Chapter Text
Fíli is so sick of AP Dhillon. He thought the EP was just okay when it was released (definitely no Not by Chance), and he’s been listening to it for 4 months nonstop. In the library early int he morning, he scrolls through Spotify’s genres — leaves the Punjabi section he normally stays in and looks through the list of genres. He puts ‘gay songs’ in the search and navigates to playlists before he can talk himself out of it, holding his phone close to him so no one behind him can see what he’s looking at.
The first playlist is called ‘songs gay people love.’ It has a white girl with pink hair on the cover. He presses shuffle and it’s fucking ABBA. Does he have to listen to ABBA to be a good gay guy?
Fuck it, fine. Fíli can listen to ABBA.
He gets through his exams listening to that playlist. He still hates ABBA by the end of it, but he finds some people he likes. Beyoncé, who he’s loved since he was about 4 years old and who he pretended was his celebrity crush for ages. Lil Nas X, who might be his actual celebrity crush. Charli XCX, who’s half-Desi herself. He studies all day and all night with pop music he’d never have admitted to listening to before constantly in his ears. The few times he sleeps, he dreams in their lyrics and melodies.
Uncle works longer hours than normal. Fíli stays at home during the day when no one else is there, eats dinner when Mom comes home, and then goes to the public library to work there until closing time. He walks home in the dark, boots crunching in the snow, white ground and black sky and gold streetlamps between. By the time he comes back, Uncle is already asleep. He works at the kitchen table so as not to disturb Kíli.
One night, he finishes at 4:30 and physically doesn’t have the energy to climb the stairs, brush his teeth, and fall into bed — he stumbles to the sofa and collapses there, asleep in seconds. He wakes up at 10 in the morning with a blanket over him, a pillow under his head, and a glass of water on the table next to him for when he wakes in the morning sour-mouthed and confused. He drinks his water and realizes he has no idea who took care of him, that it could have been anyone in his family. There’s a profound gift in having not just one but three people who love you enough to risk being late for work so you’ll be more comfortable, he decides.
He doesn’t forgive Uncle. But under the twin pressures of stress and time, the anger inside him quells to something more manageable. He sleeps easier because he gets so little sleep he doesn’t have a choice.
His exams are on the last four days; Linear Algebra, Calculus, Compsci, and then Statistics and Physics, one right after the other. Linear algebra is in the afternoon, so he doesn’t get a ride from Uncle and has the morning to do last-minute studying. Before he leaves, he tentatively folds himself cross-legged into the corner where Mom prays. He sits up straight, eyes shut, feeling a little foolish. Mom used to make them pray when they were little, but she gave up when she stopped putting them to sleep. Now he only prays at the gurdwara, but he doesn’t have time to go today.
He gets halfway through reciting the Ik Onkar before he gives up and says, in English, “Let me pass. For Mom and Uncle and all they’ve worked for, let me make them proud. Please don’t let them ask me to do proofs, you know I can’t do proofs.”
He gets up, but then he feels ungrateful so he sits back down. “Thank you for putting food in my stomach and a roof over my head and letting me grow up in a safe neighbourhood in a country where I have access to education. Thank you for Kíli and for Mom and for the rest of my family.” He hesitates. “Thank you for Uncle. Let us… let us sort our shit out. Even if I don’t pass, let us sort our shit out.”
He gets up. He sits back down. “Sorry for swearing.”
He gets up for the last time and heads to the bus stop. Two hours later, stomach churning and clenching, halfway convinced he’s going to puke or shit his pants, he writes his first university final.
As Fíli gets older, he’s starting to realize that everything passes eventually, good things and bad. He and Kíli will probably never be in the same school again, which means they’ll never walk there and back together the way they did since Kíli was in JK - conversations and spontaneous adventures he took for granted then, but misses all the time now. But bad things pass, too. Four days of stress later his term is finally over, and he has two glorious weeks to rest.
He comes home from his Physics exam at 3 and walks immediately into bed, waking up at 3 in the morning to pee and change into his pyjamas, and then falling back asleep. By noon the next day he’s awake again, but contents himself to lie in bed and play Assasin’s Creed on his laptop - if he leaves he’ll have to start being productive and if Fíli has to be productive he’ll cry right now.
Kíli comes back from school at 3, trailing Gimli, Ori, and Tauriel with him. Tauriel shuts the door, keeping herself and Ori in the hallway to engage in awkward conversation, as Kíli and Gimli bully him into getting out of bed, putting on jeans, tying his pagh, and going to Tim Horton’s with them.
Before they get to the door, Kíli motions them to stop. From the other side of the door, silence, and then Ori, sounding incredibly pained: “So… what do you like… to do for… fun?”
“Cat burglary,” Tauriel says.
Silence. Gimli is trying so hard not to laugh that his whole face is turning red.
“Personally, in my free time I go to underground fight clubs,” Ori says. Fíli stuffs his hoodie sleeve in his mouth so no one hears him laughing at the idea of small bespectacled slump-shouldered Ori in a fight club.
“To watch bloodsports or to participate?” Tauriel asks.
“Sorry, can’t break the first rule and talk about it,” Ori says so smoothly that Kíli instantly throws the door open, grabs Tauriel’s hand, and starts pulling her towards the door immediately, talking so animatedly that she can’t look back at Ori.
“Damn, Ori,” Fíli says, punching his cousin (well, they aren’t technically related and his brother is Uncle’s friend so if anything Ori would be his uncle but if they started trying to understand the complex network of South Asian family friends they’d be working on it all day) in the shoulder. “You got Kíli a little jealous there.”
“He doesn’t need to be, that girl terrifies me,” Ori says. “I heard about your news.”
“Oh yeah?” Fíli says, looking at his socked feet as they head to go put their shoes on. Things spread fast in their community, though they tend to be spoken about behind backs instead of to faces.
“I think you’re very brave. Gimli does, too.”
Fíli tries to stop his smile. “Thanks.”
Christmas is not an eventful day in their house — Uncle keeps the shop open, and normally Fíli and Kíli end up there working as well. Mom’s gotten the stat for once, and is still asleep in her room as the three of them make breakfast, eating their cereal and drinking their instant coffee.
“We should set out breakfast for her,” Kíli says. “As a Christmas gift.”
Fíli looks to Uncle, who shrugs. “Cereal will get soggy and toast will get cold,” he says.
Kíli opens the fridge and starts looking through the drawers. “Fruit salad it is,” he says. Fíli and Uncle watch in bemused silence as he carefully chops up apples, cantaloupe, and canned peaches, adds grapes and pecan halves to the bowl, and drizzles honey and lemon juice on top. “Weird combination but it should taste more or less fine,” he says self-consciously, before going to leave it at the hall table between Mom’s and Uncle’s bedroom doors.
They’re running late and Kíli hasn’t finished his coffee, so Fíli pours it into a water bottle for him as they start putting on their boots and jackets. Before Uncle goes to warm up the car, he claps Kíli on the shoulder and nods once decisively.
“Good idea,” he says, then leaves Kíli open-mouthed behind him.
“Did Uncle just validate me?” he asks Fíli, staring at the closed door.
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” Fíli says.
“Thanks, Jesus! Happy birthday!” Kíli shouts at the ceiling, causing Fíli to clamp a hand over his mouth so he doesn’t wake Mom.
As they pull into the shop, Fíli’s phone rings. He grabs it to hang up on the telemarketer, but his contact says ‘Dad.’
“Holy — holy hell,” he says, quickly course correcting as Uncle gives him a warning look, showing the screen to Kíli.
“Goddamn,” Kíli agrees. “Should we answer it?”
“I don’t want to talk to him!” Fíli protests. “We have work anyways, we could just leave it.”
“Maybe he’s calling because there’s an emergency?” Kíli says. “Maybe he got hurt or one of our grandparents died?”
“Talk to your father,” Uncle orders.
“Fine,” Fíli sighs, and presses accept.
“Hi, Dad!” Kíli says with false brightness.
“Hi, Fíli,” his dad says.
“No, this is Kíli - say hi, Fíli!”
“Hi,” Fíli says. “Uncle’s here, too.”
Uncle does not say hi.
“How’s school?” Dad says.
“School’s good,” Kíli says. “Fíli just finished his first semester at university!”
“What are you studying?” Dad says.
“Computer science,” Fíli says.
“You like it?”
“Mostly. It’s cool, I guess.”
“Good, good. Good careers in that.”
“Yeah,” Fíli says.
“Make sure you get an internship,” Dad says. “Connections are everything.”
“Cool,” Fíli says. He makes a face at Kíli - the fuck are we supposed to talk about now?
Kíli makes an i’ll kill you for leaving this on me face back and says, “How are things with you?”
“Good,” Dad says. “The farm is good. You have a little brother.”
“Oh, cool - what?” Fíli says. Uncle’s frown gets, if possible, more pronounced. “You’re married?”
“Is that legal?” Kíli whispers. “I didn’t think he and Mom were properly divorced.”
“Probably not,” Fíli whispers back, then says. “That’s great! When was he born?”
“He’s five months old. July… eighteen? Nineteen?”
“Healthy?” Kíli asks.
“Yes,” their dad says.
“That’s cool. And… your… wife?” Fíli says.
“She’s good.”
“Cool!” Kíli says.
“Cool,” Fíli says. He whispers to Uncle: “Can we hang up now?”
Uncle nods, rage on his face, but Dad says: “So, do you have girlfriends yet? Is your mother raising you properly or is she letting you date white girls?”
“I have a girlfriend,” Kíli says, smiling just at the thought of her. “Her name is Tauriel.”
“Sikh?”
“Muslim,” Kíli says, fearlessly.
“You’d better not marry her,” Dad warns. “I can’t believe your mother is letting you see her at all. Fíli, you’re a good boy. You’re going to marry a nice Sikh girl.”
And Fíli decides, although he supposes he’d like to know his baby half-brother, he doesn’t care if he loses this wife-beating absentee-father Islamaphobic asshole. “No, I’m gay.”
Silence on the line. Kíli and Uncle are both gaping at him, eerily similar expressions on their faces.
Finally, Dad says, “I thought I had three sons. Now I know I only have two.”
“Cool,” Fíli says, rolling his eyes.
“No, you only have one,” Kíli says. “If our brother wants to talk to us he can, but I want you to lose our numbers.”
Kíli goes to hang up over Dad’s shouting, but Uncle grabs the phone out of Fíli’s hand, leaves the car, and starts shouting right back, a tirade of furious Punjabi and English, mostly swearing.
“I can’t believe he’s allowed to talk like that but I’m not allowed to say ‘ass’ in the house,” Kíli says.
“I think we just cut off our dad,” Fíli says, watching Uncle flip off the phone as if Dad can see him.
Kíli shrugs. “It was coming. Even if he hadn’t been a dick to you, I’d have to stop speaking to him if I plan to marry Tauriel, anyways.”
“Damn, you’re like in-love in-love, aren’t you,” Fíli says — he knows it in theory, but it surprises him every time he’s reminded that for his weird reckless jokester brother, this girl is the most serious thing in the world.
“Yeah,” Kíli says, and smiles to himself at the thought of her.
“I wish I was in love,” Fíli admits.
“One day you will be,” Kíli says, as if it’s a truth of the universe strong as gravity. “I can’t believe Dad got a wife and had a son and only told us now. He has to have been with her for at least a year and a half. We’ve spoken to him like 4 times since then and he never even told us he was engaged!”
“I wouldn’t put it past him to have had a few daughters first and only tell us about the boy,” Fíli says. “Why is every man we’re related to so fucked up?”
“Some strong-ass generational cycles we have to break,” Kíli says, nodding wisely.
“We never even got the kid’s name,” Fíli realizes. “Should we go back and ask for it?”
Kíli looks out the window, where Uncle is still cursing out Dad, yelling directly into the speaker in the hopes it’ll hurt his ears more all the way in Punjab (Fíli listens in — Uncle is currently telling Dad to go fuck himself, his grandmother, and all four of his skinny diseased cows). “I don’t want to get into the middle of that,” he says. “He’ll find us later — or we’ll find him. Either way, we have time.”
That Saturday, the night before New Year’s Eve, Kíli tells him they’re going to a party.
“I don’t want to go to a party,” Fíli says. “Who’s throwing a party?”
“One of Tauriel’s friends,” Kíli says.
“Tauriel’s going to a party? Tauriel gets uncomfortable being at the movie theatre because she thinks it’s too crowded and loud and dark and she’s going to a party?”
“She’s branching out and trying new things, so I’m going to support her, so you’re going to support me,” Kíli orders. “Wear something nice so you don’t embarass me.”
Their routine is well-worn at this point; at dinner they ask permission to go to sleep at Ori’s, they let Ori know to lie his ass off if anyone asks where they are, and they leave for the night wearing sweatpants over their outfits.
But instead of turning down Tauriel’s street, Kíli drives them in the opposite direction.
“Where is this party?” Fíli asks.
“Downtown.”
“Who does Tauriel know who lives downtown?”
“Oh, no one, it’s at a club.”
He tries to picture Tauriel at a club in her hijab, hoodie, and noise-cancelling headphones. It doesn’t compute. “Tauriel’s going to a club?”
“Oh, she’s not coming, that’s a lie. We’re going to a gay bar. Merry Christmas!”
“What,” Fíli says.
“I’ve been looking and there’s a place downtown with a New Year’s Eve Eve party. We’re going to go. You’ll be around your people! It’ll be fun!”
“Kíli, turn around,” Fíli says, heart thudding. “I am not going to a gay bar with my little brother. You’re underage!”
“I have a fake.”
“Why do you have a fake?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, which makes Fíli worry about it 300% more.
“Kíli, I don’t want to do this,” Fíli says. “What if some guy hits on you?”
“Then I say ‘thanks, but I’m cuffed. However, if you like brown, hairy, and big-nosed, can I recommend my buddy Fíli who looks exactly like me?’ I’ll be like an ad for you!”
“You suck so bad,” Fíli says, considering if it’s worth it to grab the steering wheel and swerve them both into a tree — they’d both die but that has to be better than going to a gay bar with your straight little brother.
Kíli passes him his phone. “Here, call Mr. Baggins if that’ll make you normal.”
“I’m not calling Mr. Baggins because we aren’t going,” Fíli says. Kíli takes the phone back and Fíli thinks he’s finally listening, but he just dials Mr. Baggins’ number and hands it back already ringing and on speakerphone.
“Mr. Baggins, tell Kíli to turn around and not take me to a club,” Fíli orders as soon as Mr. Baggins says ‘hello.’
“You’re going to a gay bar?” Mr. Baggins says. “It’ll be good for you! I thought that you’d have gone before now. By the time I was seventeen, the bouncers at my favourites knew me by name.”
“You were — how did you get in?”
“I had a fake ID, obviously,” Mr. Baggins says. Fíli wonders where everyone is getting fakes from and why no one told him about them. “It’s important to be around other queer people. You might even meet someone you like.”
“I’ll show up and they’ll decide I’m some terrorist there to hate-crime them and kick me out,” Fíli says. Kíli glances over, concerned, then looks back to the road.
“In the city we live in? I promise you aren’t the first sardar they’ve seen. You might not even be the only one there tonight.”
“I went to my school’s queer alliance and they kicked me out,” Fíli says, and for a second the hurt is real and present in his voice.
Mr. Baggins is silent for a second. “I’m sorry that happened to you, son.”
“Whatever, it wasn’t a big deal.”
“It was,” Mr. Baggins says. “But this bar won’t kick you out, because you’re a paying customer and they want to make money off you. So go, and have a good time.”
“What if — what if no one likes me?”
“Then you try again some other night,” Mr. Baggins says, but Fíli is already cutting him off: “No, I mean forever, what if no one ever likes me, and I came out and caused my family all this pain for nothing?”
“You don’t come out for a love story,” Mr. Baggins says. “If you do, you’ll be sorely disappointed. You come out so that you aren’t lying anymore, so you can tell people the truth. The love story is separate — has to be separate, because the point is you, not some other person. I came out at sixteen, weathered all the extended family who stopped speaking to me, had a series of disappointing relationships and stopped dating at all by the time I was thirty. I met the love of my life in my fourties, and only convinced him to be with me a year after the first time we kissed. If I came out because I was looking for your uncle, I’d have spent thirty years miserable. But I came out so that other people could see me, because it was about me. Your coming out needs to be about you.”
“Ugh,” Fíli says, leaning forwards to thunk his forehead against the dashboard. “I wish you weren’t right.”
“Unfortunately, I always am,” Mr. Baggins says. “It’s a great burden to bear.”
“If Uncle is the love of your life, are you going to get married?” Kíli asks, grinning.
“Probably not,” Mr. Baggins says. “Neither of us are interested in a secular civil ceremony, and currently there aren’t any Sikh priests in this country willing to perform same-sex marriages, and the only Hindu priest willing to do it is nearly three hours away. Either way, I have no intention in leaving my house, and your uncle doesn’t want to leave you two or your mother. Maybe in ten or twenty years, when the world has changed and the two of you have families of your own.”
“You’ll be old by then,” Fíli says.
“Making your circles with your canes and walkers,” Kíli laughs.
“Rude!” Mr. Baggins says, and gets himself ready for a long lecture about respecting your elders that Kíli says “Okay, cool, we will, bye Mr. Baggins!”
They park the pickup uptown, take the train the rest of the way into the city, and walk to the bar Kíli picked out, the best combination of cheap and convenient that they’ve worked out from growing up in a large family that hates spending money. Fíli is bizarrely nervous.
“Let’s just turn around and find somewhere else to go,” he says when they get to the entryway. “There are tons of clubs here, let’s just go dancing. Or we can go get food!”
“There’s food and dancing in the bar, probably. Just be normal,” Kíli orders, dragging them past the bouncer (showing his fake very confidently, Fíli notices) and into the bar.
It’s busy but not packed, about equal numbers of men and women, most of them seeming in their mid-twenties. The lights are pink and purple, the music is a pop song Fíli doesn’t recognize. He and Kíli are the only sardars there, but they aren’t the only men of colour — in fact, there’s a knot of three other brown guys there, though Fíli isn’t sure if they’re Arab or Desi. Two white girls beside him are making out — Fíli doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone make out with someone outside of movies, let alone two people of the same gender.
Kíli, now that they’re inside, looks a little overwhelmed, too. He leans in closer so he can shout in Fíli’s ear: “Do you want me to stick with you, or should I go sit by the bar?”
He remembers what Balin Uncle said - time to be more than his brother’s brother, make friends on his own. “I got this,” he says, with way more confidence than he actually has. Kíli claps him on the shoulder and leaves — and then he’s by himself and really regretting it.
It’s fine! Fíli can be brave! Fíli can totally be brave and talk to someone.
He mostly just stays on the edge of the dance floor, awkwardly bobbing up and down, watching all the people around him. Kíli seems to be making friends with the bartender, already halfway through a beer. Fíli wonders if he could go over and just get Kíli to introduce him. At least then he’d meet one other queer person.
“First time here?” someone says behind him, and he turns to see a guy about his own age, lightskinned Black, a little taller than Fíli, a diamond stud in his ear and a really nice fade. Fíli’s mouth goes dry.
“How could you tell?” he asks.
“Your eyes look like—” and the boy spreads his closed hands into little starbursts of shock. His smile is really, really nice.
“It’s different,” Fíli admits. “What’s your name?”
“Aaron,” he says — or, Fíli thinks he does. It’s really loud.
“Aaron? My name’s Fíli!”
“That’s a nice name,” Aaron says. No one has ever called his name nice before. Fíli doesn’t know what to say now. The music changes to Beyonce — a song Fíli recognizes from his research.
“I love this song!” Fíli cries.
“Who doesn’t?” Aaron says, and grabs Fíli’s hand and pulls him into the thick of the dance floor. People bumping against him from all sides, some short East Asian girl with her friends pushed against his back where he has to be careful not to stampede her when he steps back, a respectful distance between him and Aaron that gets smaller with every song. Fíli’s heart is thudding, sweat is trickling down his back, he keeps gulping in the hot, sweet-smoky air. Is it the dancing, or the heat of the club, or Aaron? Maybe all three?
“You should come next Friday,” Aaron shouts over the music. “There’s another event. The DJ is one of my friends, she plays a lot of Afrobeats and reggaeton. The vibe should be a lot less…”
“White?” Fíli supplies. Aaron throws his head back to laugh. Fíli stares at the line of his neck.
The DJ announces: “Make some noise for the last day of the year!”
Drunk on dancing, Fíli obligingly whoops with everyone else. Aaron says, “You ready for tomorrow? Want to practice?”
“What?” Fíli says, stepping closer to hear him better.
“I tried a stupid line,” Aaron says, smiling self-consciously. “Can I kiss you?”
Fíli nods frantically — and then Aaron does! He puts his hands on the sides of Fíli’s neck, respectful of his turban, and pushes Fíli’s face up to kiss him again! It’s closed-mouthed — Aaron can probably tell how inexperienced Fíli is, it probably shows in his every action — and it doesn’t feel anything like Fíli anticipated. He really likes it.
Aaron lets him go and Fíli leans up again — and then Kíli shows up, that bastard, and grabs him by the arm.
“We have to go,” Kíli says. Fíli pushes him away.
“Go away, Kíli, seriously — now is not the time!”
“Who’s this?” Aaron says.
“I’m his brother, and our parents are currently outside and fucking furious,” Kíli says. Fíli’s stomach flips.
“Wait, you’re not underage, right?” Aaron says, backing up.
“No, they’re just really strict,” Fíli says. He’s never been so embarrassed in his life.
“You safe with them?” Aaron asks.
“He’s mad we’re at a bar at all, not that it’s a gay one,” Kíli says.
Aaron laughs. “Good luck, man,” he says, clapping Kíli on the shoulder. Kíli starts wading out of the dance floor. Fíli looks back at Aaron before he follows.
“Thanks for my first kiss,” he says, feeling very childish — but he needs Aaron to know how important it was to him, even if it wasn’t important to Aaron.
Aaron grins. “Anytime, Fíli. Next Friday!”
Fíli nods, a dopey smile on his face, then leaves.
The family car is parked on the side of the road, Uncle cross-armed in front of it. Fíli’s dopey smile evaporates, then his stomach plunges as he realizes: “I didn’t even get his Instagram! I’m never going to see him again!”
“Bruh, we have bigger priorities — we aren’t going to see the sunrise,” Kíli mutters as they reach the car, finally unable to drag their feet enough.
“It was my idea,” Fíli says as soon as they’re within earshot.
“No it wasn’t,” Uncle says. “Get in the car, we’re going home.”
“We left the truck uptown,” Kíli says cautiously.
“Then I suppose you can take the bus tomorrow morning to go pick it up,” Uncle says.
“We only parked until seven,” Fíli protests. “It’ll get towed.”
“Then I suppose you can take the bus early tomorrow morning,” Uncle says. “In.”
Though it’s not the first time Uncle’s caught them sneaking out, it’s the first time since Fíli started university, so for the first few minutes of the drive there isn’t yelling, as if Uncle is trying to remember how to start.
“You have to tell us how mad you are,” Kíli says.
“Do I,” Uncle says.
“Madder than when we took Gimli to the Drake concert on a school night?” Kíli says, starting out with something that made Uncle yell at them for forty minutes straight.
“Yes.”
Kíli visibly gulps.
“Madder than when we went to that party near the river and Kíli got so drunk he fell off the bridge and broke his leg?” Fíli asks, bringing out the big guns.
Uncle considers. “Not so mad as then.”
“Cool,” Kíli says.
“Cool?” Uncle says. “Cool? Do you have any idea how foolish it was to go all the way downtown without letting anyone know where you were, do you have any idea what could have happened…”
Uncle finds his rhythm and gets ready for a good yelling session. Fíli leans back in the passenger’s seat and lets it come — this speech is familiar to both of them. Uncle tells them not to have fun, they promise they never will again, and two weeks later they’re pretending they’re having a sleepover at Ori’s and going to another party. He seems to know it won’t work either, because for once it ends after only ten minutes. Uncle promises that for the rest of the winter break, doing the dishes, shoveling the driveway, and cleaning the bathrooms are entirely their responsibility, then breaks off, breathing hard.
They sit for awhile in silence.
“Fíli’s in love,” Kíli announces.
Fíli turns around in his seat and tries to murder him. “Shut up!”
“Who’s Fíli in love with?” Uncle asks, pushing Fíli to the side so he doesn’t bump into Uncle and crash the car.
“I’m not in love with him, I don’t even have his Instagram,” Fíli protests.
“Me and Tauriel can find his Instagram if you want us to,” Kíli says. “It’ll be a good chance to check out my future brother-in-law!”
“Shut up!” Fíli cries again.
“Leave your brother alone, that’s just what younger brothers do. Frerin acted the same way.”
Fíli and Kíli look at each other wide-eyed. Kíli says, purposefully casually, “He did?”
“I played football — soccer, to you. Our team made it to compete with the whole region, but we didn’t make it to the state competition. The team that beat us had a fantastic goalkeeper. The whole game, we only scored one time, when I got lucky. When we shook hands at the end, the goalkeeper told me to meet him after. I thought we were going to fight, but he kissed me instead and left.”
“And Frerin Uncle?”
“I spent the rest of the tournament with your uncle trying to find him again, but I didn’t even know his name. Eventually I gave up — and then we went home, and the troubles started, and he died a little while after.”
“I’m sorry,” Fíli says, thinking it would be over, but Uncle keeps talking.
“Frerin fell in love so easily,” Uncle says, shaking his head to himself about it. “Every other day, some new girl would turn his head and he’d forget all about the old one he’d been following around. He wasn’t cruel about it, just… young. He offended some girls, though. One time, a girl was so angry that he’d stopped flirting with her and was talking to someone else that she put a snake in his bag — not a poisonous one, but when he opened it and the snake came out he screamed so loudly we thought he was dying.”
Fíli turns to listen better. Uncle, startled by the motion, turns from the road to look at him.
Fíli smiles. “And then what happened?”
And Uncle smiles back, like he’s surprised himself that he’s capable of it, and tells him.