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It’s too cold to have the windows rolled down as they wait, but Grif has them down anyways. Simmons pulls his jacket tighter and bunches up his knees in the passenger seat, shoving his shins against the dash so he can sit with his feet perched on the seat and Grif exhales, a cloud of smoke drifting out of the car, lazily, like the way he holds the cigarette loosely in his fingers or how he taps his foot just off-beat to the song he’s got on or how he tilts his head back, eyes sliding to the side to look at Simmons.
Simmons flinches as the smell hits him, the stench of cigarettes that sticks to the seats and laces into Grif’s hair and clothes, but he lets it go because he’s never going to manage to get Grif to stop because Grif gets some sort of morbid pleasure out of doing something that’s bad for him, like it reinstates his control over his life. Like when people scoff or scorn him, it’ll be because they see the cigarette first, and then they’ll never look past to see the everything else; the sadness, the anger, insecurity.
Simmons is the same, they’re the same, they just do it differently. Deal with it differently. Simmons tries to fit in and hide and Grif makes people mad and purposely tries to disappoint so nobody will tell the difference when he really does fuck up, when he really is angry, emotional, so he never has to be sincere or vulnerable. He’s a steady presence, reliable, predictable.
“Simmons-”
“Just give me a sec.”
Grif looks at him, a sideways glance that sees a whole lot and Simmons looks past Grif to his white house, the red garage and the overgrown path leading to the security gate and door.
Simmons fiddles with his hands, picking at his gloves as he thinks and thinks and thinks and Grif snubs his cigarette in the ash tray, still looking over at his friend, one foot laid out almost straight, the other bent at the knee, and a hand now loosely settled on the stick-shift.
Simmons catches his eye, and with a huffy sigh, Grif twists and tugs the keys out of the ignition and pops his door open. “C’mon. We’re doing this.”
“Grif-”
Grif’s sharp look makes him snap his mouth shut, teeth clacking and a tongue peaking out to run over his cracked lips.
“Grif,” He starts again, “I just need a-“
“I know you, Simmons.” Grif leans forward so a forearm is braced on the frame of the car, and he’s leaning down through the open window to get a better view of Simmons, all fucked up and nervous and tugging at the hair that’s too long and smells like Tucker’s crappy cologne because he can’t stand the smell of the flowery conditioner his mom buys. “You’re gonna just sit there and talk yourself out of doing this and last night you told me to make sure you do this and… Buddy,” Grif looks at him, Grif always looks at him and Simmons doesn’t feel scrutinized and it’s the worst. “I – Simmons, you’re miserable.”
“Yea, well,” Simmons lets his legs fall so his feet touch the carpet and he’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees as he resolutely looks at nothing but the grey dashboard, “I’m sure I’ll be twice as miserable knowing my mom hates me.”
“At least you’ll know, right? Simmons? Don’t you want to know?”
“I…” Simmons can’t find the words to say, can’t, for the life of him, fumble out anything that’ll reassure Grif and reassure himself and so after a moment of dead-beat silence, Grif pushes himself off the car and circles around the front, hand tracing the hood lightly until he reaches Simmons’ door.
Simmons has a blank expression as Grif tugs on the handle, as the locks disengage and as Grif manhandles him out onto the pavement by the shoulders, but his face drops when Grif shoves a heavy arm around his shoulder and tugged his head down until his crooked nose is shoved in Grif’s warm neck in an awkward embrace that Simmons responds to lately.
Leaves crunch around them as the wind picks up, but he’s warm where his body touches Grif’s, comforted and it’s too kind and too understanding and his jeans are too decorated and his jacket’s too fitted.
Simmons inhales shakily, digging his face deeper into the collar of Grif’s hoodie and reaching up to wrap the thick material around his fingers as he’s overwhelmed by the smell of cigarettes and Grif.
“It’ll be okay, Simmons.” Grif curls his fingers around the back of Simmons’ neck, fingers sinking into his stupid long hair and Simmons’ glasses are all screwed up and digging into the bridge of his nose but he doesn’t dare do anything that’d break his resolve to not cry. “It’ll suck, all of the stuff you’re afraid of might happen, but I know you want to get this over with and it’s better to regret something you did rather than didn’t do… Right?” Hypocrite.
Simmons can’t find the energy to argue with Grif’s skewed logic.
“I mean…” The arms around Simmons loosen as Grif pulls back slightly, “I mean… This isn’t…” He looks sheepish as he holds Simmons by the forearms, then pats his shoulder in a stiff gesture, “This isn’t my call, and… And maybe you’re right, maybe this isn’t the right thing to do. It’s not me who has to do the talking, who has to… Who has to… Y’know?”
Grif’s hands fall down to his sides, twiddling with the pockets on his jeans and hooking his thumbs through the faded belt loops, and he looks up at Simmons and Simmons shakes his head and firmly drags the back of his hand under his eyes, pushing his glasses up as he makes sure there are no more tears. “No, I can… You’re right. I want to do this.”
“Alright?” Grif takes a step back and shoves his hands in his pocket, looking for one last word of confirmation, unsure and slowly tipping and tipping and tipping and swaying until he shakes his head and steadies himself, running a hand through his shaggy hair impulsively so it sticks up.
“Alright.” Simmons drags his eyes away from Grif’s newly disturbed hair and turns to face down his house. He thinks he sees his mom through the living room window, a hint of a shadow as she walks from the bedrooms to the kitchen in a smooth motion. “I’m okay. I can do this.”
Grif’s hands itch in his pockets, the inside’s all patchy, but it’s cold and so he keeps his hands there, irritated but not exposed to the biting wind. Why is it so cold? It’s March, it shouldn’t be this cold. The new growth, all delicate and colored a hesitant green, is tugged at by the icy breeze, small, little leaves on the bushes lining the back yard and moss reclaiming the tree closest to him dance in the breeze and Grif watches it distantly, untethered, unreal. Frost and patches of snow cling to the shadows, underneath the porch and along the trunks of trees, stubborn, and the branches clack and click like skeletons above him as the wind snatches at his hat, pulled down over his ears for warmth.
Grif lets his eyes close and tries not to let the crying and raised voices get to him, tries to ignore the way his fingers twitch for something to smoke, tries not to clench his fists too hard and let his frown grow too deep, but he feels the ache in his chest grow and the uneasiness in his stomach roll. The panels on the house dig into his back and shoulders as he leans against them, he knows that when he stands straight again, he’ll have little flakes of white paint on the back of his hoodie, and so he tries to focus on that.
He focuses on how his pose, nonchalant against the house, is uncomfortable and probably bad for his posture in the long run. He focuses on how the cold nips his face, how it makes his cheeks glow and lips feel numb, how his fingers begin to ache and how his grandma told him to put on warmer clothes before he left the house with Simmons.
Simmons’ mom is sobbing, screaming something about how cutting his hair and wearing different clothes won’t make him a boy and that Simmons can’t do this right now, not when she’s started dating a nice man who seems like he’d stick around, and Simmons’ response is muffled, but Grif can hear the strain in his voice, the way his pitch rises and shakes, the way Grif knows Simmons hates because it makes him sound like a girl and he’s not that.
He wants to smoke.
He wishes…. He wishes Simmons didn’t have to go through this, wishes he could take away all the problems in the world and just let the people he cares about be good and kind and happy. Wishes his grandma could stop worrying about bills and that Sarge could get past using anger to deal with everything; wishes that Church’s teachers would just give him a fucking break and help him graduate and though he doesn’t understand what Simmons must be going through, Grif wishes that he could just wave his hand and make him happy, give him the body he wants, the family he wants, the life he wants.
A crash and a jarring shout echo through the neighborhood, bouncing off the fences and windows and doors and Grif jumps, immediately reaching for the handle of the door, a jolt of cold fear shooting through his chest as he fumbles, but the door’s heaved open before he can get to it and he’s stumbling back as Simmons shoves the screen door into his chest and steps out of the doorway.
The back door’s left blown open wide, but the screen door squeals shut, bounces off the frame and then the lock clicks into place, the hinges old and rusted and then all he can hear is distant crying, ugly and loud coming from somewhere inside and Simmons’ labored breaths. His hair is in his face, his hands are tugging violently at the edge of his shirt, and Grif holds his breath, frozen, not sure what to say because… Because there’s nothing he can say. He doesn’t know what this is like, he’s never seen this happen before, he’s never… He doesn’t say anything because he can’t risk saying the wrong thing, not now, not right now.
Normalcy. Simmons likes it when it’s normal, when stuff’s steady and reliable and predictable but nothing’s like that right now. Everything’s just a bundle of nerves and pain, like a knot in his back after sleeping weird for a couple nights in a row that he leaves to fester because fuck if he does anything to alleviate his own pain. He can’t skip back into normalcy, and Simmons can’t do that either because sometimes you just need a few nice words but Grif can’t say those right now because he doesn’t know what Simmons wants to hear.
Grif closes his mouth, lips pressed thin into a frown and eyebrows screwed together as he watches Simmons’ shoulders shake, head all bowed and hair spilling everywhere, and Simmons doesn’t like pity. Grif doesn’t feel pity, he feels sympathy but Simmons doesn’t understand the difference when the emotions are directed at him.
Simmons looks up, doesn’t bother to push his curly hair out of his face but Grif catches sight of a bruise on his cheek that’s only gonna get worse with time anyways, and he sees a handful of little, thin scratches up the side of his face, just barely skirting his left eye. He feels anger, he feels sadness, he feels a lot of emotions that can all be lumped together in a big pile of bad, and so he does just that: Lumps everything up into the corner as he catches Simmons gaze.
Simmons has never liked physical contact, he’s never liked the way teachers pat him on the shoulder or the way his mom stiffly hugs him or the way doctors shake his hand, and Grif’s sorely aware, but Simmons tilts his head and sinks forward just a little bit, arms raising and palms open and Grif responds immediately, lets Simmons take the comfort he needs, lets the taller boy sink his face into his old sweatshirt, hang his arms over his shoulders and shake while Grif tugs him closer and slides a hand up his back to grip his shoulder.
Simmons still has his coat on, his thin gloves, and his scarf’s still hanging around his neck, but it’s undone and his hat’s gone. Grif closes his eyes and sinks into the embrace, feels everything boiling inside him and lets the emotions surface but doesn’t scrutinize, doesn’t think about it. Just act. Just do.
“Wanna go home?” Grif says before he can stop himself, and he regrets it because it’s presumptuous, because it makes it sound like he just assumed that Simmons is never coming back to this stupid fucking house or that he’s not welcome here anymore, and he really should stop convincing himself to just act and to just do because it barely ever works out for him, but Simmons doesn’t comment, just pulls back and smooths the hair out of his face, gloves just making a static-y mess out of his already wild and already fizzy, wind-swept, curly hair. It's red and flares out at the shoulders and there's no way for Simmons to control it.
Grif’s heart skips a beat, wondering how this situation’s gonna play out, how this is gonna end, but he steadies as Simmons nods his head, avoiding Grif’s gaze as he focuses on wiping some stray tears away with his fingers, and Grif fiddles with the keys in his pocket before looping an arm around Simmons’ back and slotting himself against Simmons side, and Simmons returns the gesture, arm thrown over Grif’s shoulder and Grif swears he hears a huff that sounds like it could eventually turn into a small, little, half-hearted laugh.