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There's a time in every young man's life where he comes to learn a very valuable lesson in humility. For some it comes faster than others, the cruelty of the world seeping in before balls are even allowed to drop. For some, like Pete, it comes late.
Like being in your late thirties and staring at a bunch of metal parts and contraptions strewn about the back lawn late. He swore over and over again that he could fix the noise the lawnmower was making. He's done this thing before! Kind of. Once. When he was twelve.
He even made it a big point of telling Fang and Izzy that he was going to fix it. He was so proud, sticking his chest out, walking a little bit taller after proclaiming, “I can fix anything!”
But now he’s surrounded by hooks and bolts and sharp objects and his hand hurts from using the screwdriver too much. He doesn’t want to admit defeat. He doesn’t want to sulk back into the house and let everyone know, including Lucius, that he’s broken yet another household item that can't be repaired.
His stomach clenches at the thought.
“Hey, babe! Thought I'd bring my little Bob the Builder a drink.”
Fuck. Shit.
Lucius stays hugged to the sidewalk. Bugs live in there he’s said before while pointing to the grass. Ants and such.
Turn on your happy face.
“Aw, hey!” There's that sweet Pete, “thanks babe. Yeah, it's about time for a break.” He gets up and pretends to stretch, big and boisterous. Manly men stretch.
“How's it going?” Lucius’s tone is still light and airy, even as he's looking towards the upturned mower. He passes Pete the drink he's made him. His specialty. Tap water with crystal light.
“It's uh,” one hand on his hip, Pete occupies his mouth with his drink as he thinks of what to say. “It's good, it's hot out today and my hand kinda hurts,” he flexes his free hand for show, “I'm sweating a whole lot.”
Lucius blinks, nodding slowly with a growing smile of unease, “mhm.”
“I have a confession.”
“You broke it–”
“I broke it.”
Pete regards Lucius, searching for any tiny bit of disappointment he can find. Any little spark of anger or annoyance or upset that could even possibly begin to show itself across his features. Please don't be mad.
“I'm sure you tried your best.” How does that hurt worse? Lucius is so gentle, so loving in that moment. His hand squeezes Pete’s arm lightly. “We have two choices, and I'll let you decide. One, we find somewhere to hide it and say it got stolen.” Very promising. A great idea, really. People do that all the time! “Or two, we confess to Fang and he helps us fix it.”
Confessing to Fang meant admitting defeat. It meant telling everyone that he has no idea what he's doing ninety percent of the time. He's not handy. He never has been, but he wants to be. He wants to be the plumber under the sink and the tinkerer in his garage and Bob the fucking Builder. He doesn't want anyone to know that he can’t.
Lucius starts slowly, “I know it's hard to admit when you're not the best at things, but it's not a bad thing to tell people you can't do it.”
Pete’s eyes are doing that wet thing again, where tears collect but never drop. He hates that feeling more than admitting defeat. It's not weakness, he knows that, but frustration.
“We should tell Fang,” he decides with a nod.
Lucius wraps his arms around him, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek, to his forehead and finally to his lips. He's soft and a little salty, but Pete doesn't mind, and when Lucius pulls away he smiles.
“You're really sweaty,” Lucius grimaces, reaching up to wipe his lips with the back of his hand, “probably shouldn't have kissed your head.”
It's easy to find Fang. It's Thursday, which means it's miniatures day.
Pete grows the stones to knock on Fang’s office door, though his free hand has Lucius’s hand trapped in a deathlock. He begged him to come with, he couldn't do it alone.
“Come in!” The pleasant ring of Fang’s voice muffled through the wood door and Pete obliged.
When Fang looks up he has his spectacles on, his glasses with the magnifying eyepiece. He's very serious about his miniatures, his entire office littered with mini versions of everything you could find. Lucius found a tiny Preparation H tube online and gave it to him for his birthday. He cried.
“Loves!” Fang flicks the magnifying piece away from his eye, gently setting his newest project neatly into its holder. He looks between the pair and frowns, “what's wrong? Is it Izzy?”
“What? No,” Pete shakes his head, letting go of Lucius’s sweat soaked and crushed hand. “I…I need your help. I…” Lucius urges him on with a gentle nod when he looks for guidance, “I broke the lawn mower.”
Fang is quiet for too long. His eyes flicker between Pete and Lucius like he's trying to solve a rubix cube as quickly as possible, “is that all? I'll help you fix it!” His smile only grows as he stands from his chair, stretching from his horrible posture. Pete can't tell if he's relieved or not.
“You're not…mad? About that?”
“Why would I be?”
“Well,” he scoffs, it's obvious, “I told you I'd fix it and I broke it instead. Again. Like the faucet and the dryer and the–”
Fang holds a hand up to stop him, shaking his head, “how do you think I learned how to fix things? We all break shit. Izzy broke the dishwasher yesterday.”
Lucius gasps like it's hot gossip, “I fucking knew it. He told me the dogs did it. How can the dogs break the spiky things on the inside? They don't have thumbs.” Fang snorts.
There's still a small voice in the back of Pete’s head that tells him Fang is angry. He hasn't even seen the mess Pete left in the backyard yet, how can he say it's fine? When he leads him out to the pile of parts, Fang’s feelings seem to go unchanged. If anything, he gets more excited to see a challenge laid before him.
Fang guides Pete with ease, telling him which part is which, how to tighten the bolts and screws, where the sharp pieces are supposed to go. There's a few pieces neither of them seem to know what they go to.
“Maybe it’ll be fine without them,” Pete tries.
“Do you really want this blowing up in your face when you start it?”
Pete thinks for a moment, but only because Izzy mows the lawn. Final Destinationing your partner’s boyfriend isn't really the nice thing to do, though, even if sometimes you want to. He sighs, wiping the sweat from his brow as he stares down at the parts in his hand as the distant hum of a motorcycle cuts out.
“Sounds like Izzy’s home.” Fang sits back, ass hitting ankles, “maybe he knows where they go.”
Immediate dread wells up in Pete’s stomach. He was hoping they would finish and Izzy would never have to know he'd done it. He could almost hear the cold sneer as Izzy called him a twat, shit for brains, an idiot. He's gotten better over the last few months, but they still slip from his mouth with so much vitriol everyone in the room can taste it.
The sound of heavy boots kick Pete in the teeth. He can take whatever Izzy has to give him. He’s already learned a lot, it won't happen again. Izzy’s peeling his sticky leather jacket off, already working on the leather chaps as he happens upon the would-be funeral.
“It's like, a million degrees out here, Iz. What's with the get-up?” Lucius peaks over his sunnies as he gives Izzy a once over.
“You wanna scrape me off the interstate?” Helmet. Chaps. Jacket. Always, even if it's a block down the road. “What are you doing?”
Pete feels bold and points to the mower, “we uh, we’re fixing it. The noise.”
“You've got extra parts.” Izzy nods to them. For an old fuck, he has beautiful eye sight. In the background, Lucius snorts, going back to napping in the shade.
“Yeah,” Pete looks down at his hands. Izzy broke the dishwasher. He can have this. “We were hoping you might know where they go. We can't figure it out.”
There's a moment where Pete thinks he's going to bounce. Where Izzy will tell them they're idiots and they can fix their own mess and that he’s too tired to play mechanic after an entire day of being one. Except he doesn't. He nods, tossing his leather outfit on the chair beside Lucius’s lounger and holds out a calloused hand to get a better look.
He knows where they go, knows exactly what parts he's holding but instead of getting down on his knees with the lot of them, he hands them back to Pete with a tilt of his head.
“I'll show you where they go, you put them in.”