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“You awake?”
FP’s eyes pop open as he sits up straight in bed. Everything is wrong and he gets that scare everyone seems to get when they wake up in a new place. A wrong place. There’s an unnatural amount of sunlight flooding the room and he’s in a huge bed, at least the size of the one in Fred’s parents room. He’s in unfamiliar clothing that feel new and fresh across his body. He doesn’t like it.
To top it all off, Hiram Lodge is sitting on the edge of the bed staring at him.
“What - oh shit.” FP falls back in the bed and rubs his eyes against the sun. Couldn’t a family like this afford curtains? “I forgot where I was.”
“Yeah, two-thirds of a bottle of rum will do that to you.” Hiram looks down to the tube shaped thing he’s holding in his hands and passes it to FP. For a horrified second, FP thinks it’s a gift and almost cowers away. But when his eyes slowly adjust, he realizes the shiny glint isn’t wrapping paper at all but foil. FP laughs when he finally gets a good look at it. “Oh shut up. I just wanted to make us some breakfast. Those things are worse than kid proof locks on prescription bottles.”
FP takes the battered can of Milsbury Cinnamon Rolls that looks like Hiram may have taken a knife or pair of scissors to it. He’d seen Alice and Gladys make these things a dozen times or so in the tiny oven in the Cohen’s trailer. Maybe they didn’t quite have the same homemade quality of the ones Mrs. Andrews made, but they were still pretty damn good. He peels the wrapper and presses his thumb into the side until it opens with a pop that makes Hiram jump. He takes it back from FP and peers at the instructions.
“Right then. These should take, what? Like an hour?”
FP shoves the covers off himself. “Have you ever actually used an oven, Lodge?” He’s surprised to see he’s in a pair of silk pajamas. Did Hiram give them to him? Let him borrow a pair of his own? No, he suddenly remembers. This was the pair he said he bought Hal for when he slept over. FP didn’t even want to start unpacking that, but at least they mostly fit him.
“Of course I can use an oven.” Hiram rolls his eyes, but looks uncertain. “Just not the one here.”
“Sure.” FP rubs his eyes again. The sun reflecting off the snow was making it look brighter than it was. “A winter fucking wonderland.”
“Good timing, huh?” Hiram claps him on the back and although FP’s first instinct is to shove him off, he feels a weird closeness to the most obnoxious kid in his grade. “Merry Christmas, by the way.”
“Yeah. Merry Christmas, Hiram.”
The Christmases of his childhood had never been the grand affairs he’d seen his friends have. By the time he entered kindergarten, FP already knew the sad truth about Santa. However his mom, still alive and almost as well as could be back then, had pressed a finger to her lips and asked him not to spread it around the class that he knew the truth.
“You’re just so much smarter than them, Bug,” she’d say, leaning down to his level so they’d be face to face. “So don’t ruin the fun for your little friends, okay?”
He’d never ask his handful of Jewish friends but he bet they’d gotten similar speeches from their parents too. Alice, whose mother had died unceremoniously in a car wreck when Alice was hardly out of diapers, got no such speech from her dad and called every kid in their class who believed in Santa a sap for buying into it. Loudly. In second grade Hermione had told Alice she didn’t get any toys because she was on the naughty list and Alice had cut off a chunk of her hair with safety scissors. It didn’t help her case much.
He hadn’t joined in though. He’d let his classmates believe in their silly fat bearded man who snuck into their homes through the chimney and left them gifts. It had honestly sounded creepy to him back then, letting some stranger into your house who knew if you were good or bad. Who watched you when you were sleeping even! FP was glad they didn’t have a chimney for that very reason. Just let that man try and come in through their rusty front door and see what would happen.
Christmas became just another day after his mom died. Then it became a day to dread the older he got. There were a few years where Gladys’ mom (who he was pretty sure was Jewish but never really seemed to celebrate any holiday in particular) had invited him and Alice over and set the three of them up in front of the TV with microwave popcorn and frozen pizza and big bag of fun size candy that he was pretty sure she’d brought months ago during the Halloween sales but it didn’t matter because it was still good. Those years had been decent.
He’d spent the last three years having Christmas dinner at Fred’s house, which was fine. Great actually. They always had the whole extended family there and he was just another chair at the table. And there was always so much food he’d get sent home with a cheerful tupperware with a bow on top of leftovers. He’d slink away during gift exchanges so as to not make anyone uncomfortable, but the day would normally go okay. But this was the first Christmas since Oscar had died and Artie wasn’t doing too great and the family had requested a quiet Christmas at home with just the three of them. FP knew Fred had begged his parents to still let him come by, but he’d put a big stop to that. Fred and his parents needed this.
Gladys and her mom took off for Toledo yesterday to visit her grandparents. Mary and her family had taken the train into Manhattan that morning and were spending a few days on a mini vacation. And Alice had been missing in action since October.
That left FP with two things to do on Christmas this year. Jack and shit.
That’s why late last night, when Fred had already gone home to make it to midnight mass with his parents, FP had been sitting all alone at Pops, nursing a cup of coffee and savoring a double bacon cheeseburger and fries. Pop Tate had left the day before to go visit his son in Chicago, but he had generously left FP with an open tab. He’d feel like crap coming by here tomorrow with the skeleton crew who’d almost certainly just be doing cold sandwiches and soup, so he might as well take advantage now before he head home to sleep through Christmas.
That’s when Hiram Lodge had wandered in and asked for an entire chocolate cream pie to go.
Hiram had jutted his chin at him in greeting and FP had tipped a fry at him in return on it’s way to his mouth. That could have been the end of it, but Hiram turned back around and asked him what his preferred pie flavor was, in those very words. FP had instantly told him blueberry and two minutes later he dropped a bagged up pie on the table next to him.
“They’ll go bad, you know,” Hiram justified, “if we don’t eat them. Wouldn’t want Pop Tate to come back after Christmas to a display case full of old pies, right? It’d hurt his feelings.” FP was sure no pie had ever gone bad or uneaten here, but before he even had a chance to say another word, Hiram asked, “Hey, don't you have somewhere to be? It’s Christmas Eve.”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” FP snapped. He expected Hiram to walk away then, and take his second pie with him, but he plopped down on the opposite side of the booth.
“No actually.” He picked at one his neat nails. “My parents are on a luxury cruise for Christmas. They left four days ago. Two weeks. Nine port of calls. They’ll be having Christmas on a beach in the Bahamas and ring in the New Year in Paris.”
“And they didn’t want you cramping their style?” FP wouldn’t be so crass about it with most other people, but Hiram wasn’t someone who’s feelings he considered often.
“Of course they did.” Hiram’s lip pouted out. “The thing is though I would have had to miss three days of school.”
FP finished the last dregs of his coffee. “Seems like a small price for a big fancy boat vacation.”
“It’s a ship, not a boat, you plebeian.” He straightened. “And like I said, I didn’t want to go.”
“Hey, I don’t care.” The last thing he wanted was Hiram Lodge spilling his guts to him. “If your parents suck, they suck. Why do you think I’m sitting here alone on Christmas Eve?”
“Because your mother has passed on and your father is a useless drunk with anger issues?” Hiram asked. Somehow the words weren’t quite as cutthroat coming from him, but FP still didn’t like it.
“Well at least my parents didn’t put an ocean between me and them.”
Hiram glowered. “The Secret Santa.”
“I don’t - wait, what?”
There was a slight blush running up Hiram’s face. “I got Hermione in that stupid Secret Santa the girls put together. And I didn’t want to just leave the gift for her and Penelope was scolding us about no early gifts so I - I wanted to stay for the party and give it to her.”
The “party” had essentially been a small group of them after the half day of school yesterday exchanging gifts in the corner of Pops. He’d gotten a decent scarf, hat, and glove set from Mary that lay scattered on the seat next to him at that very moment. (He’d gotten Hal and painstakingly shoplifted him three Metallica tapes from the Power Records at the mall. For his own good of course.) He couldn’t remember who’d gotten Hiram or what Hiram had given Hermione, but all the same, it seemed like a pretty lame reason to skip a fancy vacation.
FP simplified his thought process. “You’re an idiot.”
“Probably.” Hiram fiddled with the bag that held his chocolate cream pie, which was strange because Hiram wasn’t one with nervous tics or who fiddled with bags. “So you want to come over or not?”
FP had just put the very last bite of double bacon cheeseburger into his mouth and everyone knew the last bite was only second best to the first bite. He nearly choked when he had to chew it faster than he wanted and swallowed it before he could really savor all the bacon and cheese.
“What?” he coughed and cursed himself for finishing his coffee without a waitress in sight with a refill.
Hiram rolled his eyes, but his fingers still played with the large paper bag. “I have nothing to do, you have nothing to do.”
“Just because I have no family around doesn’t mean -”
“Fred’s spending the holiday with just his parents.” Hiram’s fingers moved from the bag to ticking off fingers. “Gladys went backpacking through the rust belt or whatever. And Alice ran off and joined the circus.” He put down his hand. “So unless you have a whole other friend group hiding somewhere, you have nothing to do.”
There were the Serpents but with them also inevitably came the risk of running across his old man. So, sadly, Hiram was right.
“Hal’s in the doghouse with his parents, so I can’t go there for Christmas,” Hiram admitted. He was back to playing with the bag. “And, well, Hermione didn’t invite me over. She said her sister just broke up with some loser and seeing me around might trigger her. Into what, I don’t know, but no invite.” Hiram’s lips pursed. “So you can accept this charity pie and go home to eat it alone in your underwear as you jerk off to A Christmas Story or whatever. Or you can come back to my place where I have a full bar and cable TV and a VCR and a brand new Super Ninetendo that I kind of need help setting up.”
FP wondered if Hiram was being particularly generous or if he just didn’t know how to plug a video game system in without help. Either way, he crammed the last few of his fries in his mouth and put Mary’s gifts back on.
“Okay. Why the hell not.”
And that’s how he had ended up here. Hiram had fixed them drinks in crystal highball glasses from his parent’s bar while FP poured over a book of Ninetendo instructions. Fred was better at this kind of stuff, but FP managed and they eventually spent the rest of the night sipping heavy-handed rum drinks while FP kicked Hiram’s ass at each game cartridge they popped in. By the time they went to bed it was something like 3 am and they laughed as they left out a plate of store bought cookies and a sloppily made Irish coffee out for Santa.
“He needs the coffee to stay awake,” Hiram had reasoned as he mixed the drink. “Maybe a protein bar will be better than cookies. He’s fat enough.”
FP steps into the kitchen. It was even brighter down here, with the large glass doors that faced the yard reflecting plenty of light off the snow outside. The welcoming smell of coffee fills the kitchen along with the slight undercurrent of burning cinnamon. FP would check the oven as soon as he got some coffee in him.
"Christ, is that right?" FP nods towards the wall clock that reads half past noon. He helps himself to a cup of coffee.
"I don't think you're supposed to take the lord's name in vain on his birthday," Hiram takes a long sip off his coffee, "or something like that."
"I don’t think I care." FP pours cream into his coffee from a lukewarm container on the counter. "Hey, did we do all," he gestures, "this."
The sink is full of dirty dishes and the garbage can in the corner is overflowing with trash. The half eaten pies from Pops are both open on the island with forks sticking out of them and there is a certain stickiness to the floor underfoot.
"Some of it." Hiram seems unbothered by the mess and FP finds that strange for someone as put together as Hiram. Finds it strange for this kitchen that feels like it's probably always spotless. "My parents gave the housekeeper off since they're away. I was going to call someone in to clean so I could throw a little party but," he shrugs, "you know. You think you have friends in this town, but all anyone cares about is their stupid families."
“Hey, you mind if I use the phone?” FP asks suddenly. “I told someone I’d just give them a call in the morning.”
With an eye roll and a wave of his hand, Hiram takes off for the next room. “Yeah, go ahead and call Andrews.” FP has a suspicion he’s on his way to make his coffee as Irish as the one they made for Santa last night.
The plate of store bought cookies is still there, now only about half full. FP dips one in his coffee as he dials Fred’s number. He considers dumping Santa’s cold coffee into the sink but, hell, this isn’t his place. And if Hiram doesn’t care how it looks, why should he?
The Andrew's phone rings, rings, rings and Fred finally answers with a, “Merry Christmas! Andrews residence.”
There’s a pang in FP’s chest at Fred’s voice. Maybe it’s just Christmas or maybe it’s the falsetto he always uses on the phone, but Fred sounds more cheerful than he has in weeks.
“Hey, it’s me.” He pulls the cord of the phone so he can walk towards the oven. “Merry Christmas, Freddy.”
“FP!” Fred’s voice drops after exclaiming his name. “Hey, where the hell are you? I thought you’d call sooner.”
He hadn’t had a phone since he stopped paying the bill a few months ago. Seemed pointless when Fred was the only one calling him.
“I was still asleep. It’s, uh, kind of a long story.” FP glances into the oven where there was a log of cinnamon buns slowly expanding and burning at the same time. Of course Hiram hadn’t separated them and placed them two inches apart on the tray. “I’m at the Lodges.”
“Who’s lodge?” Fred asks. “You went into the mountains? With who -”
“No, Freddy. Jesus.” FP grabs a dish towel and pulls the tray out of the oven. “I’m with Hiram at his house.”
There’s a long pause, followed by Fred’s bellowing laugh. “It’s Christmas, FP, not April Fools. Really though. Are you at Pops? I bet if you just show up here my parents -”
“No, really.” He looks over his shoulder to make sure Hiram is still in the other room. “I ran into Hiram at Pops last night. Did you know his parents left him here for Christmas? Alone?”
“Mmm, Hermione told me he didn’t want to go on vacation or something.” Fred sounds annoyed. “And he wanted to have some big party last night or something but who would want to spend Christmas Eve with Hiram Lodge when his own parents don’t even want to.” FP could hear some muffled reprimanding coming over the phone. “I’m sorry, Mom, but everyone knows Hiram is a jerk! Even his own parents - okay, okay! I’ll drop it.” Fred’s voice drops another octave. “Sorry. Mom says that’s no way to talk about anyone on Christmas. But honestly, FP, just come over here in a bit. Mom is making plenty -”
“Actually Freddy,” FP lets out a big sigh, not believing what he’s about to say, “I think I might stay here. We - we’ll do something tomorrow, okay?”
“Stay there? FP, come on. Just come by. Hell, sitting at home alone would probably be better than -”
“Freddy, come on,” FP snaps. “I just - it’s depressing here, okay? I feel bad for the guy. This big house, giant tree, all these gifts, and he’s all by himself?”
“Oh, yeah. Poor Hiram. Too many gifts and too big of a - okay, Mom! I’ll shut up!”
“Just - I’m gonna stay, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.” Fred sounds a uncomfortable. “I get it. Sorry.”
“Plus like, there’s a whole open bar here too.” He laughs in hope it’ll lighten the mood. “And really, anything is better than sitting in my trailer alone on Christmas, right?”
“You are right, my friend!”
FP jumps at Hiram’s voice, but the guy is just walking back into the kitchen and he doesn’t think he heard anything more than his last few words. Hiram hands him a rock glass even though they’ve barely touched their coffees. The overwhelming scent of peppermint almost chokes him before he even takes a sip.
“Is that Andrews? Give it here.” And Hiram tries to yank the phone from him, but FP side steps, nearly spilling the peppermint schnapps down the borrowed pajamas he’s still in. “Fred! Can you hear me?”
“Talk to you tomorrow, Freddy.” And FP slams the phone down before either guy can say another word. Last thing he needs today is to witness a fight between them.
Hiram pouts. “No need to be a Grinch. I was just going to wish him a merry Christmas.”
“Like hell you were.”
Hiram narrows his eyes. “Look here, Jones. I don’t need you staying here because you feel bad for me.”
FP scoffs. “I don’t feel bad for you.” Hiram raises an eyebrow. “Okay, I feel a little bad for you. But fuck, who am I to judge anyone? I don’t have anyone to spend today with either. You have to feel bad for me too if you invited me over.”
“I always feel bad for you,” Hiram says in his normal drawl that lets you know he’s too good to even be speaking to you. “But also like,” he rolls his eyes, “I have nothing better to do than spend Christmas with you so - here we are.” He clinks his glass against FP’s before he adds. “I’m out of coke, but I still have a few acid tabs left that Alice sold before she skipped town. If you’re interested.”
FP snorts into his peppermint boozes and swallows it down quickly. “It’s not even 1 in the afternoon.”
“Sorry, is there a specified time for recreational drug use?” Hiram sips his own drink. “It’s Christmas. Plus, we’re already drinking.”
“True.” FP considers for a moment. “Are you sure it’s actually acid and not just like baby aspirin? You know Alice passed off a lot of baby aspirin as acid, right? Like to a point I don’t even think they’d sell it to her in Riverdale Drugs anymore.”
“Of course it’s real. Alice wouldn’t scam me.” He bites his lip. “Maybe we take two each.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He downs the rest of his schnapps and heads to the next room for a refill. “It is Christmas afterall.”