Work Text:
Yesterday
"Mike, Grandma's package is here!" Malcolm called up the stairs of their cramped, dilapidated row house, and a moment later Mush was clattering down the stairs.
Three years ago, as soon as Malcolm had turned eighteen, Grandma Novikov had moved into the retirement home. She should have gone earlier, by that time Mal and Mush had been caring for her more than the other way around, but they had to wait until Mal was a legal adult so he could keep custody of Mush. Their mother had died in a crash when Mush was a year old, and their fathers had never been around, so Grandma Novikov had done right by them since. It was only fair that they take care of her when she needed it.
But she was at Sunrise now, down in Sheepshead, and presumably running her Bible study with an iron fist. They got out to visit her when they could, usually every couple of weeks, but she still wanted to feel like she was taking care of them.So, near the end of every month they got a package in the mail.
Malcolm already had his bag of gingersnaps out of the box, and was lounging in the doorway crunching on one with a delighted look on his face. Mush knew that his bag of caramels would be in the box, but while he was careful to make the caramels last the month, Mal's ginger snaps were usually gone in two or three days.
The 'snaps and caramels were always the same, month to month- the boy's standing favorites of Grandma Novikov's many kitchen accomplishments. The box's other contents changed with the season, however. "So, what is it this time, Mal?"
Mal smirked. "Oh, just look, I don't think I can do them justice."
Mush approached the box with caution.The next day was Thanksgiving, and since the weather had finally started to turn the previous week, he figured that meant it was time for cold weather gear. It was always... interesting. But when he looked into the box, he knew why Mal had been smirking.
"Oh, great. These are... lovely."He picked a stocking cap out of the box with the tips of his fingers, holding it like it was a three-week-dead lark. It was day-glo green."Is that chenille?"
Mal nodded enthusiastically. "Yep. That's yours, I'm taking the other one." Which was neon orange, so Mush didn't put up a fight. "I'm thinking she's heard retro is in, and has decided to bring back the eighties."
"With a vengeance. Damn, I have to wear this to Sheepshead, now?"
Mal raised an eyebrow. "Well, inSheepshead I wasn't planning on putting it on until we were inside her building, myself. If you want to make a fashion statement, I'm going to have to insist you stay at least twenty feet away from me on the way over there."
Mush rolled his eyes at his brother, and grabbed his bag of caramels before returning to his room. Before stashing them away, he took one out, unwrapped it, and bit off half.He closed his eyes for a minute while he savored the start of the sugar rush, the candy soft and malleable against the roof of his mouth until he pushed it thin with his tongue and felt the graininess of it. He let it melt slowly, thinking of cool spring sunshine and warm summer afternoons with his grandmother.
When it was gone, he sealed up the bagand stashed it in a box under his bed, with the hat. Mal would never steal them- Mush left his 'snaps alone and Mal wasn't that big on sugar anyways. Neither would David, for far less self-interested reasons, and Race and Jack didn't know about the packages at all. Spot, however, was absolutely unapologetic about being a caramel poacher.
Mush laid back down on his bed, and started to flip through the Edmund's Scientific he had been browsing before his brother had called him downstairs. He didn't really notice the new slide collections or the telescope lens specs like he usually did, though. Instead, his mind was focused on the next day.
David's family had invited him and Spot over for Thanksgiving dinner (which in their house, meant lunch) when the three had been in seventh grade. Grandma Novikov had, of course, insisted on returning the favor for the supper meal, and the two meals had remained a standing tradition between the boys until Grandma Novikov had moved to Sunrise. Both David and Mush suspected that Spot had rather suddenly gone from no Thanksgiving at all to two a day, but they weren't about to say it.
The boys' junior year, with Grandma Novikov gone, Mush had started getting a little nervous around Halloween. He wasn't really sure he could leave Mal alone on Thanksgiving, and the two of them weren't about to attempt to replicate Grandma Novikov's creations. But Esther Jacobs had risen to the occasion and dropped a, "And you'll be bringing your brother this year, right, Michael?" into a conversation the first week of November, face wreathed in smiles and no pity at all. And a few days later, Race had chimed into a conversation with, "Spot tells me you've always celebrated Thanksgiving together, so I wanted to let you know you're all welcome at my house for supper, and Mike, don't leave your brother at home or Dad'll kill me, okay?"
And the next year, as soon as Esther Jacobs and Sal Higgins had heard Medda had to work all day Thanksgiving, Jack had been all but ordered to show up as well. Besides, even that early into knowing Jack, Thanksgiving just wouldn't have felt right if he wasn't there- it had been a holiday about friendship for them for too long, by then.
With memories flashing through his head like slides under a 'scope, Mush rolled out of bed and pulled out his caramels again. He took two fresh ones out of the bag and set them gently on his dresser, next to his wallet, before returning the bag to its place. One for David and Jack, one for Spot and Race.
He grinned to himself as he picked up his catalog again. It was about friendship.
*
This Morning, Early
Race winced as his feet hit the floor-he hadn't used to mind the cold this much, but the insulation in their apartment was so crappy that even they could afford it.He stretched hard for a moment, and by habit ran his hand under the covers on the other side of the bed. Medium-warm, so he hadn't been up long.
After he did the usual bathroom thing and found his heaviest sweatshirt, he wandered into the kitchen, blinking muzzily at the coffeemaker. It was still full, both mugs sitting empty in front of it. What?
He glanced into the living room- empty. Damn, that meant he was outside. And it was cold out this morning. He found his shoes, filled both mugs, and took them over to the table next to the fire escape. And yeah, there he was, coatless, gloveless, and tapping a ballpoint against his tattered notebook like it had just said something about his mother.
Well, Race's mother. Spot let people say what they liked about his own.
Anyways, it was cold out there, and Spot might not notice it right now, but Race would. And if he went out there in a parka, he'd never hear the end of it. But pneumonia sucked. So what to do... ah, there. His eyes lit on the afghan on the back of the futon. His mother had made it, so it was ugly as sin, but it was also really, really warm.Perfect. He grabbed it and carefully climbed out on the fire escape, mug in each hand and afghan over his arm.
"Mornin', sunshine. Coffee?" He smirked.
Later, after a punch in the arm and his coffee, he sat wrapped with Spot on the fire escape, the scratch of a pen and the just-dawn light their only companions.
*This Morning, Not So Early
"Take it back!" David was heroically ignoring the branches digging into his back despite his parka and the varieties of insects that surely must inhabit the leaf pile that Jack was pushing him into in favor of laughing hard enough to make his sides hurt and his lungs ache with the cold air. Because, and this was something he wouldn't even tell Mush, who would both get it and keep it quiet, he never got tired of making Jack squeal like an indignant fourteen year old girl.
He liked making him squeal in other ways, too. This was just more socially-acceptable behavior for his front yard.
"But that wouldn't be the truth, Jack! You wouldn't want me to lie, would you?" Breathing finally back under control, he smirked up at Jack, who's mouth was still hanging open in baffled astonishment. Yeah, the other guys poked fun at him, but David was the only one comfortable enough with him to really let go, and he didn't think he'd ever get tired of how much that thrilled Jack.
"I do not look like a Mountie!" The last word had a slight edge of contempt, but no real heat. Jack grabbed a fistful of leaves and held it over David's collar in a threatening manner, firmly pinning his arms to his sides with his knees. "Take it back!"
David just grinned up at him. No way he'd get out of this one without leaves down his pants, let alone his shirt. May as well enjoy himself. "You're wearing flannel and a Stetson, Jack. What, this wasn't deliberate?" And he gasped, hard, because as it turned out crunchy maple leaves and his nipples were not friends.
Which particularly sucked as David also thought flannel and a Stetson was a damned good look for Jack, and just couldn't quite say it out loud.
"Pretty mouthy of a guy who's pinned. Insultin' my manhood and my fashion sense." Jack drawled as he grabbed another handful of leaves and then he crooked his eyebrow, daring David to say something else. His other hand was edging towards David's waistline, and not in a fun way. David spared a thought for how his nipples had reacted to the leaves, winced, and promptly gave up.
"Not a chance. Fraser kept a wolf as a pet, Jack." David let his eyes go a little wide and unfocused, since he knew how much Jack liked that, and wriggled to shift some of the leaves in his shirt.
Jack's hold on him weakened as he thought about the implications of that last comment.And possibly the eyes and the wriggling could have helped. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess so." David sat up a little, glanced down the street for a second, and stretched up hard to give Jack a quick peck on the temple when it was evident there were no witnesses. So Jack let him up.
They took a minute to brush the leaves out of the crooks and crannies of David's cold-weather gear, Jack starting to get a little grabby. Finally, rake lying forgotten next to the now-disheveled pile of leaves, Jack started herding him towards the house, a definite leer on his face.
And maybe the cold air was just making him crazy, but David went for it. "It could have been worse, you know."
Jack just raised his eyebrows, obviously humoring him. "Worse than calling me a Mountie?"
David looked Jack straight in the eye and tried for his most innocent face. "Sure. If you had more chest hair, I'd've called you Smokey the Bear."
And there was that look of baffled astonishment again. Which David relished for about three milliseconds before pivoting and dashing across the lawn.
And he was laughing again long before he heard the bellow of "Davey!" from right behind him, as they tumbled together to the ground.
*
A Year Ago
David met Jack on the third day of senior year, in the parking lot. If by "met," you meant "nearly got killed by."
In Jack's defense, the Delancey brothers could get under anyone's skin, and the parking lot was probably a better choice to "discuss their differences" than, say, the cafeteria in the middle of lunch. And Jack had clearly not intended to almost shove David into the path of an oncoming car in his rush to get out of Oscar's reach. But nevertheless, David had found it disorienting to go from plotting out the first headlines of the year in his head, to gyro-scoping wildly between an parked pickup and a Ford Falcon moving at five miles an hour.
His elbow had gotten a little wrenched when Jack pulled him out of traffic, and he banged his knee against the pickup's bumper, but at the time he was concentrating more on this idiot who had caused the mess in the first place. Who still had a hand on his elbow, and what was jabbing into his bicep?
"What are you doing-" he glanced down at the hand on his elbow, "with that?"
Jack took his hand from David's elbow like it had burned him, and stuffed what looked like a butterfly knife into his pocket. "Running!" And he dashed away.
David was left with a fleeting image of a blinding grin and a ragged red bandana as Oscar and Morris shoved by him.
Three weeks later, Jack had somehow wormed his way in with Race and Mush, and was a regular at their lunch table. Spot seemed ticked off that his timeworn place as their resident "tough guy" was in jeopardy, and he and Jack avoided each other. But Mush looked up to him and Race clearly thought he was funny, and wasn't stupid enough to flirt with him, as Spot didn't need another reason to be angry with Jack.
David remained wary.
Oh yes, Jack was funny and bright and charming. He could dazzle Mush with stories of his rough background in Alphabet City and he could give Race a run for his money in poker.He was even smart enough to not get into a machismo contest with Spot and force the rest of them to take sides. But he spoke little of his family and he always maintained a careful distance. He couldn't get enough of them at school, but always refused invites home and never offered in return. And David could still sometimes see the outline of that knife in his pocket.
But that day it all changed.
The five of them had gone to Tibby's- Tibbett's Brook Park- after school, Mush having promised David a ride home. They were a good ten minute walk from the car, laughing and pushing each other around, when David had what Race called "a David moment" and taken a nasty pratfall into the gravel, twisting his ankle pretty good in the process. The guys were pretty good about it, Spot only making one comment about how his mouth didn't seem to be walking like usual, and Mush offered to help him walk back to the cars.
Jack would have none of that, though.He carefully helped David to stand, and then took as much weight as he could as they slowly made their way back to the cars, despite the fact that his height made it a little awkward. When they arrived, he had deposited David gently into Mush's front seat, waved a terse goodbye to Race and Spot, and climbed into the back of Mush's car without saying a word. Upon arriving at David's house, he had again played crutch, and had David's mother been even the slightest bit less stubborn, would have escaped with barely a word of thanks. From "David, what happened!?" to "Perhaps your friend would like to join us for dinner?" in thirty seconds or less, that was Esther Jacobs.
Despite the twisted ankle, David was thrilled. His mom was much better at gleaning information from difficult subjects than he was- it was why he was an editor and not a reporter. He spent most of the rest of the evening letting his mom grill Jack for information he'd been dying to know for weeks.
In less than three hours, with a little reading between the lines, he knew that Jack had been sent to live with his Aunt Medda by his dad, who knew he was getting in trouble but didn't want to do anything about it personally. Medda worked at a bar in Pelham, and by the look on Jack's face when he said it, it probably wasn't the nicest place. No, he didn't have to call her to let her know where he was, she'd be home at eleven, since she used him as an excuse to not work until close, and if he wasn't home by then he'd have to call. Yes, she did have a minimalist approach. No, she didn't have any kids. No, she wasn't married, but Toby was a nice guy. Yes, he liked living with her fine.
Les adored Jack instantly, and spent most of the night making faces at David to get Jack to laugh. David was just grateful Sarah had decided to not come from NYU that weekend. He did not need to hear her comments about "his little friends." He especially didn't need Jack to hear them.
His ankle had firmed up by the end of the night, and after his mom wrapped it in an Ace bandage, he walked Jack to the door, and they stood chatting on the stoop for a few minutes. After a few of the standard pleasantries, Jack surprised the hell out of David with a personal question.
"So, uh, what happened to your pop?"
"He died, in an accident at the factory where he worked." At the horrified look on Jack's face, David clarified. "It's okay, Jack. I was, what, eleven then? It was a long time ago. Anyways, it's why Sarah can afford to be at NYU- we grew up expecting to have to get our gen ed credits at a community college first. But the insurance will get us both through school, and Les most of the way."
Jack looked somber. "That doesn't make it better."
"No." They stood in silence for a few moments. "Hey, I didn't think to ask, don't you need a ride home?"
"Nah, I'll walk, I'm just a few blocks that way." He pointed.
"Right, and I guess you can take care of yourself." Jack tilted his head, and David gestured awkwardly towards his pockets. "I mean, that's why you carry it, right?"
"Carry what?"
"The- your, you know... the butterfly knife," David whispered, terrified his mom would overhear, "the one you always have with you."
"The... you think it's a butterfly knife?" Jack began to laugh, and he fumbled in his pockets until he brought the object out. "Davey, it's a multitool, see?" He opened it to reveal a pair of pliers, and David felt the blush all the way down his neck. "My grandad used to carry it, he gave it to me years ago." He folded it back up and sort of smirked, the laughter finally fading away. "You thought I was carrying? In school? David, how dumb do you think I am?"
"How was I supposed to know? You had it out when you were running from the Delanceys! When we first met?"
"Yeah, David, I had just bent the hell out of Morris's radio antenna, because he's a jerk. I wouldn't use a knife on the Delanceys, they aren't worth the jail time."
"Oh. Good." David honestly couldn't think of anything else to say to that, and was pretty sure he had just insulted the guy. "So, I guess you're not as safe walking home as I thought. Er, we have a guest room. Why don't you stay here tonight?" And he tried to stare blankly at his own mouth, as he had no idea where that had come from.
Jack gave him an honest smile in return, though. "No, but thanks, Davey. Don't want to scare Medda."
"Sure. Right, of course. G'night, then." And David smiled back a little, and Jack walked off into the night. David spent most of the rest of that night wondering why he had been so nervous saying goodnight to Jack.
Jack, on the other hand, had spent the night planning exactly where, when and how to pin David to a wall and stick his tongue down his throat.
*
Even Earlier This Morning
For as long as Spot could remember, it had been him, and David, and Mush. Mush always said that they'd met first day of kindergarten, and David had some sort of story about getting attacked by a dog, but Spot's memory for that time in his life was never very good. So as far as he was concerned, the three of them had always been friends.
Not, of course, that he would ever say that out loud.
And they looked pretty funny to outsiders, he could admit. David, the perfect student, Mush, who charmed any adult with a smile and a kind word, and Spot. Who had always been the sinewy, underfed kid in the back with a hard sneer and no manners. Who's mom was Maggie Conlon. Yes, that Maggie Conlon, who owned Titsy's and was seen more often around town with her Doberman than her son.
But Mush and David had never cared,and while Spot wouldn't admit to needing them, he was unfailingly loyal to those who'd earned it. So David got Mush through English and kept Spot from doing anything that would actually get him arrested; Mush kept the two of them from screaming at each other when one of David's barbs hit Spot on a bad day; and Spot scared the shit out of the Delanceys when they got too close. It worked out.
When they were eight, in the fort they'd built in Tibby's out of trash they'd found lying around- chicken wire, an old trashcan, some boxes-they had tried to come up with bandit names.
Yes, bandit names. They were eight.
David had been on a Steve McQueen kick(and really, the sighing should have been an early warning sign the boy was occasionally into men) which had lead to the Magnificent Seven, which had lead to John Wayne movies, which, inexplicably, had lead to Butch and Sundance. And while half the jokes had flown right over their heads, they were stuck on the idea of the Hole in the Wall Gang. And since David very sensibly pointed out they couldn't be bandits under their real names (they'd get caught!) they needed bandit names.
Mush, at the time, had had an unhealthy interest in the Iditarod, and his nickname was completely Spot's fault. And Spot was never going to let him forget it. Spot's nickname had originally been Spotty, thanks to the fact that his memory was notoriously full of holes up until his dad moved out when he hit puberty. He'd shortened it to Spot at age nine, by virtue of some blackmail material and one plaintive look.
David had gotten a nickname too, and "the walking mouth" was actually the polite, adult-friendly version. But it hadn't stuck. David was just... David. And that was all they wanted from him, which is why they had propped him up when his dad died. And Mush and David had tried to prop Spot up when his dad left, but he'd been in entirely too good of a mood for that. And he and David- well, the less said about Mush's sophomore year, the better.
Sometime late in sophomore year, Spot had tried to write the whole thing down.He'd always had notebooks scattered around- in his locker, at Mush's, stuck in a box at their fort that turned out to not be quite as waterproof as he'd thought. He figured "write what you know"meant what it said, and he'd tried hard, trying to figure out why they still worked it out, after everything. But he never could do it. He always missed something, some detail- once it was Mush's smile, another time he tried leaving out his mother on purpose. The closest to success he'd gotten was the time he'd finished them up to middle school only to realize he'd left out David's sister entirely.
Their story was just too big, it filled up all the corners of his mind and he couldn't wrap the pages around it. And besides, he'd only really been writing down the past in order to escape the present, and he'd dropped that idea the day Race plopped down next to him in geometry, grin as bright as the fast-melting snow.
The present was fine by him.