Chapter Text
o/o
*
Church is sitting under the bleachers with his headphones on when Grif slips under for a smoke over lunch. He pulls his headphones off and mumbles a vague greeting; Grif nods and slips his cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket. He offers one to Church, who shakes his head, and for a moment there's silence as Grif lights up and takes that first satisfying drag of his cigarette.
“Shouldn't you and Simmons be joined at the hip somewhere?” Church asks suddenly.
Grif quirks an eyebrow at him. “I don't know. Shouldn't you be somewhere glaring at Tucker and Caboose?”
“I don't-” Church makes a grumpy noise. “-I'm just getting sick of them. How can he be happy with Caboose?”
Grif just shrugs, and Church pulls his headphones back up with a huff. After a moment, he puts them back down.
“Things were just so easy when it was me and Tucker. Like he was my best friend, and sometimes I got to make out with him. You know, easy. Isn't that how it is with you and Simmons?”
Grif snorts. “No. We're not easy at all. Simmons is a pain in the ass sometimes. He's high-maintenance, I have to coddle him all the time.”
“How do you put up with it?”
“I dunno.” Grif shrugs again. “It's worth it, I guess. The way he looks at me sometimes, it's... I dunno. It's hard to explain.”
Church sighs, and holds out a hand. “Actually, I'll take one of those after all.”
Grif holds out the pack wordlessly, offers his lighter. Church puffs irritably and scowls. “I hate this.”
“It's an acquired thing.”
“No, idiot, I mean the situation. I just- all I want is- I'm not-” He laughs bitterly. “God, I'm so pathetic. And I'm jealous of you of all people.”
“Me?” Grif looks taken aback. “Why are you jealous of me?”
“Because you fell in love with your best friend and actually got a happy ending. You're sitting here planning out how many kids you're going to have and I'm sat here losing to Caboose.” He laughs again, but it sounds half-way like a strangled sob. “Caboose. Does he even know what sex is? Tucker's innuendos all go straight over his head. I mean, do they- you know, do they do it?”
“Probably not.”
“How can that be satisfying? Especially to someone like Tucker. Guy's insatiable.”
“They seem to make it work. It's not too hard, if you're dedicated enough.”
“Yeah, but-” Church frowns. “Wait, are you saying you and Simmons don't...?” He trails off, a little awkwardly. Grif laughs.
“Not much. We've tried it a few times but he always goes really weird and doesn't talk to me for awhile. I think he might be that thing- the one Cappy told us about, you know where you're not into sex? What was it?”
“Ace?”
“Yeah, that. But I can't get him to talk to me about it so I don't know. I wish he would. I can take care of myself if he's not into it but I'd at least like to know.”
“And that's not weird to you at all?”
Grif shakes his head. “No. It's just us. It's always been just us. It's like that one absolute truth of the universe. Me and Simmons. I don't know, dude. However that's shaped, that we are us is the important part.”
“Grif.”
“What?”
“You're sixteen.”
“And you're pushing away your best friend because you're in love with him and can't handle that he doesn't like you back. So don't go telling me I'm too young to know what matters to me.”
Church opens his mouth to protest, then huffs and goes back to his cigarette. When the first end-of-lunch bell rings Grif stands, but Church ignores it.
“Not coming?”
“I'm just gonna stay out here and think a while longer. Want to stay with me?”
“Nah. Simmons bitches at me when I skip class.”
“Maybe you didn't get a happily ever after after all,” Church says. He stubs out his cigarette and puts his headphone back on. Grif pokes his head back into the space.
“You know, you say that but, I actually really like having someone who gives a shit about whether I do well or not.”
He heads out, then, leaving Church to turn his music back on with a scowl.
*
Tucker has always known Caboose was a tactile person- even before his crush on the other boy, Caboose was always playing with his hands, or leaning on him, or just finding some reason for physical contact. Tucker'd asked him about it once, and he'd said that it helped him to pay attention. He hadn't been able to explain what he meant, and Tucker had filed it away as a Caboose thing, and let it go. Besides, he'd found he didn't mind so much- Caboose's hands are big, and warm, with deep callouses from hard work, and Tucker likes how nicely his own fit in them.
That was before they were dating. Now it seems like Caboose is always finding some excuse to touch him, and if Tucker occasionally finds it stifling, it's still nice to have that contact. And there's a spiteful part of Tucker that likes how much it makes Church glare at them, though he regrets that Caboose is catching the fallout from their fight.
“You guys spend way too much time touching,” Grif says, “And this is coming from a guy who never wants to stop touching his boyfriend.”
“I like touching,” Caboose says. He's playing with Tucker's hand, tracing the lines on his palm and around his knuckles. He's probably memorized their shape by now, with how often he does it. “Touching is nice. Touching is- touching means there's another person there.”
Tucker shifts his hand and twines his fingers with Caboose's. “Don't worry about Grif, 'boose. He's just in a mood because Simmons went on that Mathletes trip and isn't here with him.”
“I am not.”
“Are so.”
“You guys are always touching, that's so sweet,” Donut says, coming up to join them. “Grif, you had Miller for Creative Writing last year, right? Can you help me with my next piece? He's hated everything I've turned in all semester. I have no idea what he wants from me.”
Grif shrugs by way over answer. Tucker glances at him. “You did really well in that class, didn't you?” he asks. “Miller thought really highly over you.”
“It wasn't hard,” Grif says. “You just have to throw a lot of philosophical bullshit at him.” He laughs, and drops into a dramatic reading voice. “Why are we here? That's the question, isn't it? Why are we here? I mean, are we the product of some cosmic coincidence, or is there really a god out there, watching over us? I don't know, but it keeps me up at night.” He grins. “I started a piece with that and he ate it up. I pulled it out of my ass. Just get philosophical on him. It's not that hard.”
“I can do philosophical....”
“I'll help you out, but it'll have to be tomorrow, I've got a race tonight. Speaking of, are you ever going to come with us? I'm getting really tired of Flynt and Rookie asking me when I'm going to bring you. Just come once and talk to them, get them off my back.”
“I don't want to. I never liked the races and- well, I have some bad memories attached to them.”
“According to your friends you used to go all the time.”
“Only because of Jimmy.”
“That guy.” Grif scowls. “I can't believe you dated that creep.”
“Neither can I. Look, just tell them I don't want to come, okay? I'm sorry. I just can't go back yet.”
Grif shrugs, and glances down at the paper he's supposed to be writing. It's due in his next class, and so far all he has is an opening sentence.
“This is so stupid,” he says irritably. “I'm supposed to write a whole paper arguing against military drafting but how in the world do I take up a whole page saying it's fucking stupid? Honestly.”
“Write a list of reasons you think it's fucking stupid and then write really long and pretentious sentences for each of them,” Tucker says. “It's what I do.”
“Yeah, well..” Grif grumbles irritably and goes back to his paper. “At least I can scrape together enough to get a passing mark, anyway.”
*
Church is still in a fowl mood when he comes home, and almost doesn't see the car parked in the driveway- he wouldn't have, if it wasn't in his spot, in fact. He heads inside, wondering who the car could belong to but at the same time assuming that it belongs to one of his dad's clients and mostly only caring because they took his spot.
He swings through the kitchen to grab a pack of crackers and barely spares the woman sat at the table with his dad a glance on his way through the dining room. At the door he stops, and backs up back inside, and stares.
“Oh fuck no,” he says. “What the fuck is she doing here?”
The woman gives him a patronizing smile. “Now is that any way to talk to your own mother?”
“It's the way to talk to the bitch who dumped me here in this hellhole. Dad what the fuck is she doing here?”
“She wanted to see you, Alpha. That's all.”
“Well too bad, because I don't want to see her. I'm going to my room. Let me know when she leaves.”
“Alpha-”
But Church ignores him, and storms upstairs. A few minutes later, Carolina pokes her head through his door. “Hey.”
“I'm not talking to her,” he says. He's on his back, staring up at the ceiling and moving invisible numbers around in his head. He blinks the numbers away and raises his head to look at Carolina. “If she wanted to talk to me she shouldn't have dumped me here.”
“I'm not here to tell you to talk to her,” Carolina says. She comes over and stretches out on her stomach beside him. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“What is she doing here? She washed her hands of me. She said- she told me I could be dad's problem now.”
She doesn't say anything, instead opting to rub his arm comfortingly. He scoots closer, leaning in on her. He'd have been upset anyway, but on top of everything else, it seems like the straw on the camel's back. It feels like every shitty thing is crashing in on him, and that scares him.
“I'm so tired.”
“I know.”
“You think she's gone yet?”
“Probably not.”
“If I sneak out and spend the night at South's, will you cover for me?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks.”
He kisses her forehead, then jumps up and heads over to his window. He has a balcony with a tree right up against it, so it's no trouble at all to swing himself into the tree and drop to the ground. From there he just has to hope they're not looking out the right window when he pulls his car out of the drive- and from there it doesn't matter, because now he's down the road on the way to the Dakotas' house, and who cares if dad notices he's gone?
*
Grif has gotten to be almost fond of Flynt and Rookie in the month and a half since he started racing. They're friendly enough guys- Rookie is a bit of a dick, and Flynt is almost always incredibly exasperated with his crew, but they and Grif get along well enough that having neighboring pits goes well for them.
Jimmy, on the other hand, can go fuck himself. Not to mention he's taken to lurking around their car when Grif is talking to the other two. He's there now, watching Stasney fiddle around under the hood. Grif breaks away and moves over to shoo him away.
“Hey, get out of there,” he says. “Stasney, what have I told you about letting him into the pit?”
“Sorry, Grif,” Stasney says. He's halfway distracted, paying little attention while he fiddles around with the engine (Grif doesn't know what he's doing, and doesn't care- his job is to drive the car, not know how it works). “I didn't think he was hurting nothing, and he's hard to get rid of.”
“Well just don't let him over here again. Who knows what he'd try to pull to hobble us. Dammit, the next call is up. Did he fuck anything up under here?”
“Nah, everything's good. I had my eye on 'im the whole time, he didn't touch nothing.” He straightens up and slams the hood down. “You're good to go. Good luck.”
Grif grumbles out a response and heads to the start line. He's been winning more and more races every week, but he has yet to win an obstacle course. He can feel it in his blood, though- this week is his week. He tightens his grip on the wheel and watches the track, planning out his first turn to get him into the lead, ears cocked for the starting pistol.
The pistol fires, and he's off, using that first turn to get him ahead of the other racers, grinning in exhilaration at that first, adrenaline-pumping move. He loves this feeling, this moment when the world is reduced to him and his machine. It's poetic, or it would be if he was the poetic sort. It's a philosophy, maybe. The sort of thing Miller would give him full marks for.
There's another turn coming up, and then the first obstacle- he switches gears and takes it wide, letting out a whoop of delight with the way the car hugs the corners. It's a conversation, he decides, a constant state of communication between him and the car. They both want the same thing, and he's the only one with the skill to push it through.
There are other cars around him, his early lead diminishing as he slows down slightly to maneuver around obstacles. Two pass him; he passes one right back. It's him and Jimmy now, neck in neck, and they're coming up onto the ditches.
This is the tricky part, the one that will require all of his concentration. The jump has to be timed right or he won't make it, and getting the car out of the ditch will take too much time, assuming he manages anyway. More than one racer has had to drop out after getting ditched.
He shifts gear again and manages to clear the ditch, skidding only a little on the other side before he gets his momentum back, and this time manages to pass Jimmy by. He resists the urge to flip the guy off as he does; he can't afford to break his concentration, not now. There's a winding road ahead, made of soft sand that will happily throw him aside if he isn't careful.
Racing is a dance, he thinks, pushing his car through the turns. Perfectly choreographed, improvised, a blend of one and the other. A testament of trust, an artform of its own kind.
He rather likes that thought: he is an artist and the race is his medium. Miller would eat it up.
He keeps ahead for the rest of the race, Jimmy hanging just behind but unable to pass him by for long. Grif's grin is slowly widening as he realizes that this might indeed be his night, that it looks like he really will finally win. It's a good night for it, too: he got a look at the pot for this one and it's huge. Win this, and he'll have enough for a down payment for his own car.
Maybe it's because he's thinking about that that he doesn't immediately catch the shift in the car's balance- that it isn't listening to his commands as smoothly. Whatever the reason, he's not prepared for when the front tire breaks away just as the car hits the last sand-bar before the finish line. He makes a rookie mistake, then, jerking the wheel in his panic and sending it spinning away, out of control. He's only aware of the world turning into a blur, of the shouts of the crowd as they realize there's been a spin-out, and then the scream of metal on metal as he collides with another car.
His head hits the wheel, and pain blossoms throughout his entire body before everything goes black.
*
It's not often anyone calls on the house phone. Donut is washing dishes when it rings; he dries his hands on a dish towel and answers it with a chipper, “Sergeant residence, this is Donut speaking~” There's a pause as he listens to the lady on the other end of the phone, and hums an affirmative. “Hold on, I'll go get him~”
He sets the phone on the counter and pokes his head into the living room, where Sarge is watching a movie with Kai curled up nearly-asleep in his lap.
“Sarge, there's a phone call for you,” he says quietly, and turns to return to the dishes.
A moment later, the door opens and he hears Sarge pick up the phone, hears a gruff, “Hello? …this is him, yes.”
He doesn't pay any more attention until he hears Sarge suddenly grab the counter with one hand to steady himself. He turns to give him a questioning look and is startled to see that Sarge is noticeably pale. He scribbling something on the notepad they keep by the phone, muttering to himself as he does.
“Understood. I'll be there as soon as I can. Donut!” He adds as he hangs up. “Grif was in a wreck, he's been hurt. They're rushing him to the hospital in Valhalla now. I'm going to go up and meet them there- stay here and look after Kai, I'll call and tell you what to do next once I know more. Tell Kai what's going on.”
Sarge shoves the paper with the details into his pocket and pokes his head into the living room. “Kai, princess, something's come up and I have to go. Donut will put you to bed for me.”
Then he's grabbing his coat and his keys and he's out the door and gone, tires squealing a little in the gravel driveway as he pulls out far too quickly. Donut stares out after him, clutching his dishrag a little too tightly. Behind him, the kitchen door opens and Kai comes in, yawning sleepily. She climbs up to the counter and rests her head in her arms.
“What's going on, Donut? Is everything all right?”
“Kai! Oh, um.” Donut turns back to his dishes, not sure. “Um, actually, there's been an accident. Um, Grif was hurt. Sarge went to take care of him.” He fumbles with the bowl in his hand, then sets it down and turns to Kai. “Hey, I know! Why don't I finish your movie with you while we wait for Sarge to call and tell us what's going on? Hmm? How does that sound?”
“Okay.”
In the living room, she settles in his lap, head resting on his shoulder while he plays with her hair.
“Grif's gonna be okay, though, right?”
“I'm sure he will be, Kai. He's tough.”
He runs his hand through her hair gently. He really hopes he's right.
*
o/o