November Writing Challenge: All Together Now

[Sean *]

It's writing challenge time again. To enter, just post a ficlet (300-4000 words suggested) in this thread. When the voting for this month's OTM winners comes around, a voting poll will go up for this as well.

The Challenge: With autumn in full swing, and Thanksgiving at the end of the month, the challenge is to write a story about your character and their loved ones gathering together for the holidays. It need not be heartwarming.


The Rules:

• Characters must be in Hammel canon, but the ficlets are not site canon unless expressly stately. Anything that can't fit with canon is automatically considered AU.
• Entries must be more than 300 words.
• You can enter no more than three ficlets. Any ficlets posted after the original 3 will not be considered for voting. If you want to post more, however, have fun.
• Ficlets must be titled.
  

[Jacob Tapper]

Willow

Cast (Playby Image):
Jacob Tapper (Burkely Duffield)
Osiris M. Jackson (Seungri)
Marcia Tapper (Mary Steenburgen)
Melissa Tapper (Amy Schumer)
Donald "Don" Tapper (Chris Christie)
Aunt Rita (Kate Mulgrew)

-----

It was mid-afternoon when an old grey Volvo speeding down Interstate 95 passed a sign reading ‘WELCOME TO NEW JERSEY.’ Jacob Tapper recognized the sign from many car trips he’d taken with his family over the years, but for the boy sitting beside him, it was his first time in the Garden State.

Osiris Jackson's mind wasn’t on this fact, though, as the two were engaged in heated conversation. It was Thursday, November 26 – Thanksgiving – and they were on their way to Jacob’s family’s house to spend the holiday with the brunet’s parents and sister.

This would be, the two young men were acutely aware, the first time Jake had ever brought a boy home with him.

“Just try to be cool,” the transdimensionalist was instructing the Korean male as he merged between lanes.

“Try?” Jackson asked, quirking an eyebrow as he turned to look at the driver. “Thanks.”

Jake closed his eyes momentarily. “I just mean… be chill. And confident. He hates wimps.”

The ‘he’ in this conversation, as it had been for several minutes now, was Jacob’s father, Donald Tapper. The man was enormous, temperamental, and not known for being the most tolerant of individuals. If anyone was going to cause a problem that night, it was ‘he.’

“I’m not a wimp,” Jackson stated evenly, though this point could possibly be debated if either one of them was interested in doing so.

“Fine,” Jacob replied. After a few moments of silence, he added: “And try not to be too…”

Jackson’s eyebrows rose yet again. “Too…” he repeated curiously. “...Gay?”

Jacob sighed.

“Asian.”

-----

Half an hour later, the Volvo was off the highway and driving down a progressively winding road in suburban North Jersey. The car snaked its way up and down hills, past trees and houses of all shapes, sizes, and colors, and occasionally around a squirrel or deer that had found its way into the middle of the street. Soon enough, the road opened up into a sunnier area, and they turned into a driveway that led up to a white Colonial-style house with grey shingles and several big, rectangular windows.

As they drove up the long driveway towards the house, Jackson looked out the side window to see a large willow tree standing over a small pond. In the pond floated some lilies on their pads, as well as a few ducks that made ripples on the water as they glided along. The blond thought this was very pretty.

-----

It was only about three seconds after Jake had rang the doorbell that it opened to reveal a middle-aged woman with shoulder-length auburn hair and tired eyes. She wore an apron over her outfit, which was sprinkled with some flour and older stains. She immediately brought Jake in for a hug.

“Jake, honey, it’s so good to see you,” his mother cooed, allowing the hug to last slightly longer than Jake was comfortable given his company. “Let me get a good look at you.” She released him at last, but placed a hand on one of his cheeks. “Such a handsome young man,” she said with a sigh.

Marcia turned to the boy standing beside her son. “And you must be Jackson,” she said, extending a hand towards him but then, thinking better of it, going in for an admittedly somewhat awkward hug. “It’s nice to meet you,” she offered, turning her attention immediately back to Jake.

“Your father’s in the study,” she said, smoothing out his shirt collar with her fingers, “studying how to be a better person.”

Jake half-smiled. “Did he feed you that line?” He asked.

“You know your father loves you,” the woman replied, as she waved for the two boys to come inside.

-----

Marcia was giving Jackson a quick tour of the house’s first floor when Jake was pulled aside by a girl a few years older than him with dirty blonde hair and a fuller, but nonetheless quite pretty, figure.

“Well, this should be a real treat,” she said, and Jake was already rolling his eyes. They had a somewhat strained relationship as most siblings had, and they had never really grown out of their bickering phase. “Dinner and a shit-show.”

The brunet groaned. “’Liss,” he said, using an abbreviated form of Melissa’s name only he and their mother used, “I’m really gonna need you on my side tonight, okay?” The pleading look in his eyes – one even his own sister didn’t see too often – made the girl realize he was dead serious.

“Yeah, okay,” she said, before cracking a smile. “But there's one thing I need to say."

Jake sighed. “I’ll give you five words.”

“Ten," Melissa haggled.

“Six.”

“Fine.” Melissa leaned in a little bit closer. She paused for a moment, before putting a hand on her little brother's shoulder. “You are gay,” she said slowly, as though she was really counting her words. “I don’t care.”

Jake smiled. “You’re a whore,” he replied just as carefully. “Go get tested.”

-----

The four of them had gathered in the kitchen when loud footsteps interrupted their small talk.

“There he is!” Bellowed the voice of a large man as he came into the room, looking at all of them one at a time. His eyes then settled on Jackson. “And there he is,” he added, as though he disdained having to use a male pronoun.

“Hi Dad,” Jake said, trying to put on a brave face. He and his father actually got along quite well, but announcing that he was bringing his boyfriend home with him for the holiday had put a hitch in that otherwise stellar relationship. He wasn't totally sure how this dinner was going to go, and his father was the wildcard.

Donald smiled, not taking his eyes off of the young stranger. “You didn’t tell me he was…” He paused, during which time Marcia shifted uncomfortably. “…blond.” It was obvious he had been about to say something else, but then had thought better of it.

The mother sighed audibly with relief. “Well, why don’t we go have a seat in the living room and have some tea,” she said. “Dinner’s almost ready; the turkey’s just cooling off.”

-----

The living room was just where they went, with Jake and Jackson sitting on the loveseat opposite a couch where Jake’s mother, father, and sister were seated. A glass coffee table stood between them.

“So!” Don started to break the brief silence, taking a sip from a glass of Diet Coke that was now in one of his hands. “What is it that you do?”

Melissa laughed sweetly, patting their father on the knee. “He does Jake, Daddy,” she explained with mock helpfulness.

Jake actually winced at her crude joke, while Marcia, holding a teacup in one hand, brought the other up to her face. Her daughter was exhausting sometimes. “They’re students, honey,” she said to her husband. “You know that.”

“Right, right,” Don said dismissively, taking another sip. “You go to that special school for the special kids.”

“I have telekinesis,” Jackson replied with a nod. “I can move things with my mind.”

Don nodded as he continued looking at Jackson expectantly, remaining silent for a moment as though expecting to hear something more. “Well, isn’t that special,” he said at length.

The doorbell rang at that moment, and Jake’s mother practically launched herself out of her seat. “That’ll be my sister,” she said, and to that Don rolled his eyes, Melissa suppressed a laugh, and Jake groaned.

“You have an aunt?” Jackson asked Jake quietly.

“Aunt Rita is… a little crazy,” Jake said simply, figuring Jackson would find out for himself soon enough.

-----

Out by the front of the house, Marcia was just opening the door. “Hey Big Red,” she said with a grin, using the woman’s nickname, to her sister standing on the front steps. Indeed, the stout female had a big wad of bright red hair on her head, as well as a wild and distant look in her eyes. She was also wearing a green and red Christmas sweater, as though maybe she had mistaken the occasion.

“Alright, where’s the new boy toy,” the heftier woman said, pushing past Marcia and into the house.

Marcia, the younger of the two siblings by five years, followed closely behind the older woman, whom many assumed had some kind of dementia in her advanced age but who had actually been an oddball for a long time. “We’re going to be on our best behavior today,” she stated sweetly but to no avail as Rita walked into the living room.

“Oh! He’s a gay Asian,” she said when Jackson stood out of politeness upon her entering. “I dated a gay Asian once,” she added as she shook the young man’s hand enthusiastically.

Don huffed. “You did not date a gay Asian, Rita,” he said sternly.

“Like Hell I didn’t,” Rita persisted, and whether she truly believed this or was just pulling everyone’s leg wasn’t obvious. “Dated him for seven years. He was gay as a picnic basket and twice as Asian.”

“Oh stop, Red,” Marcia said, shaking her head but having to suppress a laugh at her sister’s antics.

“That Gay Asian went on to become the Prime Minister of Japan!” Rita exclaimed fervently. She turned back to Jackson, whose hand she hadn't yet let go of. “Weird part is, he was from China,” she added more quietly.

Jackson smirked despite Jake's apologetic look: clearly the entertainment had arrived.

-----

"Don, your heart," Marcia warned for a second time that evening.

The family was about halfway through dinner now, seated around the dining room table which was completely covered with platters of turkey and all of the trimmings. One could scarcely see the tablecloth: it was way more food than six people could ever eat, to be sure. The conversation had turned, and nobody was quite sure how, to the rather touchy subject of Jake’s and Jackson’s relationship. The brunet’s father was trying his best to act like he did not care that his son was dating another boy, but it was quite clear to everyone present that he did.

In spite of his wife's admonishment, the large man wasn’t to be calmed down. “Doesn’t he have enough to worry about?” He asked as he took another scoop of mashed potatoes. “You know, without being gay? AND interracial?” It just seemed like overkill to him. How different did one person have to be?

Under the table, Jackson placed a comforting hand on Jake’s thigh, but the older boy was, much like his father, not so easily consoled. “Dad, I’m not gay.” And it was true: he was bisexual. He just happened to be dating a boy now. “I like both.”

“I’m not having this conversation,” Don replied immediately, putting his hands up like he didn’t want to touch that particular subject with a twenty-foot pole. “Why don’t you just date a nice girl, a nice normal girl, from America, with good grades…”

“I got straight A’s this semester,” Melissa offered, before offering Jake a contrite look that said ‘I tried.’

“Oh, who cares?” Rita said, finally breaking her silence as a few shreds of turkey fell out of the corners of her mouth. “Don, love is love. Call me crazy-"

“We do…” Don grumbled.

“Don,” Marcia warned.

“Call me crazy,” Rita continued, “but in this life, we don’t always get to choose these things. Who we’re attracted to, or what powers we do or don’t have, or who we fall in love with. These things just happen. That’s part of what makes life so special.” She paused for a moment, and nobody spoke up so she went on. “I mean, if a beautiful woman like my sister could fall in love with a man like you, why can’t your son fall in love with a Gaysian?” She paused again, before concluding, thoughtfully, “Hey, that all actually kinda made sense.”

The rest of the family was quiet, as though to silently affirm that Crazy Aunt Rita had indeed made more sense than anyone else at the table.

-----

Dinner was over, and Jake and Melissa were in the kitchen helping their mother clean some of the dishes while Rita had gone upstairs to take a nap. Marcia refused to let their guest help clean up, so Jackson was standing in the living room, looking out into the Tappers’ front yard. There was the willow tree again, weeping its branches into the small pond. The lilies were still there, though the ducks had moved on.

Quietly, though not silently, Donald had approached Jackson from behind. A cup of coffee was nestled between his pudgy hands. When he spoke, it was more quietly than before, more peacefully.

“You know, I planted that tree,” he said, a small smile on his face as he looked past Jackson and out the window.

Jackson turned towards the older man. “Really,” he asked.

Don nodded. “When Marcia and I moved in – this was back in, oh, 1991 – I planted that tree. Planted those gardens,” he said, pointing to the bushes and flowers lining the driveway. “Built the extension in the back of the house. Built the front gate.” He was a man proud of his accomplishments, to be sure.

“That’s incredible,” Jackson stated simply. Incredible that a man his size could do that much manual labor, perhaps.

“Yeah, we were younger then,” Don agreed. He paused, turning to look at Jackson now. “I’ve always wanted the best for my family. You understand?”

“I do.” At least, the Korean thought he did.

“I’m not gonna be around forever,” the man continued, and it wasn’t apparent whether he was still talking to Jackson, or to himself. “Hell, I might not be around until next Thanksgiving.” He took a long, shallow sip from his mug. “I want to know my family is taken care of when I’m gone.” He looked back into the kitchen, watching for a moment as Marcia scrubbed dishes, Jackson dried them, and Melissa put them back into the cabinet. Don would readily admit to being fiercely protective of his family: nobody, man or woman, would ever be good enough for his son, in his eyes.

Don looked back to Jackson again, reaching over and placing a firm hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “Take care of my Jake, will ya?” He asked. And he would need taking care of, Don believed. “He’s not… exceptionally bright. But he means the world to me.”

The blond nodded. “I will,” he replied before adding, bravely, “I love your son. Very much.”

“That’s fine,” Don said, his hand falling back to his side. “That’s just fine.”

-----

It was ten o’ clock at night, and the boys were two hours into the five-hour drive back to Hammel, having decided ahead of time to make both trips in the same day. They were young and could handle it. But it had been a rather exhausting day. Jackson had offered to do the driving for the return trip, and Jake was in the passenger seat.

The smooth motion of the old grey Volvo lulled Jake to sleep, and at some point he had shifted so that his head rested on Jackson’s arm as the blond drove. Jackson looked down briefly at the other boy's face nuzzled into his jacket sleeve, and he smiled.

Jackson had always looked up to Jake as the older, more assertive, and frankly more dominant of the two boys. But maybe Don was right: maybe he did need taking care of. Jackson needed taking care of, too. But they could take care of each other; they could support each other and they could love each other. They could grow together, grieve together, and move on together. And maybe someday, when Hammel and college and entry-level jobs were behind them, when stressful holidays and busy semesters were reduced to mere memories, they would have their own white Colonial on their own winding road, with their own weeping willow they’d planted themselves.

-----

[Inspired in part by this song.]

[Dr. Sean Neville]

((OOC: Trigger warnings for depression and implied suicide ideation.))

A Most Peculiar Man

“He had no friends;
He seldom spoke.
And no one, in turn, ever spoke to him.”

A TV dinner for Thanksgiving.

He had a TV dinner every night, holiday or not. Did that make it more pathetic? Or less?

What did it matter? Who would judge him?

He only had the turkey dinners twice a year, on Thanksgiving and Christmas. It was a ritual.

Perhaps that made it more pathetic after all. A ritual with a TV dinner alone on a family holiday.

He was family. At least as far as the Census Bureau was concerned. One person could be a family.

He hated Thanksgiving. The boarding house was crowded and loud. The noise gave him a headache. But he never complained about it. Not to another person, anyway. Not aloud.

At first, he hadn’t complained because he didn’t want to ruin the holidays for other people. After enough years of suffering through it, he now simply didn’t think that complaining was worthwhile. He’d have a bigger headache from approaching his neighbors than by gritting his teeth for the day.

He managed to keep quiet for his neighbors; he wished that they would pay him the same courtesy.

He wasn’t surprised when they didn’t, but, still, a bit of consideration would go a long way.

The microwave beeped, alerting him to the fact that his tray was finished. He took it out, pulled back the film, and was disappointed to find corn and peas in his cranberry sauce. He pulled them out with his fingers, hissing softly from the steaming heat.

As soon as the vegetables and cranberry sauce had been separated, he stuck those same fingers in his mouth, trying to ease the pain. After pulling them out, he gave a cursory glance; they might bubble and peel later.

Another great Thanksgiving.

Instead of sitting in front of the TV set, he settled at the table proper.

The ritual, the formality, the pretense – those, more than eating a frozen dinner, made this far more pathetic than his non-holiday nights.

Around the rest of the table stood framed photographs. His parents. His sister. Josh.

He hadn’t seen any of them in years, hadn’t spoken to any of them in longer than that. They’d long since moved on. His parents might have passed on; they were old enough. Or perhaps they hadn’t and still spent the holidays with his sister.

What did it matter? They weren’t here with him, and he was surer than most in his knowledge that they hadn’t spared a thought for him in far too long.

With that thought on his mind, he bowed his head, closed his eyes, and clasped his hands in front of him. Then he began his prayer.

“Give us this day our daily bread;
And forgive us our shortcomings
As we forgive those who have failed in their duty towards us;
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from evil.”

He only used the truncated version; he no longer believed in the Lord, which made the whole thing a waste of time, and, besides, the full prayer was exhausting. Still the truncated prayer, like the photographs, like having turkey only twice each year, like tolerating the noise from his neighbors, was part of the ritual of the holiday.

He picked up his plastic fork. That, too, was part of the ritual. He got lazy on the holidays, and he allowed himself the luxury, such as it was, of disposable cutlery, so that he didn’t have to do dishes. He thought the environment could cope with that, since he only did it twice a year. If he didn’t count the TV dinner trays themselves as waste.

At least he recycled the cardboard boxes.

He had only just taken a bite of the turkey (which tasted like turkey but with the consistency of Styrofoam) when there was a crash from the unit above him, followed by an adult screaming at a child for running in the kitchen. The sudden interruption caused him to bite down on his tongue and to jerk back from the pain.

He brought his napkin to his mouth, and it came away with a couple of trickles of blood. He’d broken through the mucosa.

Now his mouth hurt.

A sip of water to clean out his mouth, in hopes that might ease the pain a bit. It didn’t.

He took another bite of turkey, this time with stuffing, and whatever minimal spices used in the preparation made his tongue hurt more, causing him to grimace.

He couldn’t eat.

It was Thanksgiving, and he couldn’t even manage to eat his TV dinner.

That was a new low.

Although not worse than the year he spent Christmas feverish on the bathroom tiles. That had been a bad year.

He couldn’t remember what year that had been, not exactly. Time didn’t matter much, since every day was the same. Except for the holidays with their superficial differences and the ritual. Even those blended together.

Should he wrap the tray? Could he even reheat a TV dinner? Maybe he could eat it cold tomorrow; how bad could it be?

He didn’t wrap the tray.

With no meal, he had nothing else to do with himself.

Was it too early to go to bed?

He couldn’t answer that.

He didn’t own a proper clock. Only his watch, which he didn’t wear at home and which had broken a couple of days ago. It needed a new battery, or maybe it had just worn down. He didn’t know, and perhaps it didn’t make a difference. His watch didn’t work. The only other clock was on the microwave. The microwave in the kitchen.

Ten or twelve feet away from the table.

He didn’t get up. He stared at the empty wall and said nothing. The photos said nothing, not that they could. The only sounds came from the units around him. Happy families. Family drama. It all sounded the same to him, too loud.

Eventually he stood up, but he left the tray out and the photos on the table. He could deal with all of that tomorrow.

All of the boarding house units were small; it kept rent down. To conserve space, his sofa turned into a trundle bed. The mattress was about as old as him, thin and saggy. He didn’t have the energy to pull it out. The mattress wasn’t much more comfortable than the sofa anyway.

The sofa creaked when he sat down, loud against the silence of his unit but not louder than the noise from his neighbors. He reached for a bottle on the end table, unscrewed the top, and poured the entire contents into his hand.

There were only three.

Not enough.

After staring at them for a long moment, as though that would change the number, he put two back in the bottle and kept the third out. He swallowed it dry, his throat long-used to the action. Then he turned off the lamp and lay down along the length of the sofa; his legs dangled over the armrest.

He didn’t bother with the blanket.

[Deleted]

Heart

[Trigger Warning – panic attack/health scare]
[This story is inspired by real life events]

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Count in four. Hold it. Exhale. Repeat.

Ignore the pounding heart, the hard pulse, the tightness in the chest, the lightheadedness…

It’s not a heart attack.

Zeke rested his hands against the bathroom counter of the unfamiliar bathroom, head bent forward, as he repeated the thoughts over and over through his head. This wasn’t the first time he’d experienced this rush of panic and fear in his life by a long shot, but no matter how many times it happened, it never made it any easier. It was nigh on impossible to convince oneself that you aren’t dying when all signals in your body seem to be telling you that you are.

He raised an arm and rubbed his hand down his face, his next breath coming out shaky. His shoulders shuddered. This wasn’t working. The ends of his fingers began to tingle, and the tightness in his chest felt like a vice slowly squeezing his ribcage. In response, his breaths began to come quicker and shorter. At this rate, he was going to start hyperventilating, and the last time that had happened he’d nearly passed out….

The worst part of it all was that this was supposed to be a good time. Danny and Zeke had decided to stay in Pilot Ridge for the Thanksgiving holiday, mostly for monetary reasons, so they’d planned to go to a community potluck at the community college with a couple people that Zeke knew from his classes. He’d felt fine until he’d started getting dressed and ready to go, and that was when he felt his pulse quicken and his palms began to sweat. He’d tried to brush it off as general anxiety at first – that sort of thing always happened when he was preparing to go out and be social – but the longer it went on, the more he realized it was something more serious.

Social situations didn’t always bring on a panic attack, but they were enough to trigger them sometimes when Zeke began over-thinking too much and didn’t allow himself time to calm down. They had been running a little late for the event anyway, so he’d hopped into the car and let Danny drive them to their destination even while his heart still raced and his clammy hands clasped desperately to the fabric of his pants. He didn’t speak on the ride over; he didn’t want to make Danny worry, and tried to tell himself it would pass by the time that they got there as long as he just tried to control his breathing and think relaxing thoughts.

But as soon as he walked into the banquet hall and was met with the rush of sounds and people talking, Zeke knew there was no way he was going to be able to just sit down and pretend everything was alright. He quickly told Danny he had to use the bathroom and hurriedly rushed to the nearest one, relieved at least that it was unoccupied for the time being. And so there he was, trying and overall failing to calm his own panic, especially once the physical symptoms started becoming more worrying and painful.

The door to the restroom squeaked open, and Zeke jumped, hurriedly trying to stand up straight and wipe the stray, nervous tears from his face in an attempt to look normal to whoever was coming in. He nearly jumped again when he felt an arm wrap around his waist and a hand find his to lace their fingers together. “You’re just fine,” Danny’s voice spoke from behind him. “Take a deep breath, Zeke. You’re alright.”

Almost immediately, Zeke felt better. Not a lot, and he was still panicked, but just the fact that Danny was there and speaking the words he’d already been trying to tell himself in his head made an incredible difference. He quickly turned and buried his face into the shorter man’s shoulder, letting his shoulders continue to shake in small, anxious sobs before he managed to get his breathing back under control. His chest still felt tight, but gradually it began to ebb until he actually felt able to get a full lungful of air once again. His pulse was still fast, and his heart still pounded, but at least those were bearable. Not fun by any means, and worrying enough, but bearable.

“It f-felt like a heart attack again, Danny,” he whispered hoarsely into his best friend’s shirt. “I’m so scared. What if it comes back?” That was always the worst – the anxiety of having another attack on its own was enough to trigger another one to occur.

Danny’s hand rubbed up and down Zeke’s lower back. “If it comes back, you’ll get through it again. Just like you did with this one.” He held the back of his friend’s head to his shoulder. “Would it be better if we left?” he murmured. “We don’t have to do this if it’s that hard for you. We can go home and I can cook something up for just the two of us.”

Zeke took another deep breath and considered it. “I… I don’t think I should stay here,” he finally agreed, quietly. “I’m sorry, Danny…”

“Don’t apologize,” the older man quickly spoke. “It’s not your fault. We’ll go home and you can lay down and listen to one of your relaxation CDs, alright?” Danny stroked Zeke’s hair comfortingly until the taller man eventually stood up and nodded slowly.

“I’d like that,” he murmured.

“Alright. Let’s go, then.” Danny offered a gentle smile up at his best friend and took his hand as he led him back out to the car. Zeke still felt anxious and not at all relaxed, but his roommate had managed to pull him out of the most difficult stages of his anxiety attack and convince Zeke of what he hadn’t been able to tell himself with his body flooded with adrenaline. And that was the most challenging part. He was incredibly fortunate to have a best friend that knew him well enough and cared about him enough to know what he had to do in order to make the anxiety bearable.

And besides… Zeke would choose Danny’s cooking over any other on any day.

[Deleted]

Undertale

“That’s so sad….” he murmured dully, staring just as dully at the screen of his computer. It was his second run-through. Gene didn’t expect to play it a 3rd time just to get a different ending.

He leaned back into the couch and closed his eyes, turning his face upward to catch the warm draft from the heating vent. He’d taken some medicine earlier which had brought down the fever, but his sinuses were still stuffed up something awful. He wasn’t dying at least, hence why he shooed Aggie away from the main house.

He was alone.

He told his relatives to save themselves a trip since he was sick. He didn’t expect his father to be home in the next week or so. His mother had ran out of the house sometime around noon. Something about being on-call.

So…Gene was spending his Thanksgiving alone and with a stupid head-cold.

What else was new?

Gene’s stomach growled, having not been filled since this morning. There was a collection of items in the fridge from Boston Market that he could warm up, but he didn’t want to do the work. That and half of it was inedible anyway.

A knock came at the door and Gene knit an eyebrow in instant irritation. Why did people knock? Didn’t they see the doorbell? That’s what it was there for. Why would anyone want to put their knuckles through endless abuse just to get the attention of someone who may or may not be home, or may or may not be able to hear the racket in the first place? That, and it made a horrible sound. Gene winced as the knock came again, imagining the knuckles of the nameless person going raw from it’s constant scraping against the wood.

Gene had half a mind to simply let them stand out there in the cold ice and snow, but grunted his aching joints out and off of the couch after hearing a shout from a voice that made his stomach churn in sudden nausea. What was he doing here? Not surprisingly, he wore his usual irritated and barely tolerant expression when he opened the door for the stray standing out on his front stoop. He pulled the knit blanket hanging off his shoulders closed over his front as the cold air drifted inside.

“Hey, twiggy. Miss me?” the brute started with, speaking in a pitched voice that endlessly grated on Gene’s nerves. “I brought you somethin’ t’feast on. Let me guess, you're so touched, you're speechless.” Kodi grinned at the youngling, looking like a predator who’d just spotted his prey for the evening.

“Why are you here?” Gene asked bluntly, his aura colors fading from sight now that there was somebody to hide it from. What a pain in his already sore neck.

Kodi tilted up his chin in that stupidly, smug way. “I texted you, brat.”

“I didn’t get it.”

“Not my fault you’re too busy checking out fake animated boobs.”

Gene growled, turning up his lip in an irritated sneer. “That’s not what I was—“ Gene halted his protest, having had the premonition that this piece of street trash would just make the ‘joke’ more vulgar. He dropped his shoulders and sighed, the end part of it evoking a short series of coughs. “Whatever. Just get inside already. It’s cold.” Gene turned to return to his flopping space on the couch. His headache was getting worse.

Kodi did as he was told with a look of some surprise on his face, his eyes following the skinny kid as he made his way back to the couch. “Shit…are you sick?” he asked, closing the door behind him and starting to remove his outer-wear.

“Use your brain,” Gene growled. “What’s it look like?”

“Fuck, I was just askin’,” Kodi scoffed with a roll of his eyes. Really, this kid was so painfully stubborn. Rather than following the brat, the dentokinetic crossed the opposite way to the dining table where he set down a tray of egg-tarts his mom had made earlier for their own holiday meal. “Well, it’s a good thing you got me around to take care of ya. I’ll make you some soup and baby you ’til you got a pudgy tummy, ‘cause no doubt you ain’t had anythin’ but rabbit food all freakin’ day.” Kodi helped himself into the kitchen, opening cabinets and drawers as he tried to find out where everything was kept. Shiiit, this stuff was fancy! He felt like a real pampered chef using all this stuff of the same brand-name. “It’s no wonder you get sick, considerin’ your super-healthy diet of nutella and cookie butter.”

Gene turned in his seat, wrapping his arms up over the side-end of the couch and burying his chin in the crumple of his blanket. He watched what little of the older boy he could see from the living area, his form passing left and right across the window of the breakfast bar and circling the center island of the kitchen. Really….why was he here again? Why was he trying so hard? It made Gene feel….weird. “Hey….” he muttered, just barely loud enough for Kodi to hear him. “……there’s turkey and stuff in the fridge. If you wanna use that.” If Kodi didn’t take it, it would probably just sit there until it spoiled anyway.

Kodi stopped his rummaging and glanced over to the rich brat, his eyebrow rising from the helpful suggestion. Not that he hadn’t gotten used to Gene twisted version of ‘generosity’ yet, but… “Right,” he said, slightly unsettled. There wasn’t anybody else here. Again. He stalked to the fridge and started pulling out the pre-packaged Thanksgiving meal that probably hadn’t been touched all day. “Right,” he said again, scratching his head as he recomposed himself. “You just rest there, and I’ll make you up something so good, even you’re mouth’ll be waterin’.”

With that confidence behind him, It took no time at all for the house to start smelling like someone actually lived there and true to his claim, even Gene was getting a very homey feeling from the smell of food in the air. Or maybe more nostalgic? It reminded him of the days when his mother would actually cook, before the days when her work became her life. And his father would actually come home more than twice a year.

Gene pulled himself from the couch again and walked to the dining table, the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders and dragging on the carpet behind him. “What’s this…?” he asked, poking at the tray of mystery objects Kodi had brought.

“Those? My mom made egg-tarts,” Kodi replied, poking his head out from the kitchen.

“Your mom made these?” Gene asked, his eye twitching at the revelation of what they were. Eggs…eww. Gene sneered in disgust. “Well, I guess I can see where you inherited your cooking skills.” That was supposed to be an insult.

Kodi scowled and stepped out from the kitchen to poke a very forceful finger into the boney chest of Princess Sneers-a-lot. “Hey! That’s my mom you’re talkin’ about there!” he protested with a narrow-eyed glare. He jabbed his finger again at the younger, annoyingly picky boy. “And guess what, twiggy, you’re goin’ t’eat it, and you’re goin’ to like it!”

Gene stared at the older boy with his lips slightly parted, contemplating this fierce reaction for a moment before resolving on his own response. “Fine,” he resigned with a small frown. “I’ll eat it. But you have to read me a story.”

To this proposal, Kodi’s eyebrows pressed forward in slight confusion and interest. “What? Like a storybook?” He grunted in exasperation. Of course he’d ask for something like that. Just like a little kid.

“Something like that,” Gene replied, walking back to the living room to grab his computer and bring it back to the dining table. “I have a new game,” he explained. “It doesn’t have any voice acting. And since I’m so illiterate, I don’t have a clue of what’s going on.”

Bullshit, Kodi thought. “Whatever, it’s just reading, right? Fine. Once I’m done here, we’ll sit down, and I’ll read you your dumb little game.”

“Make sure you do the voices too,” Gene directed, setting up his laptop at the table and moving two of the chairs so they both could see the screen. Kodi narrowed his eyes at the suggestion. “Fine, whatever you say, Your Majesty~” It wasn’t like they had anything else better to do. Even Kodi wasn’t depraved enough to nail this kid’s ass while he was sick.

Gene smiled something so small it would be hard to notice, especially with Kodi’s attention currently on food preparation. When the older boy came out with two piping hot bowls in hand, it was quickly replaced by Gene’s usual bored expression as he took the warm food and set it in an empty space next to the computer. He sat down and pulled up the intro screen for the third time since he’d gotten the game. “This game looks like it sucks already,” Kodi griped, taking the seat next to Gene and spooning a few mouthfuls of the soup he’d just made into his mouth. He leaned in a little closer and panned his eyes over the words which appeared across the text boxes, reading them in a stilted voice.

Gene poked him. “The voices…” he reminded him. Kodi’s head sunk forward as he leered incredulously to the brat beside him. “Agg! Fine, I’ll do the fucking voices…” he grumbled. Kodi cleared his throat and started reading again the words spoken by a stupid ugly talking sunflower.

“‘Howdy!’” he read bright and sarcastic. “‘I’m Flowey!! Flowey the Flower!!’ Seriously? They paid someone to write this shit? Ugh...” Gene just smiled and continued to play.

-fin-