the couch with his noise-canceling over-ear set. He could still hear muffled voices—confused, then alarmed, then angry. He turned up the volume and waited.

Twenty minutes, he told himself. If they haven’t sorted it out by then, I’ll let them out.

---

Inside the studio, the silence was suffocating.

Flansburgh stared at the door, hands on his hips. “Did he just lock us in?”

“It appears so.” Linnell sat on the edge of the console, arms crossed. His voice was flat, but his eyes were bright with something—fear, maybe. Or hope.

“Why would he—?” Flansburgh ran a hand through his hair. “This is insane. We can’t be locked in here. I have a thing. I have… I don’t know, a thing.”

“You don’t have a thing.”

“I could have a thing!”

Linnell stood up. “Flans.”

“What?”

“Stop pacing.”

Flansburgh stopped. He turned to face Linnell, and the air between them thickened. They were only a few feet apart, but it felt like miles.

“He’s been leaving notes,” Linnell said quietly. “The book. The movie. He knows.”

“Knows what?” Flansburgh’s voice cracked.

“That we’re idiots.” Linnell took a step forward. “That we’ve been idiots for thirty years.”

Flansburgh’s breath hitched. “John…”

“No. Listen.” Linnell’s hands were shaking, but he kept going. “I’ve been in love with you since 1982. Since you showed up at my parents’ house with that ridiculous bass and told me you wanted to start a band. I thought it was a crush. Then I thought it was just admiration. Then I thought I could bury it.” He laughed, a broken sound. “I was wrong.”

Flansburgh’s eyes glistened. He took a step forward. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because I was scared!” Flansburgh’s voice rose, raw and desperate. “Because I thought if I said it, I’d lose you. The band, the friendship, everything. You’re the most important person in my life, John. I couldn’t risk that.”

“You risked it anyway,” Linnell whispered. “Every day we don’t say it, we risk it.”

They were inches apart now. Linnell’s hand came up, trembling, and touched Flansburgh’s cheek. Flansburgh leaned into the touch like he was starved for it.

“I love you,” Flansburgh said, the words tumbling out. “I’ve loved you for so long it’s just part of who I am. I don’t know where I end and you begin. And that terrifies me.”

Linnell smiled, wet and fragile. “It terrifies me too.”

Then they kissed.

It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate, hungry, thirty years of longing pouring into a single point of contact. Flansburgh’s hands fisted in Linnell’s shirt, pulling him closer. Linnell’s fingers tangled in Flansburgh’s hair, making a sound that was almost a sob.

They broke apart, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

“We should have done that in 1982,” Linnell murmured.

“We should have done it a thousand times.” Flansburgh kissed him again, softer this time. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

Linnell laughed, and it was the most beautiful sound Flansburgh had ever heard.

---

Upstairs, Y/N checked his watch. Twenty-five minutes. He pulled off his headphones and crept down to the studio, pressing his ear to the door.

Silence. Then a low murmur of voices. Then laughter.

He smiled and unlocked the door, slipping away before they could emerge.

That night, he lay in bed, feeling warm and proud. The house felt different now—lighter, like a weight had been lifted. He heard soft footsteps in the hallway, a door opening and closing, then muffled voices and more laughter.

And then, an hour later, sounds that were decidedly not laughter.

Y/N groaned, pulling his pillow over his head. The walls in this house were thin. He could hear rhythmic thumping, breathless moans, and—was that the sound of a theremin?

Oh god. The theremin.

He buried his face in the pillow, face burning. But underneath the embarrassment, he couldn’t stop smiling. Forty years of repression, let loose in one glorious, noisy night. His dads were finally together.

He’d need to buy noise-canceling headphones tomorrow.

And maybe burn the theremin.

---

Breakfast was a quiet affair, but not the awkward quiet of the past weeks. This was a comfortable quiet, filled with the clink of spoons and the rustle of newspaper. Linnell sat next to Flansburgh, their shoulders brushing. Under the table, their hands were intertwined.

Y/N took a bite of his toast and pretended not to notice. “So,” he said, “did you guys finish the song?”

Flansburgh grinned, a genuine, unguarded smile. “We finished something.”

Linnell’s cheeks went pink, but he was smiling too. “We have a lot of new material to write.”

“Great.” Y/N sipped his orange juice. “I’m glad you’re collaborating more closely.”

Flansburgh kicked him gently under the table. But he was still smiling.

---

Later, Y/N found them in the living room, looking at an old photo album. Linnell was pointing out a picture of them from 1985, both of them thinner, younger, with ridiculous haircuts.

“Look at those jackets,” Flansburgh said, shaking his head. “We thought we were so cool.”

“We were cool,” Linnell said. “Objectively.”

“You were cool. I was just standing next to you.”

Linnell leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You’re still standing next to me.”

Y/N watched from the doorway, a warm feeling blooming in his chest. He had a family now. A weird, musical, occasionally traumatizing family. But it was his.

He walked over and dropped onto the couch between them, sandwiching himself in. “Move over. I want to see the embarrassing photos.”

“There are no embarrassing photos,” Flansburgh said.

“There’s one where you’re wearing a fez,” Linnell said.

“That was a fashion statement.”

“It was a cry for help.”

Y/N laughed, and for the first time since his bio mom dropped him off at the foster agency, he felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

The house on Vanderbilt Avenue was still cluttered, still smelled like dust and guitar strings. But now it also smelled like coffee, and love, and the start of something new.

And if Y/N had to listen to a theremin wail at three in the morning, well. That was a small price to pay.