Work Text:
Sometimes, from across the playground, Menlo watches TJ with his new friends, and he’s struck with a wave of nostalgia, of that used to be mine.
The years spent at TJ’s side… it was a chance to know the most loyal, most thoughtful, most selfless, most creative friend that a kid could ever have. What they shared has shaped Menlo’s awareness of what friends should be to each other; he couldn’t ask for better memories.
Equally, he’s aware that TJ needs more than just a single friend. Whatever they were to each other, it wasn’t enough… and Menlo can’t begrudge TJ for finally finding a group of friends to suit him. Perhaps if Menlo himself were different, he could see himself blending in with them, becoming part of the gang and regaining that friendship—but he and TJ, once inseparable, have grown too different, and he knows himself too well to even try.
When TJ hops onto Mikey’s back for a quick ride, whooping his hat through the air like he’s a cowboy, Menlo recalls the twin authentic cowboy hats they’d gotten for Christmas one year, along with hobby horses. They were five, he thinks, maybe four. It was the best present either of them could have asked for, and they’d spent months obsessed with the Wild West.
Then, one day, he’d left his horse in the yard, and it got chewed up by the neighbor’s dog.
TJ hadn’t thought twice about giving his own to replace it; he said he’d been hoping to play the Indian sidekick instead, and so they’d gone on, with just as much fun, until Menlo accidentally broke the other horse as well.
Then TJ had become the horse. Menlo has always been small for his age, so riding around on TJ’s back was easy and fun, and there were no hard feelings over the loss of their favorite toys.
He wonders if TJ even remembers those times.
When TJ tosses a ball around with Vince, Menlo recalls the two months they spent in Little League. TJ, of course, loved being surrounded by other kids; Menlo, not the youngest boy on the team but certainly the smallest, had struggled to keep up.
When TJ had realized the problem, he’d declared that he’d never really liked the game, anyway, and they might as well quit and go back to throwing frisbees in the park. Menlo had pointed out the problems with that: They’d be letting down the team and leaving them without enough players; they’d be disappointing their parents, who’d paid for the equipment; and the other kids would think ill of TJ if he couldn’t even finish a season of Little League.
In typical TJ fashion, he’d solved the dilemma in one memorable practice session. He brought three new kids to watch the game (and, soon enough, replace them on the team); he managed to wound himself three times (leaving him with a black eye, a limp, and two swollen fingers); and then, when it was clear that he couldn’t keep playing, he’d traded their gear to the new kids for a little less than the original cost, and made up the difference by finding someone to buy the Game Boy he’d gotten for his birthday last year.
They’d gone back to throwing frisbees in the park, and Menlo had never been happier… though he did catch TJ looking wistful, sometimes, when he saw kids playing baseball. (He never even tried to join in.)
When TJ’s too sick to show up for school, Gretchen faithfully asks for an extra set of handouts so that he doesn’t get behind on homework. As Menlo hands them over, he thinks: He used to do that for me. Not that TJ much appreciated it the other way around, but he knew that Menlo never missed a single sheet, never failed to fill out a single question—and because that was important to Menlo, it was important to TJ.
Menlo’s childhood was a string of illnesses—nothing particularly serious, but far more than the average kid, and allergies on top of that—so he’d spent a lot of time confined to his room, not even allowed visitors. Except that TJ had found a way to abide by the spirit of the law, while ignoring the letter, and entertained him through the window, sometimes for hours. (The puppet shows were Menlo’s favorite.)
On days when TJ’s absent, Menlo gets to wondering what TJ would think if Menlo showed up to entertain him through the window. It never gets further than that idle speculation, of course; Menlo would never skip school. Besides, what would he do if he ran into TJ’s gang playing hooky at the same time, and for the same reason? He’d feel almost compelled to report them, thus also reporting himself.
On top of that, he’s not even sure what TJ’s into these days. He doubts it’s puppet shows.
When TJ brings the newcomer, Gus, over to the corner by the dumpsters, Menlo keeps an eye on them, wondering what sort of mischief TJ is up to now. But soon enough their expressions tell Menlo exactly which joke TJ is passing along, the three-stage setup that was scandalous at six years old and is still a little racy at ten.
Like so many other tidbits of childhood, it’s the kind of thing passed from child to child on the playground, the kind of thing you never say around the grownups, even though a lot of grownups probably learned that joke when they were kids.
Many of the things that he and TJ shared at six are things they’ll never share again; they’ve both gotten too old for it, or else Menlo’s gotten too used to the rules. He’s not exactly known for keeping secrets, these days. Not quite a snitch like Randall, but more an ally of the staff than of the kids; they know not to trust him with anything that breaks the rules.
When TJ and Spinelli catch a sixth-grader harassing a second-grader, Menlo watches them drive her off and then dry the little one’s tears and get him interested in a game of hopscotch until he’s grinning once again.
So TJ’s still the defender of the weak. Menlo isn’t surprised; TJ never did stand for bullies, even from the day they’d met.
Menlo had managed, for the first time, to get onto a swing by himself, and he’d been trying to figure out how to pump his legs when a bigger kid had pushed him off and claimed the swing. TJ had helped him up, brushed him off, and then told the other kid to stop being a jerk and act nice.
When the other kid had simply smirked at them, TJ had led Menlo over to the monkey-bars, and helped boost him up to get started. A few falls later, they’d been best friends.
It wasn’t until the end of the day that they spotted a Popsicle stick in a pile of red goo, and TJ remembered that he’d had a Spider-Man Popsicle before he’d run over to help Menlo. That was just like TJ: all the many ways he’d drop everything just to help a friend.
He’d still had a lisp at the time, and the childish voice runs through Menlo’s mind, there and gone but painful for the passing.
The bell rings, and the day is over, and as Menlo turns away to collect the balls, there’s an ache in the back of his throat. It’s a good thing, the fact that he and TJ grew apart, that TJ isn’t setting aside his life for his only friend anymore.
For all that TJ meant to him—still means to him—he had to let him go. Whatever vices Menlo might have, jealousy has never been one of them, so the feelings that rise to the surface are not sour, but bittersweet; the hurt is covered over by a quiet acceptance that people grow and change and move on, and that he was privileged to have the chance to borrow TJ, briefly, when he needed him, and now to sometimes watch him from afar.