Chapter Text
Race isn’t sure what he expected on his first morning back home after five years away. But opening his eyes to reveal a pair of big, brown eyes mere inches from his face is decidedly not it.
“Jesus fuck!” He yelps, scrambling into a sitting position against the arm of the couch as he tugs his blanket up to his chin. It’s a pointless gesture, he’s fully clothed, but he’s surprised and his heart is pounding out of his chest and he’s so tired he’s almost dizzy. An amused giggle reaches his ears and as his eyes focus, he realizes there’s a teenage girl sitting on the coffee table, watching him with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. He opens his mouth to speak again when an ever-familiar voice floats through the doorway from the kitchen.
“Language,” Medda’s voice holds that maternal weight that brokers no argument, and Race sinks down against the couch almost unconsciously.
“Sorry, Mama,” He mumbles, willing his cheeks not to burn, not to be embarrassed in front of this teenager, this child who sits there staring smugly at him, head cocked to the side like she’s looking at him through a microscope. He bristles under her gaze as he starts to become coherent and he’s about to ask who the hell she thinks she is when she speaks again.
“Are you really Anthony Higgins?”
“I–”
“‘Cause I’ve seen your picture on the wall, and Mama talks about you all the time but you look different than in the movies.” Race can hardly begin to form a response, his jetlagged brain slow and sluggish as he studies her face. She’s young, maybe sixteen—or maybe she just wants people to think she’s sixteen, and she’s really a couple years younger. Race likes her immediately.
“To be fair,” He says, and he sounds as groggy as he feels as he runs a hand through his hair, surely sticking on end after his long trip. “I usually have a team of people making me look pretty before a shoot. You’re getting the real deal.”
“Oh,” She nods, the look of sage understanding only slightly out of place on her young features. “Like no filter.” Race snorts.
“Yeah, sure.”
She studies him another moment, and Race is just beginning to feel a little uncomfortable under her intense gaze when two identical young boys come tearing into the room, high-pitched squeals of laughter all but drowning out Medda’s exasperated shouts from the kitchen. She appears in the doorway, looking far too tired for how early it is—God, it has to be early, as awful as Race feels. He didn’t think he had that many drinks on the plane, but he's been wrong before.
“Smalls, leave Tony alone, he’s still on west coast time,” She says, zeroing in on the twins, who are now huddled behind the couch, still giggling, presumably sharing whatever contraband they’ve managed to swipe from the kitchen. The girl—Smalls—lets out the long-suffering sigh that comes so naturally to teenagers, nearly rolling her eyes before she gets a glimpse of her mother and snaps to attention. “The twins–”
“On it, Mama,” Smalls assures her, standing up and cracking her neck before shooting Race a truly impressive, shit-eating grin. “Nice to meet ya, Anthony.”
“Call me Race,” He tells her with a matching grin, watching as she creeps around the back of the couch and barely stifling a laugh when the twins screech in unison and take off down the hall, Smalls hot on their little heels.
Medda watches them go with fondness before crossing the room to drop onto the couch. She looks exhausted, and it’s only—Race peeks at his phone; God, seven-thirty am? He groans, trying hard not to think about what time that is in California as he tucks his feet underneath him and scoots closer to her, drawn in by her warmth, her ever-comforting presence. She folds him into her arms as easily as she did when he was a child, and the well of emotion that surges in his chest is one he’ll attribute to jetlag, but really it just feels so good to be held again, held by someone who knows him, knows all of him. He sighs contentedly, tucking his head into her shoulder.
“How are you, baby?”
“M’sleepy, Ma,” He mumbles, warm and safe and honestly, he could drift off again, right here. Her deep chuckle rumbles in his ear as she squeezes him tighter against her.
“I know you are,” Her voice is so soothing that he forgets, for a moment, that this house is never peaceful, not really. As if on cue, the twins come screaming down the hall, looping around the couch and heading back for the hallway, where Smalls and a teenage boy intercept them, each wrapping one squealing, wriggling boy in their arms and marching them back toward the bedrooms. Medda sighs and Race feels his heart clench in his chest; she must be so tired. “Sorry about your wake-up call,” She pauses. “And not having a bed to spare.”
“No worries, Mama,” He assures her, lifting his head to peck her cheek. “Wouldn’t be home without a few screeching littles.” She laughs softly, shaking her head fondly.
“I suppose you’re right. Well, since you’re up, would you like some breakfast? I can whip up–”
“Nah,” He interrupts, shaking his head as he sits up straight, stretching his long arms toward the ceiling. “Not hungry just yet. Besides,” He says, picking up his phone and swiping distractedly through his notifications. “You’ve got enough on your plate, what with the party and all. Why don’t I go get us some coffee?”
“Oh, that’d be great, honey,” Medda’s relieved voice gives away her exhaustion and she’s on her feet again already, looking distractedly around the room. “I had a cup made, but God only knows where I left it–”
“Don’t worry about it,” Race assures her, standing to fold the blanket and lay it neatly across the back of the couch. “Just take a little rest, I’ll be back in no time.”
“You wanna take the car? The keys–”
“Nah,” He says again, grabbing his bag from the floor and leaning down slightly to kiss the top of her head before he goes to the bathroom to freshen up. “I can walk, it’s close enough.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah,” He nods, squinting at the early-morning sun streaming through the bay window behind the couch. “It’ll be good for me.”
The walk to Jacobi’s is short, but it’s December in New York and he hasn’t had to dress for these temperatures in years, and it shows. He clenches his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering as he shoves his hands further into the pockets of his too-thin jacket, grateful that he at least brought a beanie to cover his ears.
Almost everything in his hometown is within walking distance from his mother’s house, and he supposes he should be thankful for that, now. The town is small and quaint in a way that makes it hard to believe sometimes that it's only a little more than an hour outside of New York City. It seems almost like a movie set, really, straight out of one of those cheesy holiday romance movies Race wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. Although, he muses as he takes in the deserted town square, tastefully decorated for the holidays, it would make a pretty good backdrop…
And maybe that’s why Jack’s decided to have his engagement party here, at home, rather than his fancy new apartment in the city. Race chuckles at the thought of his older foster brother, his hotshot journalist fiancée and their effortlessly chic Manhattan apartment hosting his ragtag bunch of hometown friends, his collection of rowdy siblings that seems to grow by the day and he barely keeps that chuckle from turning to an outright laugh. And as much as Race enjoys ‘winter’ temperatures not dipping below sixty degrees, as much as he’s convinced himself his mother is too busy to notice that he’s skipping out on Christmas at home again, when Jack had called and asked him to come, he couldn’t say no. So he’s here, he’s home for the first time in years—and it definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that, also for the first time in years, he doesn’t have a project lined up to shoot–and he’s determined to make the best of it.
He jogs the last few steps as the coffee shop comes into view, eager for the warmth and—ah, yes, that heavenly coffee smell greets him the second he steps through the threshold and he already feels more awake. The twinkle of the bell that announces his arrival drives home those small-town Hallmark-movie vibes and he grins a little, almost in spite of himself. The shop is empty, aside from an elderly couple seated at a table near the window, each deeply focused on their respective sections of the newspaper, and Race rubs his hands together as he approaches the counter. He wonders distantly how long he can drag out this transaction to take advantage of the warmth when he’s interrupted by the teenage employee behind the counter.
“Morning,” He greets him, and he seems to be at least trying to inject some customer service cheer into his voice. “What can I get started for ya?”
“Uh,” Race stutters, admittedly taken aback at the prospect of being the only one in line. He clears his throat with a small frown, looking over the barista’s curly brown hair to read the menu. “Can I have a minute to decide?”
“Sure, just let me know when you’re ready,”
“Thanks,” Race convinces himself that the kid only sounds bored and annoyed because he’s, well, a teenager in a coffee shop at eight am, and focuses instead on figuring out what to order. Medda just wants a large drip coffee with a splash of cream, but Race is torn. He’s normally an iced coffee guy, preferring to inject his caffeine directly into his veins as quickly as humanly possible rather than wait for it to cool. But he’s fucking cold and the thought of a nice, hot latte sounds pretty good right about now–
“Finch, I thought I asked you to rotate the cre– holy shit, Racer?”
Oh, hell no.
Race’s blood turns to ice in his veins—appropriate, at least, complete the transformation—and his heart is instantly trying to beat out of his ribcage as he drags his eyes down from the board behind the counter, knowing exactly what he’ll see. There he is. Spot Conlon, Race’s oldest friend aside from Jack; Spot Conlon, Race’s high school sweetheart, star running back of the football team; Spot Conlon, with a manager pin on his chest and a look of mingled surprise and confusion on his face, handsome as ever.
“Holy shit,” Race breathes, because it’s all he can do to repeat the sentiment back to him as he wills his jaw not to drop. He should’ve prepared for this. Should’ve prepared for running into old friends, and he thought he had, but truthfully, nothing could have prepared him to come face to face with Spot freaking Conlon at eight am, jetlagged and (okay, yes) a little hungover. He tries not to think about the ‘no filter’ crack that his new little sister made, and his lips tug into a smile. It comes easily, because he is happy to see him; he always is, even though it’s been years. There never have been any hard feelings between them, even when they graduated high school and Race headed west and Spot stayed.
It’s the teenager–Finch, apparently—who snaps them both out of it when he pointedly clears his throat, clapping Spot on the shoulder in a way that makes Race think there isn’t much in the world that he’s afraid of.
“You good, boss?” He asks, voice dripping with sarcasm and Spot swats blindly at him, eyes still fixed on Race. Race feels himself flush and he can only hope that it blends in with the one already high in his cheeks from the cold.
“Shut up,” Spot mutters, shooting him a wide-eyed look that would’ve sent just about any rational person retreating, but Finch beams even as he raises his hands in surrender and slinks to the other end of the counter. Spot seems to have recovered when he looks back to Race, and Race hopes his features display the photogenic nonchalance he’s spent the last five years perfecting—and it all goes right out the window when Spot smirks at him and fuck, his kneecaps are made of jelly. “Racer, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Didn’t ya hear?” Race asks, proud of himself for coming up with a quick response. “Jackie got engaged, so my mom’s throwing an engagement-slash-holiday party.”
“Actually, I did hear about that,” Spot says thoughtfully, nodding. Race notices Spot’s twirling an empty cup in his hands, almost like he just needs to keep them busy. “How long are you staying?”
“Just the weekend,” Race says, and for the first time the twinge of regret in his voice is sincere. For the first time, the prospect of spending longer than a weekend in this tiny town isn’t so bad. “But you’ll be at the party, right? It’s tomorrow night.”
“‘Course, wouldn’t miss it,” Spot nods again, and Race feels his heartrate pick up as he watches Spot look him over; feels his mouth go a little dry when he looks back up and grins. “You look great.”
“Oh,” Race laughs, bringing a hand to the back of his neck (almost like he just needs to keep it busy) as he feels that flush creeping up again. “Thanks, Spotty. Ya don’t look too bad, yourself.”
It’s an understatement, they both know it is—and it’s not a surprise to Race that Spot looks incredible. He does follow him on Instagram, and while Spot doesn’t post photos of himself very often, when he does… Race swallows, unable to shake the thought that this all feels so, so familiar; that the butterflies in his stomach have just been asleep, for a few years, and they’re starting to stir, to realize they’re back home again.
The bell twinkles at the door, forcing Race’s attention back to the fact that he’s still standing at the counter, and he still hasn’t ordered. Shit. He glances over his shoulder, relieved to see that the bell is just the older couple leaving, but the same thought seems to occur to Spot, because he’s suddenly all business.
“So, what can I getcha?” He asks, scribbling onto the bottom of the cup he’s been twirling and holding it out for Finch to retrieve. “Large house roast with a splash of cream.”
“Medda?” Finch asks.
“Yep,” Spot nods, turning back to Race, who’s still stuck on the fact that, apparently, both Spot and Finch have his mother’s coffee order memorized. Spot chuckles but doesn’t offer an explanation. “Iced coffee, right?”
“Uh, yeah, um, usually,” Race manages, and it’s genuinely like he’s a teenager again, unsure of himself and thrown off by Spot’s sudden reemergence in his life. He clears his throat and presses on, willing himself to sound normal. “Just, it’s pretty fucking cold, so I was thinking about maybe getting something hot? But I dunno what–”
Spot chuckles, cutting him off with a hand. “I got it,”
Race can’t help but grin. “Yeah?”
Spot nods and grins back and yep, Race is a teenager again. “Yeah.”
Spot scribbles onto the bottom of another cup and holds it out for Finch, taking Medda’s cup from him and passing it to Race. Race sets it on the counter and reaches for his wallet, but Spot waves him off. Race frowns.
“You sure?”
“Racer, please,” Spot scoffs, looking mildly offended. Race shrugs, taking a few twenty dollar bills out of his wallet, anyway, and dropping them into the tip jar before Spot can stop him.
“Holy sh–”
“Finch,” Spot warns, and Race thinks maybe this kid has a hint of self-preservation, after all, because he purses his lips and hands Race’s cup to him over the counter. Spot stares hard at Finch for a moment longer before the kid seems to catch on to whatever Spot’s trying to say and does a little twirl, heading for the far end of the counter again. Race snorts. He’s known Finch for all of five minutes, and even he knows he's only pretending to clean while he eavesdrops.
“Um, thanks, Spotty,” Race says softly, gesturing to the coffees with a slight tilt of his head. “You didn’t have to do that, y’know.”
“I know,” Spot acknowledges, squinting a little before adding, “But don’t get used to it. Next time, I’m charging you.”
“You’d charge Miss Medda?” Race gasps, feigning outrage and clutching his chest.
“You need your ears checked?” Spot scoffs. “I said I’m charging you, not Miss Medda.”
“Right, of course,” Race laughs, reaching for the cups. “Well, anyway, thanks. I’d better get this home to her before it cools down.”
“Sure,” Spot nods, and he looks like he wants to say more—or maybe Race just hopes he does. “See ya tomorrow, Racer.” It’s a simple enough statement, and hell, it’s even true but it’s jarring anyway; throws him right back to a time in his life when he’d heard some variation of those words, in that voice, every single day.
“See ya, Spot.” He nods a goodbye to him and to Finch, who tilts his chin ever so slightly in his direction. He’s halfway to the door when Spot speaks again.
“Racer, wait,”
Race turns on his heel, eyebrows raised.
“You busy tonight?”
Race shakes his head. “No, I mean, I gotta help my mom with party stuff this afternoon, but I’m free tonight. Why?”
“You remember Vince?” Race nods slowly. Of course he remembers him; town this small, it’s nearly impossible to forget people you went to school with for twelve years. “He’s having a bonfire tonight. Should be plenty of familiar faces, if you wanna maybe, I dunno, swing by for a little bit.”
“Oh,” Race says, admittedly surprised. “I–”
“I thought you weren’t going to that,” Finch pipes up from his place at the end of the counter, where he’s not even pretending to clean anymore; just dragging a rag lazily over the surface. Race snorts at the look on Spot’s face as he turns to glare at his employee; Finch smirks and Race realizes he was, in fact, very wrong about the kid’s sense of self-preservation. Amazingly, he continues. “Yeah, I thought you said the party was gonna suck, and that you hate bonfires–”
“And I thought I told you to shut the fu–”
“Spotty,” Race interrupts, fully incapable of paring his grin down to a reasonable level as he fights back laughter. He’s two for two on likeable teenagers today, and he can’t help but think that’s gotta be a record. “I’m staying with my mom. Pick me up at eight?”
Spot’s smile is pretty dazzling, too, as he glances back at Race just long enough to wink before he turns to swat at Finch with a towel. Race is still chuckling when he ducks out the door, beginning the trek back home. The drink Spot made for him is delicious, and it’s already warming him as he walks quickly, mind racing. It’s Friday, he’s back home, and Spot’s taking him to a house party at Vince’s tonight.
Some things never change.