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Andshit, again. He doesn’t want Trevor to feel like he’s shutting him out. Doesn’t want him to think he’s not willing to share with him. They used to write songs together for the band all the time. He trusts Trevor with his creative process.

But there’s no way he can let him hear this song.

Although now that he’s thinking about it, what does he expect will happen after he puts the song on the album? Or any of the songs he’s written about Trevor since they reunited? Yeah, he’s released songs about his heartbreak after losing Trevor. But this is different.

This is him wanting something that Trevor might not. And after Trevor hears these songs—after Skyler puts them out there for the whole world to hear—will it freak Trevor out? Will he be mad?

“I got burritos,” Trevor says. “Hope you’re good with that. I should’ve called to ask.”

“No. Yes. Burritos are fine.” He stands, holding his guitar carefully by the neck. “And sorry. It’s not that I don’t want you to hear. Maybe next time, okay? When I have something that’s more ready.”

“Sure, I get it.”

Trevor probably doesn’t get it at all—doesn’t get that it’s about him— but Skyler nods and puts his guitar away.

They eat at the breakfast bar, and he tries for small talk, but Trevor’s shoving his burrito in his face with one hand and frowning down at his phone in the other. Still compulsively checking for updates. And while Skyler understands, he doesn’t want him to stress prematurely.

“After we eat, you want to play Scrab—”

“Fuck!” Trevor yells, cutting him off and dropping his burrito onto the foil wrapper. A piece of chicken falls out and rolls off the edge of the counter and onto the floor, where Stella immediately snatches it up.

“What’s wrong?”

“They issued an evacuation order for Malibu.”

“Oh, damn.” That’s not good. For the first time, Skyler really worries about his own home. But only for a second, before he’s back to worrying about Trevor, who has quickly turned pale. “Okay, just breathe.”

“I am breathing!” Trevor snaps.

He curls his fingers over Trevor’s wrist bone. Trevor’s eyes dart down to the point of contact and then up at him. “I’m not sure you are.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just…”

Trevor doesn’t finish that sentence, so Skyler makes a shushing sound, letting him know he doesn't need to. “I know,” he says. “I know. But there’s still nothing more about Santa Monica, is there?”

Trevor frowns and shakes his head.

“So let’s try not to panic.”

When Trevor looks at him now, his eyes are curious and his color has started to come back. “How can you say that? Aren’t you worried about your own house?”

“Of course I am,” Skyler tells him. “But right now, I’m more worried about you.”

“You don’t need to baby me. I know I’m acting crazy about this shit, but it’smyshit. You don’t have to deal with it.”

“Hey.” He tightens his hold on Trevor’s wrist. “You’re not acting crazy, and your shit is my shit. So Iamworried, and you’ll just have to deal withthat.”

Trevor huffs out an unamused laugh, and Skyler wonders if that was too much, saying it like that. But it’s true. Whatever affects Trevor affects him. It’s always been that way since they got together, and it’s stupid pretending that’s changed.

“Well,” Trevor says finally. As if it’s a complete thought.

“Do you think you can put down your phone long enough to finish eating?” Skyler asks him gently. “Then maybe we could play a game of Scrabble? You can keep your phone close by, but the way you’ve been staring at it so hard, I’m afraid it might melt.”

Trevor nods, ignoring his lame attempt at a joke. And then he says, “So you’re trying to distract me by forcing me to focus all my brainpower on beating you?”

He risks a small smile. “Yes, exactly.”

“Fine, let’s do it.”