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An open bag of chips sat abandoned on the couch, crumbs spilling over onto the cushions. From the look of it, it hadn’t been there more than a few days, so Freddie stuffed a handful in his mouth, trying to get rid of the taste of sleep that lingered on his tongue.
People who knew Freddie for more than twenty minutes would tell anyone willing to listen that he could fall asleep anywhere–he’d gotten enough detentions for doing so in class to prove that twice over. The issue arose when it came to staying asleep.
He wasn’t a light sleeper, wouldn’t be able to catch even a wink between Tom and the other residents of the trailer park if that was the case. It was more as if his body were on a timer, hardwired to wake him up two hours in no matter how tired he was.
No one else seemed to have the same problem–not Mitch, or his mom, definitely not Tom. He was always a heavy sleeper, Tom, but even more so when he drank. He fell asleep on the couch a lot, but tonight he’d managed to stumble into bed after tiring himself out yelling about some shit Freddie didn’t care enough to pay attention to.
It was only on nights like this that Freddie allowed himself to venture into the living room after waking up. Nights when Tom was drunk, and in his own bed rather than on the couch for once, sleeping so deep Freddie could hear his snoring before he fully reached consciousness. It was boring, wandering around the house while he waited to be able to fall asleep again–there was nothing to do. It wasn’t as if he could turn on the TV, and Tom would notice if any of his beer was missing, and the springs of the couch were digging into his ass and back, but it was better than laying in his bed staring through the dark at the ceiling.
His family didn’t know he did this, Freddie was sure, Tom would throw a fit about it, and his mom would tell him he should stay in bed even if he couldn’t sleep–at least, that’s what she did when he pulled this shit as a kid before he learnt to do it after she went to bed–and Mitch would just want to follow him around, little shit that he was.
Speaking of Mitch, it still hadn’t quite left Freddie’s head what he’d said a few days ago, the day he gave him his switchblade, which he still found himself reaching for before remembering, about what happened if you married a boy. No matter how much he wracked his brain, he couldn’t figure out if it was something Mitch wanted to do, or just one of those stupid kid questions–like the why? phase Freddie hated so much when he was a toddler but with more specific questions or some shit.
Freddie was the older brother, so of course he loved fucking with Mitch, it was in the job description, but he didn’t actually want him dead–that was the only reason he went back for him the other day, and it was the only reason he was still thinking about this. If Tom ever found out Mitch asked, regardless of the reason, he’d be pissed. And it wasn’t like Freddie could tell the kid not to mention without giving him some sort of complex if it was a gay thing. He wanted to torture him by locking him in bathrooms and using some of his things as firewood, not by being the reason he thought he was going to hell or some shit.
Even if he couldn’t get back to sleep right now, Freddie was bone deep tired and the realization he’d have to be the one to talk his little brother through what might be a sexuality crisis so he avoided getting his ass kicked by their piece of shit dad was not helping. It didn’t have to be any time soon, Freddie reminded himself, even with the knowledge in the back of his mind that the longer he waited, the more likely Mitch was to say something to someone else.
Despite the responsibilities bestowed upon him by his mother, Freddie never actually walked Mitch to school. Or, he never had before, but he figured for this week he should keep an eye out for the jackasses they tried to steal the liquor from–what kinds of assholes threaten to beat up a seven year old?
The walk was quiet, both walking with their hands in their pockets. Mitch kicked a pebble down the street while Freddie chewed on a toothpick he’d nicked from one of his friend’s kitchen and agonized over why this conversation had to be his fucking responsibility–he already went back for the idiot after he went back for his bike. “Twerp,” he started, taking a hand out of his pocket to ruffle the little bit of hair Mitch had.
As expected, his hand was slapped away promptly and Mitch made a face at him, full of all the indignant fury a seven year old can have. “What the fuck, Freddie!?!” he yelled, his favourite string of words since he figured out mom didn’t really give a shit if he swore.
So that was the wrong way to go, Freddie figured, but it wasn’t like he could backtrack now. Given that it was already ruined, he laughed, went to fuck with his hair again just to bother him. “C’mon, ‘m serious, wanna ask ya about somethin’.” He let Mitch push his hand away, but not without a final shove.
Clearly this was an even worse approach, because Mitch immediately turned on him with suspicion. “ You wanna ask me about something?” He even crossed his arms like their mom did when she knew they were full of shit.
This Freddie knew how to deal with. He shrugged, quickened his pace as if it wasn’t a big deal so Mitch had to rush to keep up with him. “Not if yer gonna be like that.”
Immediately, Mitch looked ready to answer any question Freddie might have for him. Oh, little brothers, always so easy to manipulate. “No, come on, ask me!” He was in front of Freddie, now, walking backwards with no regards for the stone he’d been kicking that way barely a minute ago. When Freddie made no move to ask him, Mitch whined his name only the way little kids can.
“Fine, Jeez,” he said, like Mitch had annoyed him into it and it hadn’t been the outcome he’d wanted all along. Now that he was here, he realized he’d never actually decided what he was going to be saying to Mitch–just that there was no way he was letting the first time it was mentioned to him be by some homophobic dipshit. Right now was the kind of time he wished he’d gotten into smoking at some point or another, so that he'd be able to stall by taking a drag or something. Instead he was stuck with the first thing that came out of his mouth, which ended up being, “Whawasat question the other day? ‘Bout gettin’ married or sumthin’?” Not as bad as it could’ve been, but based on the face Mitch was making, definitely not the ideal either. Fuck.
Eyes darting away from Freddie’s, Mitch moved so he was walking beside him again, rather than backwards in front of him. His eyes were locked on the asphalt now, as if looking for another rock to kick so he didn’t have to look at Freddie. “Why do people get married?” The way he said it, he knew it wasn’t the right answer.
“Nah,” Freddie said, casual, biting down hard on his toothpick as he thought about how to deal with this, making it splinter in his mouth. “What happens if you marry a boy or whatever.” Clearly keeping it casual wasn’t the right call, but at this point it wasn’t like he could change tactics. And, really, however badly he fucked this up, it wouldn’t be as bad as if Tom was the first to know. “Where’d ya get that from?”
Even though he was trying to do a good thing right now, Freddie was still first and foremost a big brother, and he couldn’t be expected not to laugh at the way Mitch looked like a deer in the fucking headlights right now, gone still as if Freddie wouldn’t notice he was walking alone. “I dunno,” he finally said after a minute or two, falling back into step with Freddie. “I was just wonderin’, it doesn’t matter.” The tone he was using now, quiet and careful, he only ever used that tone with Tom, and wasn’t that a great way to make Freddie feel like shit for trying to do a good thing.
Still, changing tacts now would only make Mitch feel like he was in trouble or something, so Freddie kept at it. “That what you wanna do? ‘Stead a’ marrin’ a girl?” Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Mitch, who still wasn’t looking back. That wasn’t a great sign.
Whatever Freddie was doing though, and he didn’t even know at this point, he was clearly a genius, because instead of snapping at him, Mitch just shrugged, eyes following a crack in the pavement. “I dunno, maybe. ‘S that even somethin’ I can do?”
The toothpick in his mouth was probably going to give him splinters to the inside of his mouth if he kept chewing it like this, but damned if Freddie cared. He just had to not fuck it up now, had to be easy enough. “If ya want, yeah,” he made sure to keep it casual, to make sure it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t need Mitch freaking out to their parents about this or some shit. He figured he’d table the whole homophobia discussion for another time, when they weren’t running late or just short of right outside Mitch’s school. “Alright, you got it from here?” He asked, reaching out to ruffle Mitch’s buzzcut–he never understood why the kid kept cutting it, it was so much less fun for Freddie to fuck with it this length–as if he didn’t know the answer, it was barely a hundred feet to the school doors and Mitch usually did the entire walk alone.
“Yeah,” Mitch agreed, walking away without another word but with a smile he definitely hadn’t had for the majority of the conversation.
Despite Mitch’s confirmation, Freddie still waited to leave until he saw him go through the doors, then turned on his heel to head back home, intent on dozing on the couch for the afternoon and watching whatever was on TV. He’d done his good deed for the month, he deserved a day off school.