Work Text:
It’s been seven years but Jay still hates standing in front of a door empty-handed. His hands have always had something to do, be that curled into a fist or around a tourney racket or his fingers slipping into other people’s pockets then his own. The chocolate smudged across his hands is a stark change from blood, but one he can definitely live with.
Coach opens the door, already smiling, and Jay almost fumbles. His house has never been anything but haunted by roaming eyes and long fingers clamped around his shoulders.
“Hi, Jay,” Coach says, “come on in.”
Jay steps into the house, carefully taking in the hallway, his mind rigid where his body isn’t. A montage of family pictures decorate the deep green walls, all smiles and candid glances. The snakeskin Jay once crawled out of is calling out to him; a familiar place to hide behind his lazy grins and easy confidence as the ceiling caves inwards and the floorboards splinter under his feet.
“I made cookies,” is all he can say, presenting Coach with the plate covered with tin foil.
It’s no lamp but Coach still takes it. Jay’s cheeks are starting ache. There’s a pause where Coach peeks behind the foil where Jay is certain he’s going to change his mind and kick him out but Coach just grins at him, “thank you, they look delicious,” and leads him into the kitchen.
Coach’s husband, Yusuf, a tall Agrabanian man with thick, dark curls, is at the stove, idly chatting to their daughter, Niesha, who’s entertaining a big glass of orange juice. As Jay enters, they both look up and smile, though Niesha seems to be more interested in what lies beyond the tin foil.
“Hello, Jay,” Yusuf greets him.
The kitchen is wide, much bigger that the hiccuping, beaten-up stove and leaky sink Jafar had in the corner of his room. Jay rarely ever used the stove; he only ate when he deserved it. Most of the time, what he deserved was what he could steal, which never used to be more than a few scraps of bread, or maybe a tin of something out of date if he was really lucky.
“Hi.” Jay runs a hand through his hair. He should’ve tied it up, really. “How are you?”
“I’m good thanks.” Yusuf’s smile meets his eyes.
It’s at this moment Coach realises that he’s just standing in the middle of the kitchen. Not that Jay could ever look awkward: his entire survival on the Isle depended on confidence and self-assurance. He knows this act. He knows how this plays out.
Well, he used to, anyway. But they’ve both accepted his offering. If this was Jafar he would’ve smacked the plate out of his hands, smacked him, then kicked him out for the night. Never good enough. Never enough.
But houses have never been a source of warmth, of comfort. Even the Isle walls were sentinel, submitting the child to the parent’s will. No one spoke about it because that was just how it was. Even the rival gangs had bruises. All the kids knew to respect parley. Jay is used to fermenting dread under his tongue, something he can never wash away despite his jokes and charm.
“Have a seat,” Coach tells him as he moves to help Yusuf with chopping herbs.
Jay looks to the table, bright yellow and orange flowers erupting from a wide, glass vase. He’s not sure what they are, or what they stand for, but they’re pretty. It was only in Auradon the four of them saw flowers for the first time.
It was after the coronation when Lonnie came knocking on the boys’ dorm door. The four of them were in there, of course, but she knew the girls would be there too. Her face was obscured by the colourful things they’d learned were called flowers. Purple, yellow, blue, and red bulged from a bouquet, and they didn’t have a vase because they didn’t know what vases were (turns out Jay had tried to steal one as soon as they set foot in the school on the first day) so the bouquet ended up in the sink for the time being.
The five of them were gathered in the en-suite and Lonnie had taken a deep breath in the way she does, steeling herself in a way Jay’s always admired, and explained the meanings of the flowers. Outside of them being their signature colours, of course. Mal said it was dumb, that of course the prissy royalty would use flowers of all things to talk to each other (‘what’s wrong with morse code?’) but Jay knew her better than that and maybe it was a dragon thing but she’d always been drawn to colour.
Deep violet alliums for unity. Marigolds for strength. Cornflowers for hope. Amaryllises for determination.
It was an ugly arrangement, not on Lonnie’s part but the clashing colours and splaying petals, the bouquet leaning sideways in the sink. But his gang had never been pretty. They were sharp teeth and sharper words, all fissured bones and midnight-sky bruises. It would make sense they didn’t make a pretty bouquet.
The flowers on the table in the glass vase at Coach’s house are not marigolds. An image steeps in Jay’s mind, one of Coach going to wherever you get flowers from and taking the time to choose the ones in Jay’s colours, ones with meaning curled up inside the petals. Maybe it’s a mystery, a riddle, a secret to be shared. Or maybe he just thought they smelled nice.
They didn’t have a dining table at the shop because why would they, and there was no point in having one at the hideout because they had a sofa and a small coffee table. The only people Jay has ever sat at a dining table with is his gang, eventually joined by Ben and Lonnie and Jane.
It’s only when Niesha has twisted around in her chair to face her fathers, Yusuf’s arm wrapped snugly around Coach’s waist, that the glasses in the cupboards crack like bone and the cutlery writhes in the draw and the cork in the Prosecco in the fridge rips from the bottle’s mouth and sends foam erupting.
There is no one to watch this whole act of relaxed shoulders and half-grins. Who is he performing to? The oranges in the fruit bowl? No one is looking at him. In this kitchen, surrounded by a family that isn’t his, blood blossoms to the front of his shirt, internal bleeding making itself known.
“Do you like biryani, Jay?” asks Coach.
That’s when the serpent rears its head. Straight from the chest, from the stain on his shirt, wound just deep enough to expose his guts. He folds his arms, squashing it all back in.
Coach is looking at him, and Jay half wants to stand up just so he’s level with him. There’s a slight crease to his face, eyebrows drawn together, like he’s expecting a right answer.
Except— in Jay’s momentary silence, the corners of his mouth creep upwards, and Jay’s reminded of the Isle, back when he would brandish a knife at some poor lackey’s throat and they’d tentatively raise their hands like a peace offering. It’s not expectation. It’s not a test. In Coach’s case, it’s thinly-veiled concern; pity for the Isle kid who’s never had dinner with somebody else’s family before. Jay swallows, remembering one of the first interactions he had with Coach. You do not want to be at my house at dinner time. That wasn’t a lie, but Jay genuinely can’t remember a time he and Jafar ate together. He doesn’t think they ever did.
“Yeah,” Jay says. “I’ve made it a few times.”
Not well, but Coach doesn’t need to know that. He’s been trying to make more Agrabanian recipes, as he never had much, if any, of the cuisine on the Isle.
“Baba makes the best biryani,” Niesha says, turning around to look at Jay.
The snake in Jay’s chest convulses as he watches Coach and Yusuf. Yusuf holds out a forkful of something for Coach to taste and he ducks his head when Coach compliments it. It’s not that Jay isn’t physically affectionate —he’s always wresting Carlos and elbowing Mal and offering Evie an arm for a reason— but they’re so open in their love. It’s completely unguarded. No too-long glances, no true meanings layered behind teases and insults. It’s so authentic; so genuine. So otherworldly different to the charged silences with Mal. So different to the first time she rested her head on his shoulder like he had his thumbs to her eyelids and she trusted him to be gentle.
“I bet he does,” Jay answers.
And then dinner is served, and Jay is left fumbling when Coach sets a plate down in front of him. A plate with the biggest portion. Yusuf assures Niesha he’s picked the chilli peppers from her’s and then the three of them dig in and Jay has to force himself to start eating before someone asks him what’s wrong.
“I like your flowers,” he says in between a mouthful.
Niesha was right: Yusuf does make the best biryani. Jay’s not the best chef (his excuse is that he never got much practice) but Yusuf clearly loves cooking and has perfected the recipe. Jay likes to think he’d be a good cook in a different life.
“They’re zinnias,” Coach says. “We got them especially for your visit.”
Jay has no idea what to say to that so he says, “I think Evie dries flower petals. She said she’s going to use them as confetti at our weddings.”
And that earns a laugh from everyone and Jay chews on his chicken longer than he needs to. Zinnias. He needs to remember that so he can look up what they mean when he gets back. Maybe Coach knows. Jay doesn’t want to ask.
(Steadfastness. Family ties. Long lasting affection.)
It’s a late July evening, still light outside. Still golden. The dining table descends into a milky silence, one that brushes over Jay like someone gently washing your back. They used to eat in silence on the Isle: no time to talk when you’re swallowing as soon as you put food in your mouth. In Auradon, they could take their time, talk about their days, share and swap food and thumb war for the last fry. Meal times, when they became a regular thing in Auradon, are never something Jay looks forward to. He learned young that food was earned, and if he didn’t do enough or if he wasn’t good enough he didn’t deserve to eat. He still skips meals sometimes. It was easier at Auradon Prep when he had his gang, and they’d slip him snacks and sit with him no matter how long he took. It’s still hard, harder than he wants to admit, but he’s better than he was.
Jay remembers the late nights he’d slip into the shop after putting it off for so long, Jafar at the stove boiling the barnacles Jay pinched from the marketplace the day before. Jay knew better than to ask and Jafar knew better to immediately deny him, so he’d ask for the haul and Jay would empty his pockets on the shop counter. Jafar loved to antagonise him, knowing the hunger pangs were beginning to clench around his stomach. It was never enough, though. Nothing ever was. Jafar wanted the world, wanted to grip it like that power he so briefly had, but all Jay had to offer was rusting jewellery and chipped kitchenware.
So Jay has never found kitchens sacred —the four of them had brewed a love potion in the first proper one they found, after all— but in the gooey apricot light softening the corners of the room, painting it like the stained glass windows in the Auradon Cathedral, it’s almost—
Jay’s only ever believed in himself, and his gang, but in the 6PM silence something tangible almost forms at the forefront of his mind. Almost.
They finish the biryani (Jay does first despite his initial hesitance because he’s never once learned to slow down) and then Coach boils the kettle and makes everyone a cup of tea. He takes the tin foil off the plate of cookies with the same care Mal used to bandage Jay’s wounds with and arranges them on a different plate. “Remind me to give yours back,” he says to Jay. It’s actually Carlos’.
The cookies are slightly singed around the edges but in a way that nearly makes it look intentional. But Jay is used to ugly and hopes Coach has been a coach long enough to be too.
His house has never been anything but haunted by roaming eyes and long fingers clamped around his shoulders and he doesn’t want to hold his breath and he doesn’t want to pretend he’s not looking and he doesn’t want to itch with apprehension again because he’s twenty-four for gods’ sake and he should’ve long outgrown caring about what people think. But his entire survival was centred around being enough, being the best, and he can’t fall short now. Not when Coach has already given him so many chances; not when Coach has already welcomed him into his home and cooked for him and allowed him to eat with no prior expectations.
So Jay resists the urge to wriggle like a little boy in his seat. He’s not a kid; he hasn’t been for a long, long time. He can survive this. It’s so fucking dumb he’s this caught up over fucking cookies anyway. He’s survived broken ribs. Gone days without food. Why does this matter so much?
So Jay pretends that he’s looking at his mug. It’s pastel green. Wouldn’t be worth much in the shop. At least it isn’t cracked.
“These are really good, Jay,” Coach says. “Thank you.”
Jay still believes Auradonians say thank you way too much but the praise has him smiling properly, none of the practiced rictuses that he can slip on as easy as a key in a lock.
He shrugs like this happens every day. Like he’s always at a dinner table with a family that isn’t his, eating their food and drinking their tea and not rendering breathless when the chilli peppers are picked out especially for their daughter. “Thanks,” he says, and means it.
So they sit and chat Jay doesn’t let himself imagine a life like this because he’s never been unrealistic. He wonders if Mal sits in the dining room at Beast Castle and thinks of their wheezing little camping stove at the hideout. He thinks of when Evie will decorate her kitchen, and how she’ll come to him with fifteen different fabric swatches for bunting. He remembers the look shared with Carlos when they saw a fridge for the first time in the Auradon Prep kitchen and the way his mouth hung wide when they opened it.
And then it’s 9PM and Yusuf has long turned on the kitchen light, a gentle yellow, and Jay isn’t sure how much longer they’re going to tolerate his being here so he says thank you for the food and thank you for the tea and thank you for my (Carlos’) plate back and Niesha hugs him and Yusuf smiles at him like he belongs here and Coach opens the front door and Jay has never said this many sincere thank yous in his life and he’s about to leave when Coach speaks.
“It means a lot to us you came by today,” he says.
The humid June evening means the sky has only just swept into a secretive blue, bursting with stars that Jay could stare at forever. Blue sky will always be something he’s fascinated by, be that the bright blue that hurts to look at or the quieter shade that blankets the horizon now like a memory just slightly out of reach. The oppressive grey gloom of Isle will take a lifetime to shake, Jay knows that much.
“I know you didn’t have it great on the Isle,” Coach continues, “so thank you for trusting us.”
Jay is just grateful he has Carlos’ plate to grip to. His gaze flicks to the photos on the hallway wall and to the blushing moon who averts his eyes as Jay’s knuckles turn white. Would Carlos mind if he gave Coach this plate?
It’s not expectance, Jay reminds himself.
Maybe he found a kid in the kitchen cupboard because the space behind his eyes is hot and he’s pressing his mouth together, the thin line a barrier to keep every ragged heartbeat and the sour bile pressed behind his teeth. He wants Coach to pull him into his arms. He wants Coach to give him a black eye. Jay’s body thrums, that serpent stung by its own venom.
He swallows. Nods. Bares his teeth in a way he hopes doesn’t show fangs. “Yeah. Your family’s really nice.”
Meeting Coach’s eye, Jay wills him to knock him down. Even just call him a disappointment. Worthless. Useless. Something that makes sense, instead of crow’s feet and June-sky smiles. Something that Jay knows how play off, how to deflect and handle and suppress, instead of pouring salt into the gaping hole in his chest and expecting him to absorb it like the sea.
“We’d love to have you again.”
And he places a hand on Jay’s shoulder and Jay is used to Mal grabbing his forearm and Evie’s palm in his own and Carlos’ chest against his as they fight but this is different; this is definite proof that Jay is ruined and built from nothing but previously-shedded snakeskin and a tiring hurricane to keep his skin thick so he doesn’t bleed on everything he brushes against.
Jay is choking on zinnia petals and imprisoned in the glowing sunset, his body tugging itself closer and closer toward the light. He wants to crawl under the kitchen table. He wants to smash every fucking plate. Feel the weight in his hands, release it and piece himself back together with every shatter and shard of ceramic that wedges itself between his toes.
“That would be nice,” Jay agrees.
They say their final goodbyes and Coach shuts the door and Jay is left where he started: in the doorway, holding something that isn’t his.
Except, his stomach is full and the sky is blue and there’s a cat down the street with glossy black fur. It’s June. It’s warm.
It’s still hard, harder than he wants to admit, but he’s better than he was.
Jay sets off down the street, stopping only to bend down and stroke the cat.