The Mechanic’s Apprentice – Part 20

Everyone in this story is 18+

Running on Fumes

 My room felt smaller than usual, the weight in my chest pressing down like a heavy blanket I couldn’t shake off. I’d told myself I wasn’t going to the recital, that it wouldn’t matter if I stayed home. The faint light of my phone screen was the only glow in the dim space, illuminating the mess of crumpled clothes, empty soda cans, and half-hearted attempts at cleaning that littered the floor. I stared at it, scrolling aimlessly, hoping for something—anything—from Connor.

But there was nothing.

No response to the texts I’d sent. Not even a single word to the long, rambling message I’d sent days ago, apologizing for... everything.

I tossed the phone onto my bed with a groan, leaning back against the headboard and rubbing my hands over my face. “Why am I such a fuckup?” I muttered to the empty room. The words hung in the air, heavy and familiar.

Connor had been one of the few good things in my life. Something that felt solid. Real. And I’d fucked it up. For what? A few heated moments with Joe that, while thrilling, felt hollow now in the quiet aftermath.

I picked up my phone again, opening the thread of messages with Connor. My thumb hovered over the screen, scrolling through the history: silly pictures of us boxing, jokes he’d sent about me needing to work on my footwork, random late-night conversations about nothing and everything.

One photo caught my eye—Connor mid-spin during practice, his form perfect even in a blurry snapshot. I remembered teasing him about it, saying he looked like one of those jewelry box ballerinas. He’d laughed, calling me a “graceless brute” in return.

The knot in my chest tightened as I stared at the photo, Connor’s face frozen in a moment that felt like it belonged to another life. My thumb hovered over the screen before I swiped it away. It hurt too much—his smile, the way his eyes crinkled, the easy joy that felt just out of reach.

It didn’t make much sense, but I had to see the Christmas recital. I had to see him, even if it was just one last time—even if it made me look like a complete idiot.

Maybe then I could finally let go.

I glanced at the time, my heart pounding as I checked the ticket on my phone. It started soon—very soon.

If I left now, I might just make it.

I stood up, grabbing my jacket from the back of my chair. My heart was pounding, the weight in my chest shifting into something sharper—fear, maybe. Or hope.

“I’m going,” I said aloud, as if saying it would make it real. “I have to.”

With that, I slipped out of the room, heading for the door. I didn’t know what I’d say to Connor when I saw him. But for now, just showing up had to be enough.

The Christmas Recital

I took my trusted skateboard in my hands, the faint buzz of nerves settling in my stomach. The lights from the auditorium glowed through the tall windows, casting warm, golden beams into the cool evening air. The faint hum of music reached my ears, punctuated by the occasional burst of applause. It had already started. My chest tightened.

“Damn it,” I muttered under my breath, tugging my jacket tighter as I pushed through the front doors.

Inside, the hallways were quiet, the muted sounds of the recital echoing faintly off the polished floors. I followed the signs pointing toward the auditorium, the sound of music growing louder with each step. When I reached the double doors, I handed my phone to the volunteer scanning tickets. She frowned as she looked at the screen and then at her tablet.

“Looks like there’s been a mix-up,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Your seat’s already been claimed.”

“What?” I whispered, my chest tightening.

“We’re completely full, but…” She glanced around before motioning toward the far corner of the auditorium. “You can stand over there if you want?”

After a moment’s hesitation I nodded. “That’s fine. Thanks.” I just had to see him.

I moved toward the corner she’d indicated. The faint hum of the crowd hit me first—a packed house of parents, students, and teachers all watching the stage with rapt attention. I stayed near the edge of the room, tucked behind a small cluster of people standing near the back row, the dim light hiding me well enough.

Before I looked at the stage, my eyes scanned the crowd. I wasn’t even sure why. Maybe I expected Joe to be here, sitting stiffly in the audience, looking out of place in a sea of parents. But I didn’t see him. Just rows and rows of strangers, their attention locked on the stage.

The stage itself was a sea of movement, the dancers flowing across it like they weren’t bound by gravity. I quickly spotted him.

Connor.

He was in the middle of the group, leading the pack like he’d been born to do it. His body moved like water, every line and step perfectly smooth.

The music swelled, and even I recognized the costumes—they were from The Nutcracker. It’s one of those things you can’t avoid during Christmas, even if you’re clueless about ballet. But actually seeing it live was a whole other experience. Everything looked polished and perfect, the dancers moving like clockwork.

Connor’s costume stood out immediately—regal and sharp, with intricate details that somehow made him look even more… him. He was obviously the male lead. And he owned it, commanding the stage like it was built for him.

His movements were effortless, powerful. He wasn’t just dancing—he was telling a story with every step, every leap. I didn’t know ballet terms or what the choreography was supposed to mean, but I didn’t need to. Connor made it impossible not to feel it.

Then came the move he’d practiced for so long, the one he’d talked about endlessly. Some French name I couldn’t pronounce if I tried. It was a jump where he’d spin mid-air, twice, before landing. I leaned forward, holding my breath as he prepared.

Would he make it?

The spin was fast, flawless, and just when I thought he’d lose it, he landed on his feet, light as a feather. The control, the balance—it all came together like he was showing off to the world how effortless he could make something that shouldn’t even be possible.

The applause broke out immediately, thunderous and overwhelming. The crowd loved him. And I… I was frozen. My breath caught in my throat as I watched him bow, his expression soft but proud.

And that’s when it hit me—hard. My chest ached, and I felt a tear slide down my cheek.

It wasn’t just the way he danced. It was him. The strength, the sweetness, the quiet confidence that made him feel untouchable and human all at once. I wiped my face quickly, hoping no one noticed. But the truth was, I didn’t care. Not really. Because Connor was incredible, and I was just a guy in the corner, wondering if I’d ruined my chance to ever be part of his world again.

The applause finally died down, and Connor stepped back, melting into the group of dancers as the recital continued. My hands stayed frozen at my sides, my chest still tight with everything I felt.

I wanted to go to him. I needed to go to him. But would he even want to see me? Unlikely. The weight of everything I’d done felt heavier in this moment, surrounded by people who saw him as flawless. Being here, watching him, wasn’t enough to fix everything I’d broken.

And yet, the thought of leaving without trying made my stomach twist.

Some time after the recital ended, I found myself drifting toward the performers’ section, my heart pounding as I searched for any sign of Connor. The crowd had thinned out, but the buzz of post-recital chatter still lingered in the air. As I hovered near the door, trying to work up the nerve to go inside, it opened, and a girl around my age stepped out.

I recognized her instantly. Elena. She’d been flawless on stage, moving in perfect sync with Connor during their duet. The way they danced together had been mesmerizing, almost like they shared an unspoken connection. Now, up close, she looked just as poised, her hair still neatly pinned back, a sheen of sweat catching the light on her forehead.

Her eyes landed on me, and for a moment, I thought she might walk past. But then she stopped, tilting her head slightly. “You’re Ryder, aren’t you?”

“Hey, uh, yeah. I’m looking for Conn… Uh, Connor,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

She tilted her head, her expression curious but polite. “He’s still backstage. After-performance duty.” She rolled her eyes. “Budget cuts. Performers have to help clean up the chairs and stuff. Glamorous, right?”

“Right. Thanks,” I muttered, stepping back as she disappeared through the door again, this time carrying a few water bottles and a bag she’d grabbed from the next room.

I stayed where I was, leaning against the wall and fiddling with the strap of my watch, debating whether I should just go in and find him. The thought of walking into a room full of performers—and Connor—made my stomach twist.

I rubbed a hand over my face, letting out a slow breath. I’d already come this far. Why was this part so damn hard?

I turned and headed out the back, hoping the crisp air would clear my thoughts as I leaned against the wall to wait. A few ballerinas passed by, chatting and laughing, their voices soft against the quiet night. Eventually, Elena, the brunette from before, emerged, clearly one of the last to leave.

She noticed me lingering and paused. “Hey, Connor’s still inside,” she said. “Probably just a few minutes. He’s finishing up.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

She hesitated, offering a faint smile. “I don’t know what’s going on, but... I think it’d be good if you two talked. He’s been a little... distracted lately.”

I shifted uncomfortably. “If he’ll talk to me, I think you’re right,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended.

She nodded, her smile softening as she turned to leave. As she walked away, I had the sudden urge to ask if she knew more than she let on. But no—this was between me and Connor. When the time came, I had to find the right words myself.

I stayed where I was for a little while, her words echoing in my head. Distracted. I couldn’t decide if that made me feel better or worse. At least it could look like he had been thinking of me. That thought alone tightened my chest, a mix of hope and guilt twisting together until I could barely stand still.

I pushed off the wall, heading toward the skate park nearby. I needed space to clear my head and figure out what I could possibly say to him. I had little time to come up with something clever, something that would get him to listen. The concrete ramps and rails glinted under the streetlights, their familiar shapes offering a weird kind of comfort as I leaned against the fence. I ran a hand through my hair, the cold air biting at my skin, my mind spinning.

That’s when I heard them.

“Little ballerina boy thinks he’s so special,” one voice sneered, loud and cutting in the empty stillness.

“Yeah, prancing around like he’s hot shit. Tonight, he’s gonna learn,” another replied, followed by the sharp crack of a bottle shattering against the pavement.

I peered into the shadows and spotted them—two of the jocks from before, perched on the edge of the park with beers in hand. Their laughter was harsh, their voices slurred with alcohol, but the venom in their words was all too clear. They were talking about Connor.

I froze, torn between slipping away unnoticed or confronting them. Then one of them spotted me.

“Hey! It’s that white-trash fag married to the ballerina!” one of them shouted, his voice ringing out across the park.

My stomach dropped as their eyes locked onto me. Instinct kicked in, and I grabbed my board, spinning around to leave. I didn’t make it far before I heard the bark of another voice.

“Take him!”

I heard them rustling behind me, the scrape of shoes against gravel as they scrambled to come after me. My heart pounded as I pushed off on my board, tearing away from the park as fast as I could. I needed to warn Connor—now.