Work Text:
Race has always hated the cold.
And that hasn’t changed, even when he moved back home after five years away; five years of blissful California sunshine, impromptu beach trips and winter coats no thicker than his favorite hoodie. In spite of what he’s missing, he doesn’t regret the decision to come home. He’d move home a hundred times if it means he gets to wake up with Spot every day—or, more accurately, wake up to give Spot a sleepy goodbye kiss when he leaves for work before dawn. But he still needs to remind himself, sometimes, that this is the life he chose, the life he wants.
Like when he reluctantly makes the short but fucking freezing walk from the dance studio to the coffee shop, bundled in God knows how many layers, to find Finch stacking chairs while Spot wipes down the counter. Race frowns, although they probably can’t see it beneath his snow-dusted beanie and he tugs his scarf down so he can speak.
“What’s going on? Shop doesn’t close for another couple of hours, right?”
“Oh, hey babe,” Spot greets him, offering a grin that Race returns easily, pointedly ignoring Finch’s scoff of disgust. “Closing early. Didn’t you check your phone?”
“No, I came straight from the studio,” Race says, digging his phone out of his pocket. He swipes at the screen a few times before dropping his head back with a groan. “Ugh, ‘touch screen gloves’ my ass,” he mutters before shoving his phone back into his pocket with a whine. “Spotty, just tell me.”
“It’s the end of the world,” Finch deadpans, stacking the last chair and making his way to the back to get his coat. Spot rolls his eyes, ruffling his hair as he passes, snickering when Finch swats at him and ducks away.
“It’s just a snowstorm, Racer, that’s all,” Spot explains, taking his coat from Finch when he returns and slipping into it. “We’re just closing early so I can run to the store before we head home. Wanna come?”
“Duh,” Race says, like it’s obvious. “I’m not gonna walk home in this.” Spot snorts, turning the lights off behind the counter.
“Of course not,” Spot agrees, sliding an arm around Race’s waist and pecking his cheek before Race wraps back up with his scarf. He curls into Spot, eager for the warmth he radiates even in blizzard conditions. They huddle by the door, reluctant to step out into the cold, snow swirling and already accumulating in the cobblestone streets. Spot glances over his shoulder at Finch, bundled in all black. “Any last requests from the store? We’re gonna be stuck all weekend so now’s your chance.”
“Nah, I’m good, you already have my list,” Finch says, voice muffled by the scarf wrapped around his face as he glances at his phone. “But could you grab some Pixy Stix for Jojo? He–”
“Oh, hell no,” Spot interrupts, shaking his head immediately. “Not after last summer–”
“Spotty, please,” Race cuts him off, rolling his eyes before glancing back at Finch. “Don’t worry, he’s not in charge of snacks. I gotchu.” Finch laughs, and Race tries not to read too much into it.
“‘Kay, I’m gonna go pick up Jojo, meet you guys back at the house?”
“You got your key?” Spot asks absently, and it’s Finch’s turn to roll his eyes.
“To my own house? Yeah, Dad, I got it.”
Spot huffs, grabbing the collar of Finch’s coat before he can twist away, opening the door and shoving him out first into the heavily falling snow. Race hurries to climb into Spot’s running truck, careful not to slip on the icy sidewalk. He blasts the heat as he waits for Spot to join him, still shivering as he watches Finch start the walk toward Medda’s house, head bowed against the frigid wind. Race can’t help but smile a little as he vividly remembers when his feet were his only mode of transportation; when Spot used to make the same trek to pick him up from his mom’s house, rain or shine. Or snow.
No, Race still hates the cold—but it’s a little more bearable when he has Spot to keep him warm.
*
The last time there was a snowstorm, they planned ahead. It was a couple of weeks into the new year, and Race was already sick to death of the relentless cold. He’d been missing the LA sunshine more than he was willing to admit, so when the forecast predicted more snow than Race had dealt with in years, he took his chance.
“C’mon Spotty, come with me,” He’d whined from where he was tucked under Spot’s arm on the couch, pointedly ignoring the big, fat snowflakes already swirling outside. “I need to get my things from my apartment, anyway, and if we don’t go soon, they’ll cancel all the flights–”
“It’s hardly even a snowstorm, Racer,” Spot sighed, looking like he was resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Finch snorted from where he sat on the loveseat, Jojo’s head in his lap, running his fingers absently through Jojo’s hair. “You’re gonna have to get used to the snow again, you know that, right?”
“Nope,” Race said defiantly, popping the p for emphasis and earning a soft giggle from Jojo. Race grinned at him, reaching over to run a finger along the bottom of Jojo’s feet, clad in thick, fuzzy socks and dangling over the arm of the loveseat. “You can’t make me.”
“Challenge accepted,” Spot murmured, tugging Race in for a kiss. They both ignored the reactions from the loveseat—a disgusted groan from Finch, a delighted squeal from Jojo—as Race moved closer, fingers curling in the collar of Spot’s shirt as he deepened the kiss. When Spot’s hand slipped up into his hair, Race pulled back abruptly.
“Hey,” Race huffed, frowning. “Stop trying to distract me,”
“Doesn’t take much trying, really–”
“Shut up,” Race sighed, dropping his forehead against Spot’s chest. “Escape the blizzard with me–”
“It is not a blizzard, Racer,” Spot laughed, twirling a soft curl through his fingers. “It’s barely anything at all, only like eight inches–not a word, Finch,” Spot added without even a glance over Race’s shoulder at the accused, who looked positively scandalized.
“Wha–I didn’t even–” He sputtered unconvincingly, a grin tugging at his lips as Jojo rolled to muffle his giggles in Finch’s stomach. Finch trailed off into incoherent grumbles, and Race barely contained his own laughter, calling on his training to school his features into an expression he knew Spot couldn’t resist, blue eyes wide and supplicating, lips drawn into a pout.
“Spotty, don’t make me go alone,” He said softly, dragging a fingertip along Spot’s collarbone and down his chest. Spot made the mistake of making eye contact and Race could almost see the moment his resolve slipped. “Please?”
“Racer,” Spot sighed in defeat, dropping his head back against the couch. “You really wanna drag this demon across the country?” He asked incredulously, jerking his head toward the loveseat. “I can’t leave him here alone, not after New Year’s–” Finch sat up straight, mouth already opening to defend himself.
“That wasn’t my–”
“Yes, it was,” Spot and Jojo said in unison, causing Finch to look down at his boyfriend in shock.
“A traitor?!” He gasped, clutching at his chest to really sell it. Jojo rolled his eyes but couldn’t help smiling as he grabbed Finch’s hand, pressing playful kisses to each of his fingers.
“Who, me?” Jojo asked, ever the picture of innocence as he lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Maybe if someone had spent more time helping his boyfriend with his trig homework instead of taking sho–”
“Fine, fine, you get a pass,” Finch grumbled, resuming the movement of his fingers through Jojo’s hair. “Only ‘cause you’re cute.”
“Aww, Spotty, let’s just take them,” Race said, nudging Spot in the ribs. “It’ll be fun!”
“Racer–”
“Yeah, take us!” Jojo piped up, thumbs moving suspiciously fast on his phone screen. “We’ll be so good, you won’t even know we’re there!”
“Yeah, Dad, take us!” Finch added with no small amount of sarcasm, grinning at the mixture of amusement and affection the title always seemed to bring out of Spot.
“Look what you’ve done,” Spot grumbled, shifting to allow Race to pull his incessantly vibrating phone from his pocket.
“Oh my God,” Race muttered as he swiped through the texts from Mush, smirking automatically at the nickname he didn’t have the heart to change.
5 New Messages from: sexier younger version of me 😩👅💦
2:02pm
sexier younger version of me 😩👅💦: i know ur not gonna take finch and jojo to LA without me and smalls
sexier younger version of me 😩👅💦: pls race i’ve never been further west than kentucky PLS
sexier younger version of me 😩👅💦: and that was to see the noah’s ark museum i wanna go to LA so badddd
sexier younger version of me 😩👅💦: raaaaaccceeeeee ur my favorite brother everrr i love u so muchhhhh
sexier younger version of me 😩👅💦: don’t tell jojo i said that dfskjdsf PLS TAKE US WITH YOU
“I guess good news travels fast,” Spot said accusingly, raising an eyebrow at Finch, who held his hands up in surrender, looking pointedly down at his boyfriend. Race smirked as he sent a string of hearts and kissy faces back to Mush, knowing as well as the rest of them that Spot wouldn’t say anything to Jojo about it.
Race nudged Spot again, catching his eyes when he turned back to look at him. He raised an eyebrow, head tilted slightly in silent communication, and he knew it wouldn’t take any convincing. Spot loved these kids as much as Race did, and he knew they deserved a break—and that they were in a prime position to give it to them, so why not? Spot sighed, giving a short nod and kissing Race’s forehead before digging out his own phone.
“Fine,” He grumbled, tapping out a text to the coffee shop’s assistant manager. “Start looking up flights.”
“Thanks, baby,” Race whispered, nuzzling into Spot’s neck before shooting Jojo a wink. “I’ll call Mama.”
“Yeah, you will,” Spot snorted, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Put her on speaker, I wanna hear this.”
Race rolled his eyes but obliged, swinging his legs over Spot’s lap and holding the phone between them.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mama,”
“Hey, baby,” Medda sounded busy, as usual, but she also sounded warm, happy as always to talk to one of her kids. “Everything okay?”
“Oh, yeah,” Race assured her, nodding as though she could see him. “We just wanted to ask you something.”
“What is it?”
“Well,” Race paused, biting at his lip. “Spot and I are gonna take a few days and pack up my apartment in LA, and since we’re taking Finch, we thought we could make it a whole thing and take the other kids too,” He paused before adding quickly, “Not the twins, though.” There was a singular beat of silence.
“For what, the weekend?”
“Yeah, maybe we could let them take a couple days off school, make it a real trip? They could bring their homework on the plane–”
“Hang on, let me get this straight,” Medda said, her voice calm. “You and Sean, Finch, Jojo, Smalls, and Mush?”
“Yes,” Race confirmed, nodding again.
“On a plane,”
“Yes,”
“To LA,”
“Yes,”
“For four days,”
“Yes, Mama,” Race sighed, rolling his eyes. “Is that okay?”
Medda didn’t answer—she couldn’t, not through the loud, hysterical laughter that echoed through the phone’s speaker, so sudden and startling that Race dropped his phone into his lap. She was still laughing when he picked it up, gasping for air between giggles and sentence fragments. Race dropped his head against Spot’s chest with a sigh. He could almost picture it; Medda, phone to her ear, one hand gripping the edge of the kitchen counter as her knees gave way to her laughter, tears in the corners of her eyes. It was several minutes before she regained control enough to speak.
“I can’t–you really–” She broke off, spiraling into another fit of giggles that only lasted a moment. “You sure you don’t wanna take the twins, too?”
“No,” Race said firmly, shaking his head. “No, yeah, I’m sure. Is that a yes, Ma?”
“Are you kidding?” Medda shrieked with laughter again. “Four days with no teenagers? Yeah, baby, it’s a yes. They’ll love it.” Race softened as she spoke, his eyes on Jojo.
“Thanks, Mama,”
“No, baby, thank you,” Medda said, still chuckling quietly. “Love really is blind.”
“And dumb,” Finch muttered, and then he and Jojo were laughing, and Race wondered for the first time just what exactly he’d gotten himself into.
*
Race doesn’t regret the trip.
Well, now. He doesn’t regret the trip now. Those kids pushed his sanity to its limits over those four days, and as happy as he was to be able to give his mom a break, he was more than ready to send his siblings back home once they returned. Now, though, as he sits on the kitchen island, munching on sour gummy worms and watching Spot put away the groceries, he looks back on the trip through rose-colored glasses.
He’ll never forget the looks on his siblings’ faces as they cruised down Rodeo Drive in their rented convertible, warm wind ruffling their hair. If he’s honest, Race spent more money on that trip than he probably should have—especially considering he doesn't currently have a job—but being able to take them shopping and spoil them was worth every penny.
It didn't take long to pack up the apartment, even without Finch and Jojo’s help, and they finished in time to squeeze in one day at Disneyland (“what, you’re gonna take Jojo to LA and not take him to Disney?” Finch had asked, one disbelieving eyebrow arched). Spot and Race actually managed to get some alone time there, since they felt relatively comfortable letting the kids roam the park on their own. Race wouldn’t have thought Smalls would be such a Disney person, but she’s certainly walked with a new spring in her step ever since. Race ended up gifting a large portion of his wardrobe to his siblings in an attempt to downsize, a disportionate amount of it ending up in Mush’s suitcase. Mush lived his best crop top life for four full days, and he has yet to stop bemoaning the necessity of layers since landing back in New York.
He snickers when Finch and Jojo stumble through the back door from building a snowman, tracking snow behind them, thinking of the cuddle puddle he and Spot discovered in the guest room on their second night in LA. They’d gone out to dinner with a few of Race’s LA ‘friends,’ during which Race had seriously upsold a few of Spot’s spare furniture pieces, and returned to find all four teenagers passed out with the TV still on, sprawled every which way on the bed; apparently having crashed from a massive sugar high, the junk food wrappers strewn all around them. As he watches Spot struggle to find places in the pantry for the truly ridiculous amount of candy they bought at the store, Race thinks there’s a decent chance that tonight ends up much the same way, albeit missing a couple of kids.
And he does miss them, but they’re not suffering too badly in this storm—which is an actual snowstorm this time, at least eighteen inches predicted, topped off by icy rain and freezing temperatures, so they’re stuck stuck. Mush and Smalls were invited to ride out the storm at their friend Henry’s house (mansion, frankly), and considering the huge crush Race knows Mush has on Henry, he figures they’re doing just fine without him.
When Race was their age, the only acceptable place to be cooped up during a snowstorm was here, in this very house, with Spot and his grandma and the scent of her famous chocolate chip cookies, freshly baked and unbelievably delicious. He wonders idly, as Spot starts to get out ingredients for chili, if Spot has the recipe written down somewhere. They’ve gotten a little better in the kitchen since they were teenagers—well, baking is still a bit of an ordeal—but Race is willing to give it a shot for another taste of those cookies.
“Boots off by the door,” Spot reminds Finch without looking up from where he’s chopping vegetables, near where Race sits on the island. Finch gives a sarcastic salute as he and Jojo shrug out of their winter gear before disappearing down the hall toward Finch’s room to change. “Leave the door open!” Spot calls after them.
“You got it, Dad!” Comes Finch’s muffled reply, just before the door slams and the lock clicks.
Spot drops his head back with a groan and Race stifles a giggle with another gummy worm, swinging his feet back and forth.
“Remember, you volunteered for this,” Race sing-songs, squirming away when Spot pokes him in the ribs.
“What, the snarky teenager or you sitting on your ass on the counter while I do all the work?”
“Both,” Race shrugs, leaning over to kiss him.
“You’re lucky you’re so cute,” Spot grumbles when he pulls away, as usual sounding more annoyed than he really is.
“Shut up, you love my cute ass,” Race teases, and Spot’s opening his mouth to retort when there’s a concerning crash from down the hall. He nearly drops the knife in his haste to react, but Race puts a hand on his chest and hops down from the counter. “I got it, don’t worry,” He assures him, rummaging through a drawer in the island. He digs out a paper clip and unfolds it, looking up at Spot when he hears him snort. “I’ve got plenty of practice, Spotty.” Race says with a wink.
“Oh, I know,” Spot chuckles, shaking his head and using his free arm to pull Race in for a kiss. “Get ‘em, baby.”
Race avoids all the creaky floorboards on the way down to Spot’s old room, standing on his tiptoes in his socks as he slips the paper clip into the lock. He bites his lip to keep from laughing at the thuds and giggles still coming through the door as he turns the paper clip and hears the soft click of the lock. He’s positive he’s prepared for what he’ll see when the door swings open.
He’s wrong.
Finch is face down on the floor between the bed and the wall; Jojo, now dressed in a pair of soft footie pajamas, sits on his back, attempting to shove Finch’s foot into a matching pair of pajamas. Finch flails wildly, and Race knows he could throw Jojo off of him easily—but he also knows Finch won’t take the chance of actually hurting him. So Race crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the door frame, not bothering to hide his laughter as he watches Finch struggle to reclaim his foot.
“Race, help!”
“Oh, no thank you,” Race says airily, shaking his head. Jojo looks up at him with a grin. “I think my brother’s got this well in hand.”
“Jojo, please,” Finch whines, though he can’t hide the smile from his voice. “We can watch whatever you want, do whatever you want, but I am not wearing footie pajamas,”
“You say that now,” Jojo says sagely, reluctantly letting go of Finch’s foot and standing. He looks unbearably adorable in his pajamas, and now that he’s still, Race can see they’re a pastel yellow, decorated with buzzing little bees. “But I’ll get my way, in the end.” How Jojo manages to sound so sweet even when he’s threatening someone, Race will never understand. Finch rolls onto his back, chest heaving as he regains his breath.
“Come on,” Race laughs, jerking his head toward the living room. “Let’s go watch something while the chili cooks.”
“Ooh, let’s watch one of your movies!” Jojo says excitedly, bouncing over to Race and snuggling into his side.
“Fine,” Race sighs, squeezing him close. “Go pick one out.” Jojo squeaks and takes off down the hall, sliding gracefully across the hardwood floor to tumble onto the couch. Finch, still on the floor, lets out a long-suffering sigh. “C’mon, Finchie,” Race says cheerily, nudging him with a toe. Finch grumbles incoherently, kicking halfheartedly at Race’s feet for his use of the Jojo Only nickname.
“How’d you get in here, anyway?” Finch grumbles, pushing up into a sitting position.
“I’ve got a key,” Race says, shrugging flippantly before he grins deviously. “You’re gonna look so cute in those jammies, Finchie–”
Finch is on his feet in a second, but they don’t call him Racer for nothing—Race barrels into the living room a few strides ahead of Finch, who’s sliding in his socks on the hardwood floor as he rounds the corner. Race does a loop around the kitchen island, ignoring Spot’s protests, before crashing onto the couch with Jojo. And, yeah, maybe he’s using his little brother as a shield, but he knows Finch won’t dare put Jojo at risk; and Jojo’s so snuggly, it’s no wonder the three of them are tangled together by the time Spot joins them.
Race switches to the loveseat, draping himself on top of Spot as they settle in for what turns out to be a marathon of Race’s work; every one-off TV episode, every movie, every recurring role in a series. They only watch Race’s episodes, and their confused laughter echoes through the living room as they try to follow the disjointed plot. Jojo cries when Race’s character is killed off, burying his face in Finch’s shoulder. Race is touched by the open show of affection, until Jojo’s whimpers go on just a little too long—and then Race can’t stop laughing, watching the realization come over Finch’s face when Jojo tries again to talk him into the pajamas.
After dinner, Race breaks out the candy, ignoring Spot’s warnings as he tosses the bag of Pixy Stix to Jojo, settling back onto the loveseat with his own collection of snacks. By the time he opens the packages and swings his legs over Spot’s lap, Jojo’s already six red Pixy Stix deep.
“What’s next?” Jojo asks brightly, practically vibrating where he sits on the couch.
“I know,” Spot says suddenly, gently moving Race’s legs so he can make his way over to the shelf of movies, running his finger along the titles until he finds what he’s looking for and puts it in. Race squints at him when he sits back down, wrapping an arm around Race’s shoulders.
“What is it?” Race asks, no small amount of suspicion in his voice. Spot smirks, leaning over to press a kiss to Race’s temple as Finch hits the light switch with his toe.
“You’ll see.”
The movie starts, and it only takes Race a second to recognize the setting; their high school auditorium, nearly six years ago, now. Their senior year production of Spring Awakening was one of the most popular in their school’s history; Race gave a truly heartbreaking performance as Moritz, and he shouldn’t be surprised that Spot still has a copy. He would bet money that Spot still has the local newspaper stashed somewhere too, the entire cast smiling ear-to-ear in a front-page photo—above the fold, thank you very much. Jojo squeals with excitement, sitting up straight to pay attention and even Finch looks interested as the music picks up.
“Oh, my God,” Race giggles, burying his face in Spot’s chest. “I cannot believe you still have this,”
“Of course I do,” Spot says, his serious tone betrayed by the smirk on his face. “Who else is gonna show your siblings all the embarrassing relics of your youth?”
“M’not embarrassed,” Race mumbles indignantly, shifting so he can watch, reaching over and snagging a handful of Pixy Stix in Jojo’s distraction.
“Ohmygod, Raaace,” Jojo sighs, draping himself dramatically across Finch’s lap. “Look at you, you’re such a baby,”
“Damn,” Finch says, begrudgingly impressed when Race’s duet comes up. “I didn’t know you could sing like that,”
“You should see him dance,” Spot says earnestly, and Race can feel his cheeks warm as he nuzzles further into Spot’s side.
“Oh, we will,” Jojo says seriously, hands shaking slightly as he tilts his head back to consume another tube of pure sugar. “When he’s on Broadway.” Race chuckles, watching Finch palm the bag of Pixy Stix and shove it between the couch cushions when Jojo’s not looking.
The second act continues on, more devastating as it goes; and Jojo cries for real when Race’s character dies, reaching across the space between the couches to squeeze Race’s hand. Race almost doesn’t even register the quiet sniff from Spot’s direction, but Finch’s head whips around in a split second, shrewd eyes zeroing in on Spot’s face.
“Are you crying?” He asks incredulously, and Spot’s only answer is to flick an m&m at him. It bounces off of Finch’s forehead, and he ducks down onto the couch, rolling onto his side and pulling Jojo on top of him. “Abuse! Jojo, save me!”
Jojo dissolves into giggles, and Race does too, spurred on by their sugar-induced giddiness that spirals more out of control by the minute. By the time the final notes play, Race and Jojo are hanging nearly upside down off of their respective couches, comparing the unnatural colors of their tongues and demanding Disney movies for the rest of the night to lighten the mood. Jojo picks Moana first, and he and Race get out some of their energy, dancing and singing along to their favorite songs. It’s close to midnight by the time it’s Spot’s turn to pick—Aladdin, of course—and Race is so cozy and warm, curled into Spot under a blanket. Snowstorms used to make him feel restless, trapped; and while it’s true he couldn’t go anywhere if he tried, for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t want to try.
Race doesn’t quite make it through Prince Ali before he can’t keep his eyes open anymore, and the credits are rolling by the time Spot gently shakes him awake, brushing soft kisses along his hairline while Race comes to.
“Hey, let’s go to bed,” He mutters, throwing off the blanket. Race shivers and clings tighter to him, wrapping his arms around Spot’s neck and pressing himself even closer. Spot’s always so warm.
“Noo,” Race whines, grinning sleepily when Spot chuckles quietly in his ear. “Stay.”
“C’mon, love,”
Race grumbles a response, already feeling his sugar coma tugging him back toward unconsciousness. Spot laughs softly, physically moving Race’s legs to put his feet on the floor, standing up so Race has no choice but to follow, arms still tight around Spot’s neck. Race drops his head back dramatically, smiling when Spot’s arm automatically slides around his waist to support him.
“I’m so sleepy–”
“I know, I know,” Spot says soothingly, ducking in to press featherlight kisses along Race’s jaw. “You’ll feel better once we’re in bed,” Race giggles at that.
“I always do,” He says playfully, lifting his head to kiss Spot properly. He feels a little more awake with every second, losing himself in the kiss the way he often does, and he has half a mind to push Spot back down onto the loveseat and climb into his lap when Spot pulls away. Race opens his mouth to protest but stops short at the amusement in Spot’s eyes as he holds a finger to his lips.
“Shh, Racer, look,” Spot whispers, lifting his chin in the direction of the couch. Race turns slowly and stops dead, clapping a hand over his mouth to muffle his giggles as he frantically digs his phone out of his pocket.
Finch and Jojo are entwined on the couch, limbs tangled, Jojo’s face tucked into the crook of Finch’s neck. They’re passed out cold, and Race is grateful for that as the camera on his phone clicks loudly. Spot chuckles as he rests his chin on Race’s shoulder, arms sliding around his waist to hold him close.
“Whatever Jojo wants…” Spot trails off.
“Jojo gets.” Race finishes, giggling quietly as he swipes through the photos. Finch really does look cute in the footie pajamas, especially while he sleeps; innocent in a way he rarely lets anyone see. Race counts himself lucky to be one of those people, now, and he thinks maybe, just maybe, he won’t show anyone the pictures, just yet.
Race still hates the cold, and it’ll take a Herculean effort to get him out into the snow tomorrow. But as he climbs into Spot’s bed—their bed—and Spot’s arms encircle him easily, like they were made to hold him, he has no doubt in his mind or his heart that he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.