Higschool!AU Chapter Two (Part 1)
Chapter Two
Lunch was always one of the few highlights of Davey's day. Joey had tried once, as a freshman, to eat the school food like all of his other friends. After one day he'd come back with so many horror stories about watery macaroni and cheese and wilted, rubbery lettuce that neither of them had ever dreamed of not eating his mother’s food ever again. Besides, his mom was a chef, with a framed fancy degree and everything. And she took that seriously - she always made something special: elaborate egg salad sandwiches, turkey on rye with spicy mustard. And of course there was always something sweet afterwards, like a slice of carrot cake or an iced brownie. He was even caught one day in the library eating caramel dipped ladyfingers, and that was the end of trying to sneak lunch in the library.
After that, Davey cycled his eating locations regularly through the back halls, always alone. He didn’t mind that much, it gave him a chance to work a little on his music or relax. The cafeteria was where people like Joey and his friends ate; loudly tossing food and joking about tits. It was a miracle the school was still standing. Despite all of his moving, a week after Davey had given in to car rides Freddy tripped over him eating lunch, quite literally.
"We have got to stop meeting like this," he said, rather happily, sprawled on the floor.
"You and me, or you and the floor?" Davey asked, munching on his pasta.
Freddy turned his face to Davey's and grinned widely as if Davey had said something hugely witty. The pasta Davey began to roll around nervously in his stomach. "I was wondering where you ate," Freddy said, sitting up. "Never see you in the cafeteria." He eyed the brown bag next to Davey. "I forgot you bring your lunches, like Joey. Guess I'd do the same if I had a mother who could cook like yours. The food here is vile."
"You have a grandmother," Davey pointed out. "Couldn’t she?"
"Told me to fend for myself once I hit high school," Freddy said mournfully. "Apparently she loves sleeping in to a reasonable hour more than she loves me."
"I don’t think that’s a real contest, you know," Davey said. "I wouldn’t take it personally." Freddy theatrically fell back down on the floor, clutching his heart.
"You wound me, " he sighed, his voice warbling tragically. "After all we’ve been through, you can’t even say something kind to me as I go and face a certain death."
"You mean eating the cafeteria food?" Davey asked. "Because you’re going in the wrong direction. It’s that way." Helpfully, he hiked his thumb to his left.
"No," Freddy said patiently, "I’m breaking out. Getting the people what they want. "
"You could just bring a lunch," Davey said placidly. "Then you wouldn’t risk inevitable death."
Freddy gasped. "First of all, Freddy Kennedy fears no danger. Secondly, " he said, getting to his feet, ready to make a run for the door. "I can't cook to save my life. Can I bring you anything back?"
Davey shook his head around a mouthful of sauce and vegetables. "No, thanks."
"All right,” Freddy said, sounding disappointed. “Bye!" Davey shook his head and watched Freddy sprint down the hall, ducking around a monitor, before going back to giving his pasta the lavish attention it deserved.
- - -
From then on, when could manage to sneak away from his friends (who, Freddy would admit, were equally as loud and obnoxious as Joey’s), Freddy would find Davey in whatever back hall he’d snuck away to. After a while it became routine. One day, when Davey pulled out his sandwich in the hall near the science wing, Freddy appeared. He didn't even say a word, just moved his backpack to the side while Freddy plopped down beside him and fished in his knapsack for his lunch, not even commenting when Freddy tentatively used one knee as a head rest beyond, "You know, you’ll choke and die that way."
It was progress, Freddy thought.
- - -
"First of all," Davey said patiently, as if talking to a very young child or dog, "while too much peanut butter is bad, the same can be said for jelly. You can't just dump out half the jelly in the jar. You've got to spread it, you know," he made a spreading motion, "with a knife. But if you're planning on putting on that much jelly in, you really should make more than one sandwich. And you can't just shove it in a Ziploc bag and toss it in with your books, you need something to protect it. Otherwise when you put your books in, you get that."
Freddy shook his bag of jelly, which mournfully wiggled back. "I don't even know how to eat this," he said, eying his lunch as if it had sprouted tentacles. "Have you got a spoon on you or something?"
Davey sighed and broke off half of his sandwich, holding it out to Freddy, who gratefully snatched it out of Davey's hand and sprawled on the floor beside him, eating happily.
"This is good. Especially the leafy stuff, what's it-" he said around a mouthful.
"Arugula."
Freddy's brow furrowed. "I've never heard of that. Are you sure it's real?"
"Well," Davey said logically, "you're eating it, so you tell me."
"This," Freddy said, taking another bite, "is the gayest sandwich I've ever eaten."
"A sandwich can’t be gay" Davey said, "and anyways, you are gay."
"No I'm not,” Freddy said, "I'm bi. Had a girlfriend last year and everything."
"Congratulations," Davey said. "Would you like a medal?"
"It's the way to go, you know," Freddy said sagely. "See, you're just discriminating against girls because they don’t have dicks. I'm open-minded."
"That sounds like a fancy way of saying slutty," Davey said, looking down at Freddy with a little smile. It was hard to believe, despite all the names Joey called him, that Freddy had really gone and blown the entire JV soccer team. He talked a big game, but if Joey hadn't sworn on everything he held dear that it was true, Davey would have scoffed at is as a nasty rumor. As far as he could tell, Freddy hadn't hooked up with anyone so long as Davey had known him. And while Davey would like to think it was his good influence, it probably had more to do with Freddy's ongoing and ridiculous crush on Nathan.
"Your mom's fancy and slutty," Freddy said thickly around a mouthful, "but she makes a fucking great sandwich."
"I'll pass along the message," Davey said. "I'm sure she'll write it up on the testimonials board."
"Another life ambition realized," Freddy said happily, burping and lifting his head to place it on its customary perch on Davey's knee. Awkwardly, Davey pat Freddy’s forehead twice, as if very quickly feeling for his temperature.
"Hey, Davey?" Freddy asked, shifting into a more comfortable position, "Can I ask you a question?"
"Um, okay?"
"Let's say I asked you out," Freddy said. "I mean, I'm not asking you out, but let's say, like, I was."
Davey’s stomach squirmed unhappily. "Is there a reason we're saying this?" He asked, his voice sounding a little strained.
"Because you’re the only person I'd know who would say no," Freddy said easily. Davey blinked wordlessly at him, unsure of exactly which scathing remark about rampant egotism he should even begin with.
"You mean," he managed finally, "besides Nathan."
"Look," Freddy said, actually sounding a little angry. "I don't care about Nathan, I don't want Nathan."
"Okay, okay, okay," Davey said, lifting his hands in a quelling gesture. "I get it. I don't believe you, but I get it." Freddy shot him a dirty look. "Oh, come on," Davey said, "you're like his personal buttmonkey in band. He snaps his fingers and you jump on command."
"I do not," Freddy said sulkily. Davey just raised his eyebrows.
"Are you still hypothetically asking me out?" He asked. "Or have I hypothetically discouraged you?"
"You're very discouraging."
"Good," Davey said, trying to ignore the twinge of regret he felt. "Glad to hear it"
- - -
When Davey climbed into Freddy's car that afternoon, Freddy was staring at his phone with a confused expression. After a moment, he flipped it shut and tossed in the back, staring at the driving wheel as if it held answers his phone did not.
"I think Grandpa just called me a slut."
"Did he?" Davey asked dryly.
"He didn't mean to." Freddy huffed as he sped away from the school parking lot. "He's been trying to get me to stop working at the record store for ages and help out around the carpentry business. But honestly, can you see me doing that? Cutting planks of wood on band saws all damn day?"
Davey shook his head. "Not a good idea. Saws? That's a pretty big step above sandwich mastery."
"Anyway," Freddy said, tactfully ignoring Davey. "He was joking that it'd be better for me there. Since it's usually only me and Daniel working shifts at the record place. He said that there were all sorts of people there my age, and that even I couldn't get through all the employees for at least a year, since I'm not particular." He snorted, braking sharply at an intersection. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Is he trying to make me out to be some kind of slut or something?"
The car was unbearably silent. "You're…not?" Davey deadpanned.
"…Okay, fine. But it isn't that," Freddy said decidedly, changing lanes quickly. "It's the whole bisexual thing. He doesn't understand it. He never has." Freddy sighed and stretched his free arm over the back of Davey's seat. "I think he'd be more understanding if I were just gay or straight. Because then he could put me in his own little box and you know, know whether to introduce me to Rebecca-the-assistant or her brother Mark. But I'm not, and just because I haven't really got much of a type, he assumes that just I'll go for absolutely anyone - like I'm some kind of maniac." Davey snorted.
"Hey," he said defensively, before turning to stare back at the road. "I do have standards, you know." He waved a hand vaguely. "Hair. Tits. I'm just not, I dunno, crazy about sticking to them. What about you?" He wheedled. "Have you got, you know, a type or something?"
"Uh, I don't know?" Davey asked. "Guys, I guess. Um." He looked upwards, as if an answer would come down from on high. "They're just not usually blonde, but I'm not really picky. I guess I like a nice, big smile. Sort of muscular. Freckles are cute. I mean, I just find someone attractive or I don't."
"Thank you," Freddy said dryly, stopping at the stop sign for a change, which Davey shot him a grateful look for. "That was a really illuminating response."
"I'm open," Davey said tartly. "Weren't you just all 'oh I'm so open-minded because I'm bisexual?' You aren't really if you're all constrained by having a certain type with hair and tits. How does that work with guys, anyways, if they don't have tits?"
"I don't think it's too much to ask for," Freddy said, aghast. "And it's not hair and tits, it's hair or tits. I like guys with brown hair," he tried very hard not to look pointedly at Davey. "And I like tits. It's not even a hard bar to pass, everyone I like tends to have one or the other." Freddy paused for a long moment. "Okay, I don't really have standards. But what about you? You're not open at all. At least not to me. Look, I even have freckles." He pointed them out on the bridge of his nose, leaning into Davey's seat to show him. The car swerved drunkenly on the road.
"Eyes on the road," Davey said, grabbing the edge of his seat. "If you kill me, I'll never find you attractive."
Freddy tried very hard to quench the tiny flame of hope that stubbornly started growing in the pit of his stomach. "So," he said, trying to sound casual, "you're saying it's a possibility."
"Sure," Davey said, "anything's possible."
"It's the freckles, isn't it?" Freddy asked, delighted.
"You know, Joey has freckles too," Davey said, "and funnily enough, I manage to resist him just fine."
"What is it with you and taking the fun out of everything?" Freddy complained, drumming his fingers against the wheel.
"Oh, that's me," Davey muttered. "David O'Brian, fun-taker. Why do you care if I like your freckles, anyways? Does this have anything to do with you hypothetically asking me out?"
"No," Freddy grumbled unconvincingly and colored a little. "I wasn't asking you out or anything. At lunch, I just said 'what if I asked you out' and you interpreted that as me hypothetically doing it, when really, I was just trying to segue into something else about my day."
"Right," Davey replied doubtfully. "It was a segue."
"Yeah," Freddy repeated. "Totally a segue. I just think you're weird for hypothetically discouraging me. I have loads of freckles, if that's what you're into. My face is populated with them. I could form constellations," he added hopefully. "I think if you're my type you should at least be nice enough to let me be yours."
"It is not - what?" Davey asked, thrown. "Wait, I'm your type?"
"I just said that," Freddy said grumpily, beeping loudly at the car in the next lane just because he can.
"Thank you?" Davey asked. "I mean, is that a compliment?"
"When is it not a compliment?" Freddy asked, pulling into the parking space in front of the bakery. Davey seemed to be lost in thought, and not at least outwardly petrified, which Freddy decided to count in his favor, since Davey wasn't giving him a whole lot of positive things to go on, currently.
"Well, Joey's type is, like, breathing," Davey said. "So if I was a girl and he was all 'hey, baby,'"
"Does he really say 'baby'?" Freddy asked, suddenly fascinated. "How about 'sugar lips'?"
"Nah," Davey said, disappointed, "he just gets all earnest and gross, and girls go nuts. But my point is, if I was a girl and he told me I was his type, it wouldn't mean anything."
"I like to think I am a little classier than your brother," Freddy said sardonically. "It's just a thing."
"Huh," Davey said, leaning back in his seat. "That's sort of cool. I don't think I've been anyone's type before." Freddy made a noncommittal noise, still edgy. "Oh, fine," Davey said. He didn't blush, but his ears started turning red. "You're good-looking. Congratulations, I'm sure you've, like, never heard that before."
"Yes," Freddy said, trying not to cheer out loud, "but when you say it, it just means so much to me, since you're, like, a eunuch. I feel real special and pretty."
"Oh my god," Davey muttered. He leaned back and grabbed his bag, but Freddy could see he was fighting back a grin. "I take it back. You're heinous. I can't stand to look at you."
"You think I'm beautiful," Freddy beamed. "I'm totally your type. You dream about me all the time."
"Shut up."
"You - wait, you dream about me?" Freddy asked, leaning in. "Do you really?"
"Okay, I dreamed about Mrs. Meyer last night too," Davey said. "She rang my doorbell and told me she'd fail me unless I made her the best lasagna in the entire world. And then you came and tried to help me, only you burnt it and I had to start all over again."
"But was she naked when she helped you?" Freddy asked.
"You weren't either," Davey said.
"Yeah, well, give it time," Freddy said confidently. "I always get naked."
"I know," Davey said smugly, "your grandma told me."
"Get out of my car," Freddy said, laughing as he shoved Davey's shoulder.
"See you tomorrow, gorgeous,” Davey said, closing the door on Freddy's gaping face.
- - -
Weekend mornings at the bakery were always poorly organized chaos, and they had been since Mary had expanded last year to include a seating area, making the entire thing much more like a cafe, open and family-friendly. Saturday mornings meant that there were little kids running around with crayons and the butcher paper Mary gave out, sticking their sticky fingers and noses on the display cases while their parents either ran after them or gave up and collapsed on an arm chair, sipping at their coffee with the glassy eyes and slumped shoulders of the thoroughly defeated. And ever since he'd grown out of cartoons, Davey had been recruited as free help because he, unlike Joey, actually worked. And to be honest, he enjoyed it. He hadn't graduated to anything beyond keeping the coffee fresh and running things from the kitchen to the front and back again, "because we don't want to look like we condone child labor, sweetie", was his mother's reasoning. Joey scoffed and called what Davey was doing 'bitchwork', but Davey suspected that was because he was jealous that Davey got paid with an allowance, and Joey had to ask their mom every time he spent a penny. As far as Davey was concerned, the job was perfect. He'd either get to stay in the warm kitchen eating batter and lopsided cupcakes while listening his mom gossip with her sous-chef (sous-baker? Davey was never sure how that worked) Fabrizio, and Fabrizio was pretty cool. He had finished culinary school in Italy and then come to American to "find himself". Finding oneself, Davey gathered, involved a lot of eating in restaurants and going after tall, blonde women who could have killed Fabrizio if he so much as sneezed wrong. And he seemed to sneeze wrong a lot.
"And then she goes and throws the wine in my face," Fabrizio was saying as he kneaded out the whole wheat dough. "I don't know what I was saying, but I thought she might like the Gwen Stefani!"
"Why do you like Gwen Stefani?" Davey asked, using his finger to get every scrap of buttercream frosting out of the bowl his mom had handed him to wash at some point.
"She is a hot piece of ass," Fabrizio says. "I would, ah, tap that."
"Oh, Fabs," Davey's mom sighed, patting his cheek with one flour-caked hand, "if you said that to her, no wonder she threw her wine at you."
"But I was trying to say that she was just as beautiful!" Fabrizio moaned. "You American women, you're very conscious about your bodies no? I was trying to make her at ease."
Whatever Davey's mom's response was cut off by a loud "Davey! We need more cinnamon buns, and we need your hot buns too!"
"Yes, mistress," Davey said, examining the bowl for any last traces of frosting before grabbing the tray of cinnamon buns his mother had just pulled from the oven and bringing them up front, where he could hear Feist booming again.
"I am so tired of this CD," Davey said ruefully, handing off the tray and going to put more hazelnut roast out to brew.
"Hey, don't blame me," Lydia said. "I tried to put on Iron & Wine until your mom told me that she wanted that nice, upbeat CD with the counting song."
"Stupid iPod commercials," Davey said.
"Ruin fucking everything, dude," Lydia said, grabbing a cup of decaf and slapping a cap on it before handing it to a young, pregnant woman. Lydia was a tiny, slightly dumpy Korean art student and, in Davey's opinion, kind of the coolest person ever. She was all apple-cheeked and dimpled, with cat's-eye glasses and a cute little pixie cut with a big pink streak running through her bangs. She'd been working at the bakery since she started college four years ago, and was sticking with them while she completed her master's. Lydia had taken one look at Davey, who was at the time ten, all knees and elbows, given him a big grin, and said "Well, I bet you like music, want me to make you a CD?" and Davey had been too scared to do anything but nod, shocked that one of his mother's baristas was actually speaking to him. Lydia had kept good on her promise, and every Saturday came with a new CD full of eclectic and wonderful music that she'd shove at Davey and go "Hey, tell me what you think." Davey had tried, once or twice, to return the favor, but she'd only smiled, patted his cheek, and told him he was sweet, but she'd had these songs for years.
"Sunday morning swear jar!" Sarah called from the counter. She was also a master's student, like Lydia, but that was where the similarities ended. Sarah was tall and fabulously Nordic-looking, like she might have been mistaken for a basketball player at one point, if you could get past her dumpy forty-year-old-professor clothes. She had a low, rich voice that would have sounded incongruously manly on anyone else, but somehow made everything she said sound like it had resounding gravitas. She was somber, serious, and would never think of doodling caricatures on napkins or singing along with the music the way Lydia did. And yet, strangely, they seemed to be the best of friends.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Lydia said, fishing a quarter out of her pocket and dropping it in a can she and Sarah had appropriated for every time Lydia said or did something potentially scarring in front of a child.
"Hey," a familiar voice said from the register. "I'd like, uh, a slice of banana bread, and a large hot chocolate. With a lot of whipped cream. As much whipped cream as you can manage."
"Anything else," Sarah asked, punching in his order.
"Yeah," Freddy drawled. "Could I have an employee? How about the cute one who's pouring my hot cocoa and looks like he wants to kill me?"
"He's not for sale," Sarah said. "We're not that kind of bakery."
"Oh, we could be," Lydia said, handing Freddy his banana bread with a wink. "I'm for sale."
"Aren't the car rides enough?" Davey set down the cardboard cup next to Freddy's hand, with a little more force than was necessary. Freddy was leaning on the counter, attempting to look surprised when Davey walked up, cup in hand, looking at him with a false half quizzical, half delighted expression as if to say oh, you work here? As if he hadn't been dropping Davey off in front of the cafe for weeks. Davey, to his credit, was not at all surprised that Freddy decided to drop by. Just annoyed. "I mean, seeing you at school is one thing, but showing up here? This is just getting creepier and creepier. Should I be calling someone right about now?"
"No," Freddy said, holding his hands up defensively. "I just want something to eat. Regina and Grandpa have been down at the carpentry shop since early this morning. I can't cook." he shrugged. "I've got a double shift at the record store later and I don't want to start work with a completely empty stomach. Plus, your mom's banana bread has been on my mind all day. So if you think about it," his voice dropped to a whisper. "This is really about me and her more than anything else. You've got nothing to do with it." Freddy took a large bite, looking at Davey deliberately while he did it before closing his eyes in pure worship.
"Shut up," Davey said mildly. He covered his eyes with his hands. "It is too early to deal with you."
"It is never too early to deal with me." Freddy popped open the cardboard lid on the cocoa. "What? That is not as much whipped cream as you can manage. That is about half as much whipped cream as you much manage."
"Aren't you a little old for that?" Davey asked, grabbing the cup back. "The people who tend to make those sorts of complaints here also ask for crayons with their order."
"Ouch," Freddy said, holding one hand over his heart. "And no, I'm not. Hey, do you have one of those little pressurized guns to shoot it out of? Can I watch you put it on?" He leaned over the counter.
"No," Davey said, "we're so much cooler than that. Mom actually whips the cream."
"Ooh," Freddy said, waggling his eyebrows. "I'm finding myself more and more attracted to your mother."
"Ew," Davey said, reaching into the mini-fridge under the counter and pulling out the pastry bag full of whipped cream and obediently making another swirl. "Happy now?"
"No," Freddy said. "I want more."
"If I put on any more it'll be all whipped cream and no hot chocolate," Davey pointed out. "Also, it'll slop over."
Freddy picked up his cup, took a huge gulp, sighed, and put it back down. "Aright," he said, grinning at Davey. "Plenty of room."
"Fine," Davey said, filling up the remaining space with whipped cream "If you want more after that you'll have to just pay for a cup of whipped cream," he said severely, "This is free as a courtesy, you know."
"I know," Freddy said, putting his finger into the whipped cream and licking a dollop off suggestively while Davey tried very hard (wrong word, he thought, backpedaling, wrong word choice) - while Davey put ina great deal of effort to not have his eyes helplessly glued to Freddy's pink, wet lips or the tiny bit of tongue that poked out to suggestively chase every last drop. "Delicious," he said, looking up at Davey through his eyelashes, voice husky. "My compliments to the chef."
"Okay," Davey said, aware that his voice (and pants) were tight and his ears were probably bright red. "Great. I'll tell her. I-"
"Davey," Lydia said from behind him, sounding very far away, "go flirt somewhere else."
"I'm not the one licking whipped cream off his fingers," Davey said, affronted. "He's stalking me! It's sexual harassment."
"Yeah, yeah," Lydia said, "Because you really care when your stalker looks like that."
"He really does," Freddy said mournfully. "He called me 'gorgeous' and then slammed the door in my face."
"Great, adorable, shoo," Lydia said, taking Davey's apron and pushing him out. "The back's cleared out and there's a table there, go."
"I hate you," Davey hissed. "What did I do to you to make you so mean?"
"He's hot and he wants you," Lydia whispered back, giving him a final shove and smiling in a way that looked harmless and adorable but actually hid true, unadulterated evil. "I swear, this is me being nice. Thank me later and tell me if he's a good kisser."
"I will not -"
"Hey Davey," Freddy called, waving him over to the table, "are you coming or not?"
"I'll make you two mix CDs next week," Lydia offered.
"They'd better be really awesome," Davey grumbled, grabbing a few extra slices of banana bread (because at the rate Freddy was stuffing his mouth, they'd need them) and walking off to the table Freddy was already at like he was walking to his own execution.
"You brought more banana bread," Freddy said, with a wide smile, drinking his cup of whipped cream with hot chocolate.
"Yeah, yeah," Davey muttered, pulling out the chair. "You could've just waited until Monday and swiped some out of the rest of my lunch like you usually do, instead of stalking me."
"Can’t, already promised a food run on Monday, and then I’m staying late for track practice,” Freddy said, wiping his whipped cream mustache with the back of a hand. He looked inordinately pleased when Davey sat down, as if he'd tricked him into a date. "Hey, Joey isn't here, is he? Frosting pastries with a little pink apron or something equally embarrassing?"
"No," Davey said. "He's at home. He sucks at frosting things."
"Oh, well,” Freddy said sadly. “I suppose that would really have been too good to be tue.”
"So you work at a music store, huh?" Davey hastily changed the subject. "I'd hate to see what happens when someone tries to buy a Gwen Stefani CD or something."
"I don't handle those kinds of sales," Freddy said, waving a hand. "I go in the back to shelve something and make Dan take care of it. They might cry or go away if I roll my eyes too hard."
"Figures." Davey took a bite of banana bread. "Not all of us can have such lofty music tastes."
"You should come by," Freddy said, hopefully. "It gets old down there sometimes. I promise I won't mock you. Best behavior, I swear." He held one hand in the air.
"Wait, let me get this straight," Davey said, "You come to my mom's bakery, stalk me, and then when I complain you suggest that to make it up to you I stalk you back?"
"Sure," Freddy said. "If visiting a good buddy counts as stalking."
"We're good buddies?" Davey asked.
"I thought we were," Freddy said, and for the first time since Davey had met him, he looked young and almost vulnerable., and it made something in Davey's chest feel like it had started squeezing tightly.
"No, no we are," Davey said hastily. "We're really good friends, right?"
"Exactly!" Freddy said. "And as good friends I should be allowed to visit you without it being stalking."
"Oh, no," Davey said, narrowing his eyes. "You're still being a creepy stalker." Freddy, instead of replying, took a fingerful of whipped cream and plopped it Davey's nose. "And I take it back," Davey said, grabbing a napkin. "We're no longer friends, you're two years old."
"Aww," Freddy said, "I would have licked that off if you'd asked real nice."
"Anyways," Davey said, ignoring that avenue of conversation and the mental images it would inevitably provide that would be of no use except to torture him when he was lying in bed, frustrated and unable to fall asleep. "I didn't know you ran track."
"Indoor," Freddy said. "No patience for long distance."
"That's a shocker," Davey said moodily.
"What crawled up your butt and died?" Freddy asked, leaning closer when all Davey wanted him to do was lean away.
"Nothing," he said shortly. "I just, I dunno. Not happy about having to walk again, now that I'm spoiled."
"Aw, will you miss my company?" Freddy asked. "You can admit it. It's okay."
"A little," Davey said, and then, "shut up."
"Don't worry," Freddy said, smiling. "Practice is only Mondays and Wednesdays. I can drive you the rest of the week."
"Oh, good," Davey said, relieved, and then made the mistake of looking up at Freddy, who had started to lean in and look all hopeful. "I mean, because it's getting really cold," he said.
"No, right," Freddy said. They sat in awkward silence, taking turns dipping fingers into the soggy whipped cream.
"So - " Davey began uneasily.
"I'd miss you too," Freddy said. "I just, I didn't want you to think you were the only one who'd be doing the missing, okay? I mean, we're friends, so, like, it goes both ways."
"Oh," Davey said, blinking at him. "Well, thanks."
"I meant it about you coming to visit me at work," Freddy said, finishing the last dregs of creamy hot chocolate. "It really fucking sucks there. I started working there to get my car, and it pays good -"
"Pays well," Davey muttered.
"Right, whatever, I make a lot of money, like ten an hour. But it's like I'm selling my soul. I mean, I have to listen to this shit that kids listen to now..."
"Yeah, not like the good old days," Davey said. "Before there were all these newfangled contraptions like the interwebs."
"Are you making fun of my suffering?" Freddy asked, "Because it's very real suffering, you know."
"I'm sure it is," Davey said soothingly, "I was just calling you an old man. The cranky kind that chases kids off his lawn with a garden hose."
"James Blunt," Freddy says desperately, "and, and, the Shakira, and Justin Timberlake has a new album, did you know? Because I know. I know every single word. And I haven't even gotten into rap albums. And I have to alphabetize them all, and then they go in with their stupid pre-pubescent hands and they don't even try to put them back, they just leave them on top of everything else like their personal slave is going to clean up after them, it's not funny," he said, glaring at Davey.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, you're right," Davey said, still laughing. "It's just like you sound like you're eighty years old."
"They're awful," Freddy says. "Their music is awful. It's like, you know how I tease you about your bad music? They make your music look good. You have good music taste compared to them."
"Was that a compliment?" Davey asked. "Why Mr. Kennedy, I do believe you just complimented me."
"I dunno," Freddy said, flushing, knocking his fist against Davey's hand on the table. "I just thought it'd be fun if you were there, you know? Like maybe it'd be easier to deal with them if I knew you were going to come visit me. 'Cause I dunno, I kind of like hearing you talk."
Davey felt himself go hot all over abruptly fidgeting under the weight of Freddy's intermittent gaze, which alternated by being focused on him with almost uncomfortable intensity and then studying the table shyly. "Thanks," Davey said softly, pressing his fist against Freddy's again. This time when Freddy looked up, he looked shy, with a tiny half-smile that was miles away from his usual confident smirk. It wasn't even remotely seductive, but still had Davey helplessly hypnotized and unable to look away. Freddy must have seen something on his face, because he was leaning in closer, but not the way he had in the car, all over-confidence and predatory. And Davey liked that. He liked it a lot. And for the first time, Freddy scared him. Because before, Davey knew he could say no, if Freddy made a move. Yes, he liked Freddy and yes, he was his friend and yes, he was attractive, but they were all neat, separate emotions that could be kept in their respective boxes, and now he could feel them leaking out, mixing together and getting messy and stronger and all wrong. Even leaning halfway across the table in the late morning sunlight, looking so painfully hopeful, Freddy was still Freddy. All the reasons Davey had for making those boxes in the first place and keeping everything shoved away in corners still existed, and they wouldn't stop existing just because Freddy had a moment of being knocked off-kilter.
"I've gotta go," Davey managed finally, clearing away all the trash. "I... I've got a lot of homework to do today. But, but thanks for dropping by. I'll see you Monday?"
"Oh," said Freddy, sounding surprised. "Yeah, no, I'll see you in band."
"Cool," Davey said, fidgeting. "I'll, uh, why don't you tell me your hours, then? On Monday. And I'll visit you sometime, maybe."
"Yeah," Freddy said, looking dazed. "No, that would be great."
"Great," Davey said awkwardly. "Great, uh," he gave Freddy a little wave before fleeing behind the counter, where Lydia was pretending to re-stock the muffin shelf.
"And how was your date?" She asked Davey brightly. "Tell me all about him."
"That wasn't a date," Davey said, annoyed. "That was my friend from band, Freddy, the one who gives me rides."
"Wait, wait, wait," Lydia said, straightening her glasses and putting her hands on her hips. "That is Freddy?"
"Yeah," Davey said, "and thanks for that, he hits on me for fun, that'll just give him more ammo."
"Oh, honey," Lydia said, "I know what flirting for fun is, and that was not it. The guy likes you, Davey-boy, and he's pretty yum."
"Yeah, I have eyes," Davey sighed, "and believe me, he knows he's pretty yum too. But just because he's yum doesn't mean I roll over and let him have his way with me, which, by the way, he only wants because he likes to piss Joey off."
"I think you've got this wrong, sweetie," Lydia said, shaking her head, "This doesn't reek of anything besides honest-to-God pheromones. And believe you me, I've been around long enough to smell the difference."
"Get your nose checked," Davey said irritably, "I've got homework, and I want three mix CDs."
"Was it really that bad?" Lydia asked, putting a hand against his cheek in a motherly way. "I thought you liked him."
"I do," Davey said, sitting down on a nearby stool and slumping over. "I really do, okay? And that's the problem, because even if he does like me, he isn't the relationship type, and I'm not the type for being a fling."
"That does sound like a three-CD and chai problem," Lydia said, ruffling his hair and straightening up beside him.
"Yeah," Davey says, going to go filch something from the kitchen, "and I want it super-extra creamy."
- - -
Sunday dinner at the Kennedy's was a tradition. Regina used to bring her husband's meals out to his studio out back, neatly covered with a paper towel to protect it against the wood shavings. Alex would stop working and they would eat together, standing up against a half-finished table, or he would pull out a mahogany stool or a brightly varnished chair for her. If the week had been particularly busy, they ate on paper plates.
Those days ended when Freddy came to live with them after the accident. Regina took one look at him, with his too wide eyes and decided the boy needed a good dollop of normalcy; which meant a sit-down dinner with a tablecloth and napkins. Even if Freddy had spent all day outside with Nathan and whined as he came in, even though for those first few sad months, Freddy had done nothing but pick at his food quietly, dinnertime was dinnertime.
Nowadays, it hardly took any prodding to get Freddy eat. "Freddy," Regina said agitatedly, carrying the dishes to the table and swatting at him trying to steal a biscuit from her platter "Could you just hold on a minute?"
"Yo, Pops, could you hurry up?" Freddy shouted down the hall, sitting down and fidgeting. "I'm starving."
His grandfather slowed down deliberately, pausing to wipe his glasses with the edge of his plaid work shirt.
"Pops," Freddy whined.
"I'm coming, I'm coming." Alex sighed, finally sat down, setting the newspaper under his arm beside his plate. "Let's eat."
"About time," Freddy said, taking the ladle of cream sauce and pouring it over his fish before putting another heavy dollop on his mashed potatoes so it dripped into his vegetables, turning everything on his plate into a light beige color, just the way he liked it, even though it made everything look, as Regina often said, like cat sick.
"How was work, dear?" Regina asked, taking the tureen from him and ladling a little gravy on her potatoes.
Freddy closed his eyes in pain. "It sucked. Dan had a paper to write so he skipped out, and the guy for the next shift never showed."
Freddy's grandfather sighed. "That's too bad. Are you free next week? I thought we might go see a show or something. Wynton Marsalis is in town."
"Who's that?" Regina asked.
Freddy looked at her as if she had dismembered a baby bird in front of him, then turned, delighted to his grandfather. "Sure thing, Pops. There's no way in hell I'm working next week. Dan owes me."
"That's good." Alex stabbed at a piece of carrot. "Things are bound to slow down at the shop. We've just got three new assistants in to help, so we won't have to come into the store at five, waiting around for shipments." He raised his glass at Regina. "Although your grandmother has always been the best kind of help a man could have. At any hour. Thanks for coming with, darling."
They clinked glasses. Freddy made gagging noises on his food while they exchanged a chaste kiss
Regina patted him on the back, as if she believed he was really choking. "What did you do for breakfast? I bought you some bagels and cream cheese, but they're untouched and my kitchen's still in one piece."
"I know," Freddy filled his glass with lemonade. "I just thought I'd go out for breakfast. I went to the Little Lamb. That bakery-type place with those lemon bars?"
"Oh?" Regina's fork paused in mid-air. "Was that nice boy over there? The one I saw when you picked me up?"
Freddy scowled at her. "I'm assuming you mean the boy you decided to introduce to the World's Cutest and Most Naked baby," he reached for the mashed potatoes. "Yeah. Why do you think I was there?"
His grandparents exchanged quick glances over the top of the table.
"Freddy," his grandmother said gently, putting her cool, dry hand over his, "I know it must be strange for you, having feelings for someone when you haven't had feelings for anyone since, well, Elizabeth..." Freddy rolled his eyes at the word 'feelings'. "But if you have them now, you know you can tell your grandfather and I about them."
"I don't have feelings," Freddy spluttered. "I'm a guy."
"Excuse me?" Alex said, raising an eyebrow.
"A guy who's not Pops."
"You know, Freddy," his grandfather said, setting down his silverware and steepling his fingers thoughtfully, "I used to be an awful lot like you. A real run-around with the ladies."
"Oh, God," Freddy muttered darkly into his potatoes, mashing them violently with the back of his fork.
"And then I met your grandmother," Alex said, taking Regina's hand and getting an expression that made Freddy feel sort of nauseous. "And I thought I was quite the man as well, before her. Feelings don't make you less of a man, Freddy, they make you more of one."
"Great," Freddy said tightly. "I'll put 'find feelings' on my to-do list, then."
"Frederick," Regina said severely, "I thought you were going to try not to be a... how was it you put it? A jerk."
"Look, let's just pretend I have feelings for Davey, okay?" Freddy asked. "I mean, I don't, I really don't. He's kind of stupid-looking and has stupid hair."
"I thought he was cute," Regina said.
"I know you have a crush on him, Regina," Freddy said, rolling his eyes, "but I don't. Do you know he composes piano music? How can you have feelings for someone who composes piano music?"
"I think it's romantic," his grandmother said.
"I think it sounds nice," Alex added. "And didn't you call him some sort of genius?"
"Okay, fine, he's a genius," Freddy said, stabbing his fish. "But I'm not in love with him or anything, okay? And even if I was, which I'm not, because that would be ridiculous, it wouldn't even matter, because he wouldn't go out with me."
"Ah, well," Alex shrugged, clapping Freddy with a bracing hand on his grandson's shoulder. "Attraction's a funny thing, Junior. You can't blind 'em all, even if you are too handsome for your own good."
"Hey, he thinks I'm attractive!" Freddy said indignantly, "He called me 'gorgeous', okay? I'm his type. I am so completely his type."
"Which of course doesn't matter," Regina cut in smoothly, "since you don't have feelings for him. More peas and carrots, Freddy?" Without waiting for his answer, she put a large helping on his plate, where they spilled aimlessly into his potatoes, just like he liked. "Here, they're good for you."
Freddy grudgingly lifted a forkful to his mouth, then another. Regina smiled.
Alex looked at him gravely over the tops of his glasses. "We don't mean to intrude, Junior. It's just...” he trailed off.
"We can't help noticing that you've slowed down a bit, dear." Regina filled. She patted his hand again and nodded at Alex over the table.
Freddy looked at her blankly. "Slowed down?"
"I haven't been surprised by any young men in the kitchen looking for something to eat lately these mornings."
"Or seen any brushing their teeth in the bathroom." Alex cut away at his fish, unfolding the newspaper and skimming a headline. "There used to be a different one each week. Like some bizarre infestation."
"I rather liked that one fellow, what was his name?" Regina shook her head at Freddy. "I don't suppose you ever got it. He helped me make waffles, although he did need one hand to hold the sheet up."
Freddy clapped his hands over his ears and cursed whatever had happened in the past to make his grandparents utterly unshakeable. "No."
"Freddy." Alex chided.
"I am not listening to this. This is too weird."
Regina clucked her tongue. "You needn't be embarrassed now. You certainly weren't then."
"Other people have normal grandparents, you know," he bemoaned, grabbing another piece of fish. "Who ask about sports and school and then leave it at that. But not you. You always want to talk about everything."
"Do I ever," Regina replied. "Davey's the sweetest boy, Alex. He works at the Little Lamb. Although I can't imagine where he finds the time, in between the piano and composing."
"Does he like jazz, Freddy?"
Freddy swallowed and shook his head. "Not really. He listens to a lot of different stuff. I haven't really let him touch the radio." He frowned at his grandparents, who were exchanging meaningful looks. "Stop doing that."
"Stop doing what?" Alex smiled.
"That thing. That you're doing, when you look at each other like that and smile. It's gross." He finished eating, wiped his mouth with his napkin and pushed his plate away. "Look, I know you think there's - something going on here, but we're just friends," he colored. "I told you, he's not into me. And I'm not into him. Can I have some pie now?"
"Of course, dear," Regina said, as Alex excused himself, muttering about having to watch his blood sugar. Regina tactfully waited until Alex had gone to watch a TiVo'd episode of The Price Is Right before putting Freddy's plate in front of him, kissing his forehead.
"Thanks, Grandma," Freddy said, leaning into her.
"Sweetie," she said, "I don't mean to pry, but you can come on... strong. Your grandfather and father had the same problem."
"You married him anyways," Freddy said.
"He was quite a looker," Regina said fondly. "And eventually, he started being sweet instead of just trying to seduce me."
"Huh," Freddy said and then, after a little thought, "okay, that's just gross."
"Just, you know, try something new on this one. Notice when he's having a bad day, bring him something nice, that sort of thing."
"That's pretty gay," Freddy said. skeptically.
"That's just my advice," Regina said, putting some pots to soak, "but, then again, since you don't really like him, it's not a problem."
"Right," Freddy said, "no, it isn't."
"But Freddy?" Regina said, "If I were you, I'd start with letting him touch the radio."
- - -
After that Sunday, Davey had gone up to his room, stared at his ceiling, and made a plan. This thing with Freddy had clearly gotten out of hand. Yes, Freddy was attractive and yes, he was a good friend, but those were two separate things. Just because Freddy had started showing up in his dreams, holding the back of his neck and kissing him softly, usually naked, didn't mean anything. So what if Freddy had been looking at him with the same, love-struck expression on his face in real life that he so often wore in Davey's dreams? That didn't mean that dream-Freddy and real Freddy were the same person. No, Davey’s dream boyfriend just looked like Freddy because Freddy was attractive. There was a decided lack of guys to ogle in school. He'd gotten his hopes up in eighth grade when he'd looked around at his choices and realized he should probably stick to fantasizing about celebrities. He'd had this crazy hope that once he got to high school and the pool grew bigger, he'd find somebody who was real and worth an iota of attention, but his hopes had been quickly crushed. Guys didn't get better once they got to high school, they just got taller and older. And there were more of them. All the guys who might be, under normal circumstances, have been considered attractive were usually tainted by some second-hand story from Joey or a first-hand experience Davey had of them.
He certainly had more than enough reasons both second and first-hand to think that Freddy was not worth getting a full-blown crush on, but it was getting hard to remember them when Freddy kept doing things like using his frees to go get Davey's gym clothes that he'd left in his bedroom or bringing him a fresh batch of Regina's chocolate chip cookies "just to prove they were the best".
Sometimes, what Freddy was doing seemed to surprise even Freddy himself. Davey figured that it was just as new to him - there wasn't any such similar ceremony involved in blowing members of the soccer team out of spite. But there was Freddy being oddly nice, and then there was Freddy just being weird, and it was getting increasingly hard to tell difference between the two.
It started on Thursday, when Freddy was giving Davey his usual lift home, and it took Davey an embarrassingly long time to figure out that something was up. Except for Freddy's absentminded complaining, the car was completely silent. Usually Freddy played playlist after playlist of compilations; glaring agitatedly at Davey if he talked over one of his favorite parts. But now there was nothing, not a single sultry voice or saxophone solo leaking out of Freddy's radio. Freddy kept looking at him expectantly, trying to pretend as if it were a daily occurrence.
"I need," Freddy said slowly after a while, "some music. I can't drive like this."
"Yeah," Davey replied. "Why don't you try the radio? I'm sure there's a jazz station on or something. For old people and, you know, you."
Freddy rolled his eyes. "Can you just put something on?"
Davey reached for the dial. "What station?"
"That's not what I meant." Freddy looked slightly embarrassed. "I thought might turn to something."
"What?"
"You know, choose something."
Davey's face twisted in confusion. "I thought I wasn't supposed to do that. Ever. You made that pretty clear a while ago."
"Really?" Freddy frowned. "How did I do that?"
"You told me that you used to pretend it was broken so that no one could try to listen to it."
Freddy shook his head. "I don't remember saying that."
"You said that Regina tried to touch the radio once and you didn't speak to her for a week." Davey crossed his arms. "Which, by the way, wow."
"Jesus. Can't a man change his mind?" He slowed to let a car enter the lane, which happily sped away. "I've got a nice sound system. Don't you want to touch it?"
"No." Davey reached out to touch the knob and then pulled his hand back. "It’s too weird. I keep thinking you’re going to kill me."
"Look," Freddy said. "I just thought that you might want to listen to something else. I see you with headphones all the time at school. And I don't even know if you like jazz all that much." He glanced at Davey. "Although you should. But I'm not, you know, incapable of listening to anything else, so. The radio's not off-limits."
"But why now?" Davey pressed, feeling that something terribly important was not being said, and it probably should be said. He was in favor of important things that made Freddy become weird and allow him to touch his car radio being aired, because if kept in they could probably lead to death, destruction, and the end of the civilized world as he knew it.
"It's a birthday present," Freddy said. "Happy birthday. Put on some music."
"But my birthday was two months ago," Davey said, blinking.
"Well, then, it's a rite of passage, you know, after I've driven you around for so many hours."
"Still don't buy it," Davey said. "Regina's been driving with you longer."
"Maybe," Freddy ground out, "I'm interested in what you like."
"If you were, you could have asked," Davey said. "And I like everything, but whenever I tell you something that’s not jazz, like The Beatles, you make fun of me. So that doesn't seem like the reason either. Unless you're interested in making fun of me, in which case you could easily have plenty of reasons for doing that with the radio on."
"You know what, fine," Freddy shouted, running the red light in sheer frustration. "I will never try to fucking be nice to you again. Jesus Christ. Are you like this whenever anyone tries to give you something?"
"Only you," Davey said firmly. "It's definitely only with you."
- - -
Freddy usually pretended to loathe Christmas, on principle, but Davey was making it really difficult to keep that up. He walked around everywhere humming carols and used his newfound radio privileges to blast Christmas carols (jazz versions, he said, grinning, just for Freddy), singing loudly along to all of them. He had a kind of cute little voice too. It was on-key, at the very least. And maybe it didn't have the greatest range, or tone, but he made up for it with sheer enthusiasm.
"Everybody loves Christmas," he said stubbornly whenever Freddy teased him about it. "Even you, Grinch."
"I do not," Freddy said stubbornly, even though he he'd spent all of lunch rhapsodizing about Regina's annual Christmas dinner.
"You do," Davey teased. "You get excited every time you see It's A Wonderful Life. Santa makes you warm and fuzzy..."
"Santa is a twisted sexual fantasy brought to life," Freddy said firmly, filching one of Davey's tofu fries that were far more delicious than tofu had any right to be.
"That makes no sense," Davey said. "Also, quit hogging the ketchup."
"All of those children sitting on his lap!" Freddy said. "And then he lives with these little elves, like groping kids while asking them what they want. It's just strange. And it reeks of pedophilia."
"You have a twisted mind," Davey said. "The truth is, you totally can't wait for Christmas vacation."
"Because it's vacation," Freddy explained, "not because it's Christmas vacation."
But what the truth really was was that for maybe the first time ever, Freddy wasn't looking forward to vacations, which would mean a whole two weeks without any excuse to see Davey at all. Weekends and days when he had track were already becoming bad enough. And he hadn't felt that way about anyone else before. It was one thing to miss people, like he might miss Regina or Pops if they had been busy, or the guys from track if he missed a few practices, or even Mark-the-record-store-owner if he decided to leave for wherever the fuck without informing Daniel or Freddy where he had left the purchase orders or the delivery schedule. It was quite another thing to miss someone that wasn't even gone yet.
But he did. He missed Davey pathetically, even when he was sitting hardly a foot away from him, munching on his ridiculous tofu fries. The thought of him over the break, happily making gingerbread houses and decorating a tree with Joey and his mother made Freddy's stomach twist with jealousy.
He sighed and flopped dramatically against the floor, his head pillowed neatly on Davey's leg. "It's A Wonderful Life sucks, anyways,” he said. "It's about one billion hours too long and it's depressing as fuck."
"It's very uplifting. You only find it depressing because you appear to be heartless." Davey's head loomed over him. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing," Freddy said defensively. "I don't like Christmas. I told you."
"You just want attention. Everyone loves Christmas." Davey said. "Besides, I don't believe that someone who loves Halloween as much as you do - who thinks that they can still go trick-or-treating - is immune to Christmas."
"Well, I am. And I'm not too old to go trick-or-treating."
"If you can drive from house to house instead of walking," Davey pointed out. "I'm pretty sure you're too old. And I'm still not buying it. The music, the trees, the gifts, the stockings, the snow..."
"I like day after Christmas best," Freddy admitted. "Nathan and Chris come over and we eat leftovers. And then the day after that we go to Nathan's and eat his leftovers. And then after that we eat Chris's."
"What if someone else wants some?" Davey asked.
"Pops always tries to hide stuff," Freddy said, “but that’s half the fun. I think he's putting a fridge in the studio this year." Freddy shrugged. "I'll find it anyway."
"You really should stop terrorizing your grandparents," Davey sighed, wiping thumbing a blob of ketchup off of his mouth. "On Christmas, at least."
Freddy's heart skipped a beat. It had been doing that lately, whenever Davey did stupid things like put on chapstick. He reached up and poked Davey on the smooth skin underneath his chin. "You really like this stupid holiday, don't you?"
"Yeah," Davey said, smiling down at him softly. "I really, really like it."
Freddy swallowed thickly, his stomach swooping. Those words didn't mean anything, of course. Davey wasn't talking about him, he was talking about Christmas. And just because Davey was looking down at him through his (frankly quite pretty) lashes, and smiling softly and fondly and like maybe, just maybe, he cared didn't mean he cared about Freddy. It meant that it was Christmas and Davey was happy and Freddy was a horny idiot who'd jerked off thinking about Davey's face and hands and mouth a few more times than was good for him.
"Glad to hear it," he said. "Merry Christmas, and all that."
"Exactly," Davey said.
- - -
My Funny Valentine - Chet Baker
Alone Together - Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers
Dancing Cheek to Cheek - Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong
Peel Me A Grape - Anita O’Day
Let’s Misbehave - Irving Aaronson and His Commanders
Corcovado - Sean Getz and Joao Gilberto
Rhapsody in Blue - Ira Gershwin
The Man I Love - Anita O’Day
You Go To My Head - Billie Holiday
A Nightingale Sang in Berkley Square - Vera Lynn
(Reminder! Facebook conversations read from bottom to top)
Part Two
Lunch was always one of the few highlights of Davey's day. Joey had tried once, as a freshman, to eat the school food like all of his other friends. After one day he'd come back with so many horror stories about watery macaroni and cheese and wilted, rubbery lettuce that neither of them had ever dreamed of not eating his mother’s food ever again. Besides, his mom was a chef, with a framed fancy degree and everything. And she took that seriously - she always made something special: elaborate egg salad sandwiches, turkey on rye with spicy mustard. And of course there was always something sweet afterwards, like a slice of carrot cake or an iced brownie. He was even caught one day in the library eating caramel dipped ladyfingers, and that was the end of trying to sneak lunch in the library.
After that, Davey cycled his eating locations regularly through the back halls, always alone. He didn’t mind that much, it gave him a chance to work a little on his music or relax. The cafeteria was where people like Joey and his friends ate; loudly tossing food and joking about tits. It was a miracle the school was still standing. Despite all of his moving, a week after Davey had given in to car rides Freddy tripped over him eating lunch, quite literally.
"We have got to stop meeting like this," he said, rather happily, sprawled on the floor.
"You and me, or you and the floor?" Davey asked, munching on his pasta.
Freddy turned his face to Davey's and grinned widely as if Davey had said something hugely witty. The pasta Davey began to roll around nervously in his stomach. "I was wondering where you ate," Freddy said, sitting up. "Never see you in the cafeteria." He eyed the brown bag next to Davey. "I forgot you bring your lunches, like Joey. Guess I'd do the same if I had a mother who could cook like yours. The food here is vile."
"You have a grandmother," Davey pointed out. "Couldn’t she?"
"Told me to fend for myself once I hit high school," Freddy said mournfully. "Apparently she loves sleeping in to a reasonable hour more than she loves me."
"I don’t think that’s a real contest, you know," Davey said. "I wouldn’t take it personally." Freddy theatrically fell back down on the floor, clutching his heart.
"You wound me, " he sighed, his voice warbling tragically. "After all we’ve been through, you can’t even say something kind to me as I go and face a certain death."
"You mean eating the cafeteria food?" Davey asked. "Because you’re going in the wrong direction. It’s that way." Helpfully, he hiked his thumb to his left.
"No," Freddy said patiently, "I’m breaking out. Getting the people what they want. "
"You could just bring a lunch," Davey said placidly. "Then you wouldn’t risk inevitable death."
Freddy gasped. "First of all, Freddy Kennedy fears no danger. Secondly, " he said, getting to his feet, ready to make a run for the door. "I can't cook to save my life. Can I bring you anything back?"
Davey shook his head around a mouthful of sauce and vegetables. "No, thanks."
"All right,” Freddy said, sounding disappointed. “Bye!" Davey shook his head and watched Freddy sprint down the hall, ducking around a monitor, before going back to giving his pasta the lavish attention it deserved.
- - -
From then on, when could manage to sneak away from his friends (who, Freddy would admit, were equally as loud and obnoxious as Joey’s), Freddy would find Davey in whatever back hall he’d snuck away to. After a while it became routine. One day, when Davey pulled out his sandwich in the hall near the science wing, Freddy appeared. He didn't even say a word, just moved his backpack to the side while Freddy plopped down beside him and fished in his knapsack for his lunch, not even commenting when Freddy tentatively used one knee as a head rest beyond, "You know, you’ll choke and die that way."
It was progress, Freddy thought.
- - -
"First of all," Davey said patiently, as if talking to a very young child or dog, "while too much peanut butter is bad, the same can be said for jelly. You can't just dump out half the jelly in the jar. You've got to spread it, you know," he made a spreading motion, "with a knife. But if you're planning on putting on that much jelly in, you really should make more than one sandwich. And you can't just shove it in a Ziploc bag and toss it in with your books, you need something to protect it. Otherwise when you put your books in, you get that."
Freddy shook his bag of jelly, which mournfully wiggled back. "I don't even know how to eat this," he said, eying his lunch as if it had sprouted tentacles. "Have you got a spoon on you or something?"
Davey sighed and broke off half of his sandwich, holding it out to Freddy, who gratefully snatched it out of Davey's hand and sprawled on the floor beside him, eating happily.
"This is good. Especially the leafy stuff, what's it-" he said around a mouthful.
"Arugula."
Freddy's brow furrowed. "I've never heard of that. Are you sure it's real?"
"Well," Davey said logically, "you're eating it, so you tell me."
"This," Freddy said, taking another bite, "is the gayest sandwich I've ever eaten."
"A sandwich can’t be gay" Davey said, "and anyways, you are gay."
"No I'm not,” Freddy said, "I'm bi. Had a girlfriend last year and everything."
"Congratulations," Davey said. "Would you like a medal?"
"It's the way to go, you know," Freddy said sagely. "See, you're just discriminating against girls because they don’t have dicks. I'm open-minded."
"That sounds like a fancy way of saying slutty," Davey said, looking down at Freddy with a little smile. It was hard to believe, despite all the names Joey called him, that Freddy had really gone and blown the entire JV soccer team. He talked a big game, but if Joey hadn't sworn on everything he held dear that it was true, Davey would have scoffed at is as a nasty rumor. As far as he could tell, Freddy hadn't hooked up with anyone so long as Davey had known him. And while Davey would like to think it was his good influence, it probably had more to do with Freddy's ongoing and ridiculous crush on Nathan.
"Your mom's fancy and slutty," Freddy said thickly around a mouthful, "but she makes a fucking great sandwich."
"I'll pass along the message," Davey said. "I'm sure she'll write it up on the testimonials board."
"Another life ambition realized," Freddy said happily, burping and lifting his head to place it on its customary perch on Davey's knee. Awkwardly, Davey pat Freddy’s forehead twice, as if very quickly feeling for his temperature.
"Hey, Davey?" Freddy asked, shifting into a more comfortable position, "Can I ask you a question?"
"Um, okay?"
"Let's say I asked you out," Freddy said. "I mean, I'm not asking you out, but let's say, like, I was."
Davey’s stomach squirmed unhappily. "Is there a reason we're saying this?" He asked, his voice sounding a little strained.
"Because you’re the only person I'd know who would say no," Freddy said easily. Davey blinked wordlessly at him, unsure of exactly which scathing remark about rampant egotism he should even begin with.
"You mean," he managed finally, "besides Nathan."
"Look," Freddy said, actually sounding a little angry. "I don't care about Nathan, I don't want Nathan."
"Okay, okay, okay," Davey said, lifting his hands in a quelling gesture. "I get it. I don't believe you, but I get it." Freddy shot him a dirty look. "Oh, come on," Davey said, "you're like his personal buttmonkey in band. He snaps his fingers and you jump on command."
"I do not," Freddy said sulkily. Davey just raised his eyebrows.
"Are you still hypothetically asking me out?" He asked. "Or have I hypothetically discouraged you?"
"You're very discouraging."
"Good," Davey said, trying to ignore the twinge of regret he felt. "Glad to hear it"
- - -
When Davey climbed into Freddy's car that afternoon, Freddy was staring at his phone with a confused expression. After a moment, he flipped it shut and tossed in the back, staring at the driving wheel as if it held answers his phone did not.
"I think Grandpa just called me a slut."
"Did he?" Davey asked dryly.
"He didn't mean to." Freddy huffed as he sped away from the school parking lot. "He's been trying to get me to stop working at the record store for ages and help out around the carpentry business. But honestly, can you see me doing that? Cutting planks of wood on band saws all damn day?"
Davey shook his head. "Not a good idea. Saws? That's a pretty big step above sandwich mastery."
"Anyway," Freddy said, tactfully ignoring Davey. "He was joking that it'd be better for me there. Since it's usually only me and Daniel working shifts at the record place. He said that there were all sorts of people there my age, and that even I couldn't get through all the employees for at least a year, since I'm not particular." He snorted, braking sharply at an intersection. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Is he trying to make me out to be some kind of slut or something?"
The car was unbearably silent. "You're…not?" Davey deadpanned.
"…Okay, fine. But it isn't that," Freddy said decidedly, changing lanes quickly. "It's the whole bisexual thing. He doesn't understand it. He never has." Freddy sighed and stretched his free arm over the back of Davey's seat. "I think he'd be more understanding if I were just gay or straight. Because then he could put me in his own little box and you know, know whether to introduce me to Rebecca-the-assistant or her brother Mark. But I'm not, and just because I haven't really got much of a type, he assumes that just I'll go for absolutely anyone - like I'm some kind of maniac." Davey snorted.
"Hey," he said defensively, before turning to stare back at the road. "I do have standards, you know." He waved a hand vaguely. "Hair. Tits. I'm just not, I dunno, crazy about sticking to them. What about you?" He wheedled. "Have you got, you know, a type or something?"
"Uh, I don't know?" Davey asked. "Guys, I guess. Um." He looked upwards, as if an answer would come down from on high. "They're just not usually blonde, but I'm not really picky. I guess I like a nice, big smile. Sort of muscular. Freckles are cute. I mean, I just find someone attractive or I don't."
"Thank you," Freddy said dryly, stopping at the stop sign for a change, which Davey shot him a grateful look for. "That was a really illuminating response."
"I'm open," Davey said tartly. "Weren't you just all 'oh I'm so open-minded because I'm bisexual?' You aren't really if you're all constrained by having a certain type with hair and tits. How does that work with guys, anyways, if they don't have tits?"
"I don't think it's too much to ask for," Freddy said, aghast. "And it's not hair and tits, it's hair or tits. I like guys with brown hair," he tried very hard not to look pointedly at Davey. "And I like tits. It's not even a hard bar to pass, everyone I like tends to have one or the other." Freddy paused for a long moment. "Okay, I don't really have standards. But what about you? You're not open at all. At least not to me. Look, I even have freckles." He pointed them out on the bridge of his nose, leaning into Davey's seat to show him. The car swerved drunkenly on the road.
"Eyes on the road," Davey said, grabbing the edge of his seat. "If you kill me, I'll never find you attractive."
Freddy tried very hard to quench the tiny flame of hope that stubbornly started growing in the pit of his stomach. "So," he said, trying to sound casual, "you're saying it's a possibility."
"Sure," Davey said, "anything's possible."
"It's the freckles, isn't it?" Freddy asked, delighted.
"You know, Joey has freckles too," Davey said, "and funnily enough, I manage to resist him just fine."
"What is it with you and taking the fun out of everything?" Freddy complained, drumming his fingers against the wheel.
"Oh, that's me," Davey muttered. "David O'Brian, fun-taker. Why do you care if I like your freckles, anyways? Does this have anything to do with you hypothetically asking me out?"
"No," Freddy grumbled unconvincingly and colored a little. "I wasn't asking you out or anything. At lunch, I just said 'what if I asked you out' and you interpreted that as me hypothetically doing it, when really, I was just trying to segue into something else about my day."
"Right," Davey replied doubtfully. "It was a segue."
"Yeah," Freddy repeated. "Totally a segue. I just think you're weird for hypothetically discouraging me. I have loads of freckles, if that's what you're into. My face is populated with them. I could form constellations," he added hopefully. "I think if you're my type you should at least be nice enough to let me be yours."
"It is not - what?" Davey asked, thrown. "Wait, I'm your type?"
"I just said that," Freddy said grumpily, beeping loudly at the car in the next lane just because he can.
"Thank you?" Davey asked. "I mean, is that a compliment?"
"When is it not a compliment?" Freddy asked, pulling into the parking space in front of the bakery. Davey seemed to be lost in thought, and not at least outwardly petrified, which Freddy decided to count in his favor, since Davey wasn't giving him a whole lot of positive things to go on, currently.
"Well, Joey's type is, like, breathing," Davey said. "So if I was a girl and he was all 'hey, baby,'"
"Does he really say 'baby'?" Freddy asked, suddenly fascinated. "How about 'sugar lips'?"
"Nah," Davey said, disappointed, "he just gets all earnest and gross, and girls go nuts. But my point is, if I was a girl and he told me I was his type, it wouldn't mean anything."
"I like to think I am a little classier than your brother," Freddy said sardonically. "It's just a thing."
"Huh," Davey said, leaning back in his seat. "That's sort of cool. I don't think I've been anyone's type before." Freddy made a noncommittal noise, still edgy. "Oh, fine," Davey said. He didn't blush, but his ears started turning red. "You're good-looking. Congratulations, I'm sure you've, like, never heard that before."
"Yes," Freddy said, trying not to cheer out loud, "but when you say it, it just means so much to me, since you're, like, a eunuch. I feel real special and pretty."
"Oh my god," Davey muttered. He leaned back and grabbed his bag, but Freddy could see he was fighting back a grin. "I take it back. You're heinous. I can't stand to look at you."
"You think I'm beautiful," Freddy beamed. "I'm totally your type. You dream about me all the time."
"Shut up."
"You - wait, you dream about me?" Freddy asked, leaning in. "Do you really?"
"Okay, I dreamed about Mrs. Meyer last night too," Davey said. "She rang my doorbell and told me she'd fail me unless I made her the best lasagna in the entire world. And then you came and tried to help me, only you burnt it and I had to start all over again."
"But was she naked when she helped you?" Freddy asked.
"You weren't either," Davey said.
"Yeah, well, give it time," Freddy said confidently. "I always get naked."
"I know," Davey said smugly, "your grandma told me."
"Get out of my car," Freddy said, laughing as he shoved Davey's shoulder.
"See you tomorrow, gorgeous,” Davey said, closing the door on Freddy's gaping face.
- - -
Weekend mornings at the bakery were always poorly organized chaos, and they had been since Mary had expanded last year to include a seating area, making the entire thing much more like a cafe, open and family-friendly. Saturday mornings meant that there were little kids running around with crayons and the butcher paper Mary gave out, sticking their sticky fingers and noses on the display cases while their parents either ran after them or gave up and collapsed on an arm chair, sipping at their coffee with the glassy eyes and slumped shoulders of the thoroughly defeated. And ever since he'd grown out of cartoons, Davey had been recruited as free help because he, unlike Joey, actually worked. And to be honest, he enjoyed it. He hadn't graduated to anything beyond keeping the coffee fresh and running things from the kitchen to the front and back again, "because we don't want to look like we condone child labor, sweetie", was his mother's reasoning. Joey scoffed and called what Davey was doing 'bitchwork', but Davey suspected that was because he was jealous that Davey got paid with an allowance, and Joey had to ask their mom every time he spent a penny. As far as Davey was concerned, the job was perfect. He'd either get to stay in the warm kitchen eating batter and lopsided cupcakes while listening his mom gossip with her sous-chef (sous-baker? Davey was never sure how that worked) Fabrizio, and Fabrizio was pretty cool. He had finished culinary school in Italy and then come to American to "find himself". Finding oneself, Davey gathered, involved a lot of eating in restaurants and going after tall, blonde women who could have killed Fabrizio if he so much as sneezed wrong. And he seemed to sneeze wrong a lot.
"And then she goes and throws the wine in my face," Fabrizio was saying as he kneaded out the whole wheat dough. "I don't know what I was saying, but I thought she might like the Gwen Stefani!"
"Why do you like Gwen Stefani?" Davey asked, using his finger to get every scrap of buttercream frosting out of the bowl his mom had handed him to wash at some point.
"She is a hot piece of ass," Fabrizio says. "I would, ah, tap that."
"Oh, Fabs," Davey's mom sighed, patting his cheek with one flour-caked hand, "if you said that to her, no wonder she threw her wine at you."
"But I was trying to say that she was just as beautiful!" Fabrizio moaned. "You American women, you're very conscious about your bodies no? I was trying to make her at ease."
Whatever Davey's mom's response was cut off by a loud "Davey! We need more cinnamon buns, and we need your hot buns too!"
"Yes, mistress," Davey said, examining the bowl for any last traces of frosting before grabbing the tray of cinnamon buns his mother had just pulled from the oven and bringing them up front, where he could hear Feist booming again.
"I am so tired of this CD," Davey said ruefully, handing off the tray and going to put more hazelnut roast out to brew.
"Hey, don't blame me," Lydia said. "I tried to put on Iron & Wine until your mom told me that she wanted that nice, upbeat CD with the counting song."
"Stupid iPod commercials," Davey said.
"Ruin fucking everything, dude," Lydia said, grabbing a cup of decaf and slapping a cap on it before handing it to a young, pregnant woman. Lydia was a tiny, slightly dumpy Korean art student and, in Davey's opinion, kind of the coolest person ever. She was all apple-cheeked and dimpled, with cat's-eye glasses and a cute little pixie cut with a big pink streak running through her bangs. She'd been working at the bakery since she started college four years ago, and was sticking with them while she completed her master's. Lydia had taken one look at Davey, who was at the time ten, all knees and elbows, given him a big grin, and said "Well, I bet you like music, want me to make you a CD?" and Davey had been too scared to do anything but nod, shocked that one of his mother's baristas was actually speaking to him. Lydia had kept good on her promise, and every Saturday came with a new CD full of eclectic and wonderful music that she'd shove at Davey and go "Hey, tell me what you think." Davey had tried, once or twice, to return the favor, but she'd only smiled, patted his cheek, and told him he was sweet, but she'd had these songs for years.
"Sunday morning swear jar!" Sarah called from the counter. She was also a master's student, like Lydia, but that was where the similarities ended. Sarah was tall and fabulously Nordic-looking, like she might have been mistaken for a basketball player at one point, if you could get past her dumpy forty-year-old-professor clothes. She had a low, rich voice that would have sounded incongruously manly on anyone else, but somehow made everything she said sound like it had resounding gravitas. She was somber, serious, and would never think of doodling caricatures on napkins or singing along with the music the way Lydia did. And yet, strangely, they seemed to be the best of friends.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Lydia said, fishing a quarter out of her pocket and dropping it in a can she and Sarah had appropriated for every time Lydia said or did something potentially scarring in front of a child.
"Hey," a familiar voice said from the register. "I'd like, uh, a slice of banana bread, and a large hot chocolate. With a lot of whipped cream. As much whipped cream as you can manage."
"Anything else," Sarah asked, punching in his order.
"Yeah," Freddy drawled. "Could I have an employee? How about the cute one who's pouring my hot cocoa and looks like he wants to kill me?"
"He's not for sale," Sarah said. "We're not that kind of bakery."
"Oh, we could be," Lydia said, handing Freddy his banana bread with a wink. "I'm for sale."
"Aren't the car rides enough?" Davey set down the cardboard cup next to Freddy's hand, with a little more force than was necessary. Freddy was leaning on the counter, attempting to look surprised when Davey walked up, cup in hand, looking at him with a false half quizzical, half delighted expression as if to say oh, you work here? As if he hadn't been dropping Davey off in front of the cafe for weeks. Davey, to his credit, was not at all surprised that Freddy decided to drop by. Just annoyed. "I mean, seeing you at school is one thing, but showing up here? This is just getting creepier and creepier. Should I be calling someone right about now?"
"No," Freddy said, holding his hands up defensively. "I just want something to eat. Regina and Grandpa have been down at the carpentry shop since early this morning. I can't cook." he shrugged. "I've got a double shift at the record store later and I don't want to start work with a completely empty stomach. Plus, your mom's banana bread has been on my mind all day. So if you think about it," his voice dropped to a whisper. "This is really about me and her more than anything else. You've got nothing to do with it." Freddy took a large bite, looking at Davey deliberately while he did it before closing his eyes in pure worship.
"Shut up," Davey said mildly. He covered his eyes with his hands. "It is too early to deal with you."
"It is never too early to deal with me." Freddy popped open the cardboard lid on the cocoa. "What? That is not as much whipped cream as you can manage. That is about half as much whipped cream as you much manage."
"Aren't you a little old for that?" Davey asked, grabbing the cup back. "The people who tend to make those sorts of complaints here also ask for crayons with their order."
"Ouch," Freddy said, holding one hand over his heart. "And no, I'm not. Hey, do you have one of those little pressurized guns to shoot it out of? Can I watch you put it on?" He leaned over the counter.
"No," Davey said, "we're so much cooler than that. Mom actually whips the cream."
"Ooh," Freddy said, waggling his eyebrows. "I'm finding myself more and more attracted to your mother."
"Ew," Davey said, reaching into the mini-fridge under the counter and pulling out the pastry bag full of whipped cream and obediently making another swirl. "Happy now?"
"No," Freddy said. "I want more."
"If I put on any more it'll be all whipped cream and no hot chocolate," Davey pointed out. "Also, it'll slop over."
Freddy picked up his cup, took a huge gulp, sighed, and put it back down. "Aright," he said, grinning at Davey. "Plenty of room."
"Fine," Davey said, filling up the remaining space with whipped cream "If you want more after that you'll have to just pay for a cup of whipped cream," he said severely, "This is free as a courtesy, you know."
"I know," Freddy said, putting his finger into the whipped cream and licking a dollop off suggestively while Davey tried very hard (wrong word, he thought, backpedaling, wrong word choice) - while Davey put ina great deal of effort to not have his eyes helplessly glued to Freddy's pink, wet lips or the tiny bit of tongue that poked out to suggestively chase every last drop. "Delicious," he said, looking up at Davey through his eyelashes, voice husky. "My compliments to the chef."
"Okay," Davey said, aware that his voice (and pants) were tight and his ears were probably bright red. "Great. I'll tell her. I-"
"Davey," Lydia said from behind him, sounding very far away, "go flirt somewhere else."
"I'm not the one licking whipped cream off his fingers," Davey said, affronted. "He's stalking me! It's sexual harassment."
"Yeah, yeah," Lydia said, "Because you really care when your stalker looks like that."
"He really does," Freddy said mournfully. "He called me 'gorgeous' and then slammed the door in my face."
"Great, adorable, shoo," Lydia said, taking Davey's apron and pushing him out. "The back's cleared out and there's a table there, go."
"I hate you," Davey hissed. "What did I do to you to make you so mean?"
"He's hot and he wants you," Lydia whispered back, giving him a final shove and smiling in a way that looked harmless and adorable but actually hid true, unadulterated evil. "I swear, this is me being nice. Thank me later and tell me if he's a good kisser."
"I will not -"
"Hey Davey," Freddy called, waving him over to the table, "are you coming or not?"
"I'll make you two mix CDs next week," Lydia offered.
"They'd better be really awesome," Davey grumbled, grabbing a few extra slices of banana bread (because at the rate Freddy was stuffing his mouth, they'd need them) and walking off to the table Freddy was already at like he was walking to his own execution.
"You brought more banana bread," Freddy said, with a wide smile, drinking his cup of whipped cream with hot chocolate.
"Yeah, yeah," Davey muttered, pulling out the chair. "You could've just waited until Monday and swiped some out of the rest of my lunch like you usually do, instead of stalking me."
"Can’t, already promised a food run on Monday, and then I’m staying late for track practice,” Freddy said, wiping his whipped cream mustache with the back of a hand. He looked inordinately pleased when Davey sat down, as if he'd tricked him into a date. "Hey, Joey isn't here, is he? Frosting pastries with a little pink apron or something equally embarrassing?"
"No," Davey said. "He's at home. He sucks at frosting things."
"Oh, well,” Freddy said sadly. “I suppose that would really have been too good to be tue.”
"So you work at a music store, huh?" Davey hastily changed the subject. "I'd hate to see what happens when someone tries to buy a Gwen Stefani CD or something."
"I don't handle those kinds of sales," Freddy said, waving a hand. "I go in the back to shelve something and make Dan take care of it. They might cry or go away if I roll my eyes too hard."
"Figures." Davey took a bite of banana bread. "Not all of us can have such lofty music tastes."
"You should come by," Freddy said, hopefully. "It gets old down there sometimes. I promise I won't mock you. Best behavior, I swear." He held one hand in the air.
"Wait, let me get this straight," Davey said, "You come to my mom's bakery, stalk me, and then when I complain you suggest that to make it up to you I stalk you back?"
"Sure," Freddy said. "If visiting a good buddy counts as stalking."
"We're good buddies?" Davey asked.
"I thought we were," Freddy said, and for the first time since Davey had met him, he looked young and almost vulnerable., and it made something in Davey's chest feel like it had started squeezing tightly.
"No, no we are," Davey said hastily. "We're really good friends, right?"
"Exactly!" Freddy said. "And as good friends I should be allowed to visit you without it being stalking."
"Oh, no," Davey said, narrowing his eyes. "You're still being a creepy stalker." Freddy, instead of replying, took a fingerful of whipped cream and plopped it Davey's nose. "And I take it back," Davey said, grabbing a napkin. "We're no longer friends, you're two years old."
"Aww," Freddy said, "I would have licked that off if you'd asked real nice."
"Anyways," Davey said, ignoring that avenue of conversation and the mental images it would inevitably provide that would be of no use except to torture him when he was lying in bed, frustrated and unable to fall asleep. "I didn't know you ran track."
"Indoor," Freddy said. "No patience for long distance."
"That's a shocker," Davey said moodily.
"What crawled up your butt and died?" Freddy asked, leaning closer when all Davey wanted him to do was lean away.
"Nothing," he said shortly. "I just, I dunno. Not happy about having to walk again, now that I'm spoiled."
"Aw, will you miss my company?" Freddy asked. "You can admit it. It's okay."
"A little," Davey said, and then, "shut up."
"Don't worry," Freddy said, smiling. "Practice is only Mondays and Wednesdays. I can drive you the rest of the week."
"Oh, good," Davey said, relieved, and then made the mistake of looking up at Freddy, who had started to lean in and look all hopeful. "I mean, because it's getting really cold," he said.
"No, right," Freddy said. They sat in awkward silence, taking turns dipping fingers into the soggy whipped cream.
"So - " Davey began uneasily.
"I'd miss you too," Freddy said. "I just, I didn't want you to think you were the only one who'd be doing the missing, okay? I mean, we're friends, so, like, it goes both ways."
"Oh," Davey said, blinking at him. "Well, thanks."
"I meant it about you coming to visit me at work," Freddy said, finishing the last dregs of creamy hot chocolate. "It really fucking sucks there. I started working there to get my car, and it pays good -"
"Pays well," Davey muttered.
"Right, whatever, I make a lot of money, like ten an hour. But it's like I'm selling my soul. I mean, I have to listen to this shit that kids listen to now..."
"Yeah, not like the good old days," Davey said. "Before there were all these newfangled contraptions like the interwebs."
"Are you making fun of my suffering?" Freddy asked, "Because it's very real suffering, you know."
"I'm sure it is," Davey said soothingly, "I was just calling you an old man. The cranky kind that chases kids off his lawn with a garden hose."
"James Blunt," Freddy says desperately, "and, and, the Shakira, and Justin Timberlake has a new album, did you know? Because I know. I know every single word. And I haven't even gotten into rap albums. And I have to alphabetize them all, and then they go in with their stupid pre-pubescent hands and they don't even try to put them back, they just leave them on top of everything else like their personal slave is going to clean up after them, it's not funny," he said, glaring at Davey.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, you're right," Davey said, still laughing. "It's just like you sound like you're eighty years old."
"They're awful," Freddy says. "Their music is awful. It's like, you know how I tease you about your bad music? They make your music look good. You have good music taste compared to them."
"Was that a compliment?" Davey asked. "Why Mr. Kennedy, I do believe you just complimented me."
"I dunno," Freddy said, flushing, knocking his fist against Davey's hand on the table. "I just thought it'd be fun if you were there, you know? Like maybe it'd be easier to deal with them if I knew you were going to come visit me. 'Cause I dunno, I kind of like hearing you talk."
Davey felt himself go hot all over abruptly fidgeting under the weight of Freddy's intermittent gaze, which alternated by being focused on him with almost uncomfortable intensity and then studying the table shyly. "Thanks," Davey said softly, pressing his fist against Freddy's again. This time when Freddy looked up, he looked shy, with a tiny half-smile that was miles away from his usual confident smirk. It wasn't even remotely seductive, but still had Davey helplessly hypnotized and unable to look away. Freddy must have seen something on his face, because he was leaning in closer, but not the way he had in the car, all over-confidence and predatory. And Davey liked that. He liked it a lot. And for the first time, Freddy scared him. Because before, Davey knew he could say no, if Freddy made a move. Yes, he liked Freddy and yes, he was his friend and yes, he was attractive, but they were all neat, separate emotions that could be kept in their respective boxes, and now he could feel them leaking out, mixing together and getting messy and stronger and all wrong. Even leaning halfway across the table in the late morning sunlight, looking so painfully hopeful, Freddy was still Freddy. All the reasons Davey had for making those boxes in the first place and keeping everything shoved away in corners still existed, and they wouldn't stop existing just because Freddy had a moment of being knocked off-kilter.
"I've gotta go," Davey managed finally, clearing away all the trash. "I... I've got a lot of homework to do today. But, but thanks for dropping by. I'll see you Monday?"
"Oh," said Freddy, sounding surprised. "Yeah, no, I'll see you in band."
"Cool," Davey said, fidgeting. "I'll, uh, why don't you tell me your hours, then? On Monday. And I'll visit you sometime, maybe."
"Yeah," Freddy said, looking dazed. "No, that would be great."
"Great," Davey said awkwardly. "Great, uh," he gave Freddy a little wave before fleeing behind the counter, where Lydia was pretending to re-stock the muffin shelf.
"And how was your date?" She asked Davey brightly. "Tell me all about him."
"That wasn't a date," Davey said, annoyed. "That was my friend from band, Freddy, the one who gives me rides."
"Wait, wait, wait," Lydia said, straightening her glasses and putting her hands on her hips. "That is Freddy?"
"Yeah," Davey said, "and thanks for that, he hits on me for fun, that'll just give him more ammo."
"Oh, honey," Lydia said, "I know what flirting for fun is, and that was not it. The guy likes you, Davey-boy, and he's pretty yum."
"Yeah, I have eyes," Davey sighed, "and believe me, he knows he's pretty yum too. But just because he's yum doesn't mean I roll over and let him have his way with me, which, by the way, he only wants because he likes to piss Joey off."
"I think you've got this wrong, sweetie," Lydia said, shaking her head, "This doesn't reek of anything besides honest-to-God pheromones. And believe you me, I've been around long enough to smell the difference."
"Get your nose checked," Davey said irritably, "I've got homework, and I want three mix CDs."
"Was it really that bad?" Lydia asked, putting a hand against his cheek in a motherly way. "I thought you liked him."
"I do," Davey said, sitting down on a nearby stool and slumping over. "I really do, okay? And that's the problem, because even if he does like me, he isn't the relationship type, and I'm not the type for being a fling."
"That does sound like a three-CD and chai problem," Lydia said, ruffling his hair and straightening up beside him.
"Yeah," Davey says, going to go filch something from the kitchen, "and I want it super-extra creamy."
- - -
Sunday dinner at the Kennedy's was a tradition. Regina used to bring her husband's meals out to his studio out back, neatly covered with a paper towel to protect it against the wood shavings. Alex would stop working and they would eat together, standing up against a half-finished table, or he would pull out a mahogany stool or a brightly varnished chair for her. If the week had been particularly busy, they ate on paper plates.
Those days ended when Freddy came to live with them after the accident. Regina took one look at him, with his too wide eyes and decided the boy needed a good dollop of normalcy; which meant a sit-down dinner with a tablecloth and napkins. Even if Freddy had spent all day outside with Nathan and whined as he came in, even though for those first few sad months, Freddy had done nothing but pick at his food quietly, dinnertime was dinnertime.
Nowadays, it hardly took any prodding to get Freddy eat. "Freddy," Regina said agitatedly, carrying the dishes to the table and swatting at him trying to steal a biscuit from her platter "Could you just hold on a minute?"
"Yo, Pops, could you hurry up?" Freddy shouted down the hall, sitting down and fidgeting. "I'm starving."
His grandfather slowed down deliberately, pausing to wipe his glasses with the edge of his plaid work shirt.
"Pops," Freddy whined.
"I'm coming, I'm coming." Alex sighed, finally sat down, setting the newspaper under his arm beside his plate. "Let's eat."
"About time," Freddy said, taking the ladle of cream sauce and pouring it over his fish before putting another heavy dollop on his mashed potatoes so it dripped into his vegetables, turning everything on his plate into a light beige color, just the way he liked it, even though it made everything look, as Regina often said, like cat sick.
"How was work, dear?" Regina asked, taking the tureen from him and ladling a little gravy on her potatoes.
Freddy closed his eyes in pain. "It sucked. Dan had a paper to write so he skipped out, and the guy for the next shift never showed."
Freddy's grandfather sighed. "That's too bad. Are you free next week? I thought we might go see a show or something. Wynton Marsalis is in town."
"Who's that?" Regina asked.
Freddy looked at her as if she had dismembered a baby bird in front of him, then turned, delighted to his grandfather. "Sure thing, Pops. There's no way in hell I'm working next week. Dan owes me."
"That's good." Alex stabbed at a piece of carrot. "Things are bound to slow down at the shop. We've just got three new assistants in to help, so we won't have to come into the store at five, waiting around for shipments." He raised his glass at Regina. "Although your grandmother has always been the best kind of help a man could have. At any hour. Thanks for coming with, darling."
They clinked glasses. Freddy made gagging noises on his food while they exchanged a chaste kiss
Regina patted him on the back, as if she believed he was really choking. "What did you do for breakfast? I bought you some bagels and cream cheese, but they're untouched and my kitchen's still in one piece."
"I know," Freddy filled his glass with lemonade. "I just thought I'd go out for breakfast. I went to the Little Lamb. That bakery-type place with those lemon bars?"
"Oh?" Regina's fork paused in mid-air. "Was that nice boy over there? The one I saw when you picked me up?"
Freddy scowled at her. "I'm assuming you mean the boy you decided to introduce to the World's Cutest and Most Naked baby," he reached for the mashed potatoes. "Yeah. Why do you think I was there?"
His grandparents exchanged quick glances over the top of the table.
"Freddy," his grandmother said gently, putting her cool, dry hand over his, "I know it must be strange for you, having feelings for someone when you haven't had feelings for anyone since, well, Elizabeth..." Freddy rolled his eyes at the word 'feelings'. "But if you have them now, you know you can tell your grandfather and I about them."
"I don't have feelings," Freddy spluttered. "I'm a guy."
"Excuse me?" Alex said, raising an eyebrow.
"A guy who's not Pops."
"You know, Freddy," his grandfather said, setting down his silverware and steepling his fingers thoughtfully, "I used to be an awful lot like you. A real run-around with the ladies."
"Oh, God," Freddy muttered darkly into his potatoes, mashing them violently with the back of his fork.
"And then I met your grandmother," Alex said, taking Regina's hand and getting an expression that made Freddy feel sort of nauseous. "And I thought I was quite the man as well, before her. Feelings don't make you less of a man, Freddy, they make you more of one."
"Great," Freddy said tightly. "I'll put 'find feelings' on my to-do list, then."
"Frederick," Regina said severely, "I thought you were going to try not to be a... how was it you put it? A jerk."
"Look, let's just pretend I have feelings for Davey, okay?" Freddy asked. "I mean, I don't, I really don't. He's kind of stupid-looking and has stupid hair."
"I thought he was cute," Regina said.
"I know you have a crush on him, Regina," Freddy said, rolling his eyes, "but I don't. Do you know he composes piano music? How can you have feelings for someone who composes piano music?"
"I think it's romantic," his grandmother said.
"I think it sounds nice," Alex added. "And didn't you call him some sort of genius?"
"Okay, fine, he's a genius," Freddy said, stabbing his fish. "But I'm not in love with him or anything, okay? And even if I was, which I'm not, because that would be ridiculous, it wouldn't even matter, because he wouldn't go out with me."
"Ah, well," Alex shrugged, clapping Freddy with a bracing hand on his grandson's shoulder. "Attraction's a funny thing, Junior. You can't blind 'em all, even if you are too handsome for your own good."
"Hey, he thinks I'm attractive!" Freddy said indignantly, "He called me 'gorgeous', okay? I'm his type. I am so completely his type."
"Which of course doesn't matter," Regina cut in smoothly, "since you don't have feelings for him. More peas and carrots, Freddy?" Without waiting for his answer, she put a large helping on his plate, where they spilled aimlessly into his potatoes, just like he liked. "Here, they're good for you."
Freddy grudgingly lifted a forkful to his mouth, then another. Regina smiled.
Alex looked at him gravely over the tops of his glasses. "We don't mean to intrude, Junior. It's just...” he trailed off.
"We can't help noticing that you've slowed down a bit, dear." Regina filled. She patted his hand again and nodded at Alex over the table.
Freddy looked at her blankly. "Slowed down?"
"I haven't been surprised by any young men in the kitchen looking for something to eat lately these mornings."
"Or seen any brushing their teeth in the bathroom." Alex cut away at his fish, unfolding the newspaper and skimming a headline. "There used to be a different one each week. Like some bizarre infestation."
"I rather liked that one fellow, what was his name?" Regina shook her head at Freddy. "I don't suppose you ever got it. He helped me make waffles, although he did need one hand to hold the sheet up."
Freddy clapped his hands over his ears and cursed whatever had happened in the past to make his grandparents utterly unshakeable. "No."
"Freddy." Alex chided.
"I am not listening to this. This is too weird."
Regina clucked her tongue. "You needn't be embarrassed now. You certainly weren't then."
"Other people have normal grandparents, you know," he bemoaned, grabbing another piece of fish. "Who ask about sports and school and then leave it at that. But not you. You always want to talk about everything."
"Do I ever," Regina replied. "Davey's the sweetest boy, Alex. He works at the Little Lamb. Although I can't imagine where he finds the time, in between the piano and composing."
"Does he like jazz, Freddy?"
Freddy swallowed and shook his head. "Not really. He listens to a lot of different stuff. I haven't really let him touch the radio." He frowned at his grandparents, who were exchanging meaningful looks. "Stop doing that."
"Stop doing what?" Alex smiled.
"That thing. That you're doing, when you look at each other like that and smile. It's gross." He finished eating, wiped his mouth with his napkin and pushed his plate away. "Look, I know you think there's - something going on here, but we're just friends," he colored. "I told you, he's not into me. And I'm not into him. Can I have some pie now?"
"Of course, dear," Regina said, as Alex excused himself, muttering about having to watch his blood sugar. Regina tactfully waited until Alex had gone to watch a TiVo'd episode of The Price Is Right before putting Freddy's plate in front of him, kissing his forehead.
"Thanks, Grandma," Freddy said, leaning into her.
"Sweetie," she said, "I don't mean to pry, but you can come on... strong. Your grandfather and father had the same problem."
"You married him anyways," Freddy said.
"He was quite a looker," Regina said fondly. "And eventually, he started being sweet instead of just trying to seduce me."
"Huh," Freddy said and then, after a little thought, "okay, that's just gross."
"Just, you know, try something new on this one. Notice when he's having a bad day, bring him something nice, that sort of thing."
"That's pretty gay," Freddy said. skeptically.
"That's just my advice," Regina said, putting some pots to soak, "but, then again, since you don't really like him, it's not a problem."
"Right," Freddy said, "no, it isn't."
"But Freddy?" Regina said, "If I were you, I'd start with letting him touch the radio."
- - -
After that Sunday, Davey had gone up to his room, stared at his ceiling, and made a plan. This thing with Freddy had clearly gotten out of hand. Yes, Freddy was attractive and yes, he was a good friend, but those were two separate things. Just because Freddy had started showing up in his dreams, holding the back of his neck and kissing him softly, usually naked, didn't mean anything. So what if Freddy had been looking at him with the same, love-struck expression on his face in real life that he so often wore in Davey's dreams? That didn't mean that dream-Freddy and real Freddy were the same person. No, Davey’s dream boyfriend just looked like Freddy because Freddy was attractive. There was a decided lack of guys to ogle in school. He'd gotten his hopes up in eighth grade when he'd looked around at his choices and realized he should probably stick to fantasizing about celebrities. He'd had this crazy hope that once he got to high school and the pool grew bigger, he'd find somebody who was real and worth an iota of attention, but his hopes had been quickly crushed. Guys didn't get better once they got to high school, they just got taller and older. And there were more of them. All the guys who might be, under normal circumstances, have been considered attractive were usually tainted by some second-hand story from Joey or a first-hand experience Davey had of them.
He certainly had more than enough reasons both second and first-hand to think that Freddy was not worth getting a full-blown crush on, but it was getting hard to remember them when Freddy kept doing things like using his frees to go get Davey's gym clothes that he'd left in his bedroom or bringing him a fresh batch of Regina's chocolate chip cookies "just to prove they were the best".
Sometimes, what Freddy was doing seemed to surprise even Freddy himself. Davey figured that it was just as new to him - there wasn't any such similar ceremony involved in blowing members of the soccer team out of spite. But there was Freddy being oddly nice, and then there was Freddy just being weird, and it was getting increasingly hard to tell difference between the two.
It started on Thursday, when Freddy was giving Davey his usual lift home, and it took Davey an embarrassingly long time to figure out that something was up. Except for Freddy's absentminded complaining, the car was completely silent. Usually Freddy played playlist after playlist of compilations; glaring agitatedly at Davey if he talked over one of his favorite parts. But now there was nothing, not a single sultry voice or saxophone solo leaking out of Freddy's radio. Freddy kept looking at him expectantly, trying to pretend as if it were a daily occurrence.
"I need," Freddy said slowly after a while, "some music. I can't drive like this."
"Yeah," Davey replied. "Why don't you try the radio? I'm sure there's a jazz station on or something. For old people and, you know, you."
Freddy rolled his eyes. "Can you just put something on?"
Davey reached for the dial. "What station?"
"That's not what I meant." Freddy looked slightly embarrassed. "I thought might turn to something."
"What?"
"You know, choose something."
Davey's face twisted in confusion. "I thought I wasn't supposed to do that. Ever. You made that pretty clear a while ago."
"Really?" Freddy frowned. "How did I do that?"
"You told me that you used to pretend it was broken so that no one could try to listen to it."
Freddy shook his head. "I don't remember saying that."
"You said that Regina tried to touch the radio once and you didn't speak to her for a week." Davey crossed his arms. "Which, by the way, wow."
"Jesus. Can't a man change his mind?" He slowed to let a car enter the lane, which happily sped away. "I've got a nice sound system. Don't you want to touch it?"
"No." Davey reached out to touch the knob and then pulled his hand back. "It’s too weird. I keep thinking you’re going to kill me."
"Look," Freddy said. "I just thought that you might want to listen to something else. I see you with headphones all the time at school. And I don't even know if you like jazz all that much." He glanced at Davey. "Although you should. But I'm not, you know, incapable of listening to anything else, so. The radio's not off-limits."
"But why now?" Davey pressed, feeling that something terribly important was not being said, and it probably should be said. He was in favor of important things that made Freddy become weird and allow him to touch his car radio being aired, because if kept in they could probably lead to death, destruction, and the end of the civilized world as he knew it.
"It's a birthday present," Freddy said. "Happy birthday. Put on some music."
"But my birthday was two months ago," Davey said, blinking.
"Well, then, it's a rite of passage, you know, after I've driven you around for so many hours."
"Still don't buy it," Davey said. "Regina's been driving with you longer."
"Maybe," Freddy ground out, "I'm interested in what you like."
"If you were, you could have asked," Davey said. "And I like everything, but whenever I tell you something that’s not jazz, like The Beatles, you make fun of me. So that doesn't seem like the reason either. Unless you're interested in making fun of me, in which case you could easily have plenty of reasons for doing that with the radio on."
"You know what, fine," Freddy shouted, running the red light in sheer frustration. "I will never try to fucking be nice to you again. Jesus Christ. Are you like this whenever anyone tries to give you something?"
"Only you," Davey said firmly. "It's definitely only with you."
- - -
Freddy usually pretended to loathe Christmas, on principle, but Davey was making it really difficult to keep that up. He walked around everywhere humming carols and used his newfound radio privileges to blast Christmas carols (jazz versions, he said, grinning, just for Freddy), singing loudly along to all of them. He had a kind of cute little voice too. It was on-key, at the very least. And maybe it didn't have the greatest range, or tone, but he made up for it with sheer enthusiasm.
"Everybody loves Christmas," he said stubbornly whenever Freddy teased him about it. "Even you, Grinch."
"I do not," Freddy said stubbornly, even though he he'd spent all of lunch rhapsodizing about Regina's annual Christmas dinner.
"You do," Davey teased. "You get excited every time you see It's A Wonderful Life. Santa makes you warm and fuzzy..."
"Santa is a twisted sexual fantasy brought to life," Freddy said firmly, filching one of Davey's tofu fries that were far more delicious than tofu had any right to be.
"That makes no sense," Davey said. "Also, quit hogging the ketchup."
"All of those children sitting on his lap!" Freddy said. "And then he lives with these little elves, like groping kids while asking them what they want. It's just strange. And it reeks of pedophilia."
"You have a twisted mind," Davey said. "The truth is, you totally can't wait for Christmas vacation."
"Because it's vacation," Freddy explained, "not because it's Christmas vacation."
But what the truth really was was that for maybe the first time ever, Freddy wasn't looking forward to vacations, which would mean a whole two weeks without any excuse to see Davey at all. Weekends and days when he had track were already becoming bad enough. And he hadn't felt that way about anyone else before. It was one thing to miss people, like he might miss Regina or Pops if they had been busy, or the guys from track if he missed a few practices, or even Mark-the-record-store-owner if he decided to leave for wherever the fuck without informing Daniel or Freddy where he had left the purchase orders or the delivery schedule. It was quite another thing to miss someone that wasn't even gone yet.
But he did. He missed Davey pathetically, even when he was sitting hardly a foot away from him, munching on his ridiculous tofu fries. The thought of him over the break, happily making gingerbread houses and decorating a tree with Joey and his mother made Freddy's stomach twist with jealousy.
He sighed and flopped dramatically against the floor, his head pillowed neatly on Davey's leg. "It's A Wonderful Life sucks, anyways,” he said. "It's about one billion hours too long and it's depressing as fuck."
"It's very uplifting. You only find it depressing because you appear to be heartless." Davey's head loomed over him. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing," Freddy said defensively. "I don't like Christmas. I told you."
"You just want attention. Everyone loves Christmas." Davey said. "Besides, I don't believe that someone who loves Halloween as much as you do - who thinks that they can still go trick-or-treating - is immune to Christmas."
"Well, I am. And I'm not too old to go trick-or-treating."
"If you can drive from house to house instead of walking," Davey pointed out. "I'm pretty sure you're too old. And I'm still not buying it. The music, the trees, the gifts, the stockings, the snow..."
"I like day after Christmas best," Freddy admitted. "Nathan and Chris come over and we eat leftovers. And then the day after that we go to Nathan's and eat his leftovers. And then after that we eat Chris's."
"What if someone else wants some?" Davey asked.
"Pops always tries to hide stuff," Freddy said, “but that’s half the fun. I think he's putting a fridge in the studio this year." Freddy shrugged. "I'll find it anyway."
"You really should stop terrorizing your grandparents," Davey sighed, wiping thumbing a blob of ketchup off of his mouth. "On Christmas, at least."
Freddy's heart skipped a beat. It had been doing that lately, whenever Davey did stupid things like put on chapstick. He reached up and poked Davey on the smooth skin underneath his chin. "You really like this stupid holiday, don't you?"
"Yeah," Davey said, smiling down at him softly. "I really, really like it."
Freddy swallowed thickly, his stomach swooping. Those words didn't mean anything, of course. Davey wasn't talking about him, he was talking about Christmas. And just because Davey was looking down at him through his (frankly quite pretty) lashes, and smiling softly and fondly and like maybe, just maybe, he cared didn't mean he cared about Freddy. It meant that it was Christmas and Davey was happy and Freddy was a horny idiot who'd jerked off thinking about Davey's face and hands and mouth a few more times than was good for him.
"Glad to hear it," he said. "Merry Christmas, and all that."
"Exactly," Davey said.
- - -
My Funny Valentine - Chet Baker
Alone Together - Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers
Dancing Cheek to Cheek - Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong
Peel Me A Grape - Anita O’Day
Let’s Misbehave - Irving Aaronson and His Commanders
Corcovado - Sean Getz and Joao Gilberto
Rhapsody in Blue - Ira Gershwin
The Man I Love - Anita O’Day
You Go To My Head - Billie Holiday
A Nightingale Sang in Berkley Square - Vera Lynn
(Reminder! Facebook conversations read from bottom to top)
Part Two