Chapter Text
The February air in Arlen is a damp, biting chill that clings to the aluminum siding of the high school and turns the practice fields into a slurry of grey mud. It is 1973, and inside the dimly lit hallway of Arlen High, Dale Gribble stands near a row of battered lockers, his posture a sharp, bony question mark. At fifteen, he is a frantic collection of sharp angles and nervous energy, his oversized glasses sliding down a nose that feels far too prominent for a face that hasn't seen a whisper of a beard.
Next to him, Hank Hill leans against the cold metal, his jaw set in that familiar, rigid line of stoic discomfort. At sixteen, Hank is supposed to be the pillar, the steady hand, but today his gaze is fixed downward at the scuffed toes of his work boots. He is a junior, enjoying the hard-won status of an upperclassman and a dependable member of the varsity football team, but he lacks the explosive, natural grace of the stars. He’s a grinder, a boy who follows the playbook to the letter, yet still finds himself overshadowed by the sheer physical presence of the older boys in his own grade.
“It’s unnatural, Hank,” Dale hisses, his voice cracking upward in a way that makes him wince. As a sophomore, Dale is still stuck in the middle of the food chain, looking up at the juniors and seniors with a mix of envy and suspicion. He fumbles with a crumpled pack of Manitous in his pocket, his fingers twitching. He needs the nicotine to settle the buzzing in his skull, the persistent hum of "not enoughness" that plagues him. He adjusts his cap, pulling it lower over his eyes. “I checked the charts in the nurse’s office—the ones she keeps behind the bottle of rubbing alcohol. Bobby Rayburn grew two inches since Christmas. Two inches! He’s a sophomore, same as me. I’m standing still. I’m a specimen of arrested development.”
Hank sighs, a heavy, rhythmic sound. Even with the seniority that comes with being a junior, he feels increasingly like he’s looking up at the world. “Keep it down, Dale. It’s just... genetics. My old man says the Hills are late bloomers. But I’ll tell you, looking at the line during drills today... I felt like a damn fire hydrant.”
“We’re being phased out,” Dale whispers, his eyes darting around as students pass. He finally pulls out a cigarette, unlit, and rolls it between his thumb and forefinger—a tactile anchor. “The tall ones, they get the oxygen. They get the view. We’re down here with the dust and the floor wax. It’s a conspiracy of the pituitary gland, man. I bet it’s the fluoride. They’re testing it on the underclassmen to see who can handle the height.”
Hank doesn't argue. He just watches the taller boys stride past, their shoulders broad enough to fill the hallway, their voices booming with a confidence that neither of them can quite grasp today. The weight of being "the small ones" feels particularly heavy against the backdrop of a town that prizes size and strength above all else.
The bell for the end of the day echoes through the halls like a funeral knell. The locker room beckons—a place of ritual, steam, and the hierarchy of bodies. As the towel boy for the Arlen High Longhorns, Dale has to face the reality of his stature more than anyone; he spends his afternoons weaving between the legs of giants, collecting sodden white rags that weigh more than he does. In the locker room, the air is a thick, humid fog of Ben-Gay, stale sweat, and the metallic tang of blood. It's Dale’s sanctuary and his torment. While the other boys complain about the stench, Dale inhales deeply, though he’s already thinking about the smoke he’ll have the second he gets outside the gym doors.
To him, the room is a map of secrets. He can smell the cheap gin on the coach’s breath from three aisles away; he knows which senior is smoking behind the gym by the faint aroma of tobacco clinging to his jersey—a smell Dale recognizes with the kinship of a fellow addict. He moves through the benches, his movements quick and bird-like. He avoids eye contact until he reaches the end of the row, where the genuine stars of the Longhorns are decompressing.
Bill Dauterive, sixteen and already a powerhouse of a lineman, sits with his head in his hands. He is a junior superstar on the field, a bulldozer in pads whose name is already whispered with reverence by the boosters, but off the field, he moves with a gentle, almost clumsy vulnerability. Next to him, Jeff Boomhauer—seventeen, the golden-boy quarterback and another junior—is peeling off his grass-stained socks. Jeff is the embodiment of 1973 cool: longish hair tucked behind his ears, a lean, wiry strength, and a vocabulary that exists mostly in the spaces between words.
Bill looks up, his eyes brightening as he sees Hank approaching. "Hey, Hank! Man, you shoulda seen that block on the twenty. I felt like a real Longhorn out there, just chargin' through!"
Hank offers a small, tight smile. He’d been on the field for that play, holding his own in the background while Bill made the highlight-reel hit. "You did good, Bill. Real good."
But Bill's smile falters as he notices the slump in Hank's shoulders. He stands up, his massive frame towering over his boyfriend. He reaches out a thick, calloused hand and rests it on Hank's shoulder. "You okay? You look like you're carrying the whole stadium on your back."
"I'm fine," Hank says, though his voice lacks its usual conviction. "Just... tired of looking at everyone's chin, I guess."
Bill laughs, a warm, booming sound that vibrates in his chest. "Aw, Hank. You're plenty big where it counts. Tell you what, I'm starving. Why don't we head over to the diner? My treat. They got that new strawberry pie, and I want to hear you tell me again how I handled that linebacker."
Hank's face softens. The offer of food and Bill's unwavering adoration is a balm. "Yeah. All right, Bill. That sounds... that sounds real nice."
Across from them, Dale is hovering near Boomhauer. He’s pretending to sort towels, his nose twitching, his hand occasionally reaching into his pocket to touch his lighter for comfort. He leans in closer than is socially acceptable, catching the specific scent of Jeff: the sharp, ozone-scented laundry detergent from his empty house, the salty musk of a hard practice, and a faint, lingering hint of the expensive peppermint gum he chews to hide the fact that he sneaks sips of his parents’ crème de menthe. Boomhauer catches Dale’s eye and smirks. He knows exactly what Dale is doing. He doesn't find it weird; he finds it "Dale."
"Yo, man talkin' 'bout lookin' all blue, D-man dang ol' long face like a mule in a mudslide, man," Boomhauer drawls, his voice a rhythmic, melodic mumble that only those close to him truly understand.
Dale sighs, dropping a bundle of towels. His hand shakes slightly. "I'm a midget, Jeff. A specter. A tiny, insignificant speck in the eyes of the Texas Education Agency. I need a cigarette so bad my teeth are vibrating."
Boomhauer stands up. He’s tall, taller than the rest of them, an upperclassman who has already hit his stride. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against Dale’s wrist, a hidden spark of contact in the crowded room.
"Dang ol' don't worry 'bout that height, man talkin' 'bout quality over quantity, yo tell you what parents out late, man doin' that doctor stuff, hospital lights, 'n' all little brother's over at Grandma's just me and the stereo, man." He winks, a slow, deliberate movement. "Thinkin' maybe head back to my place? Have us a real freaky cuddle date, man, listen to some Zeppelin an' just, you know, be."
Dale’s pupils dilate behind his glasses. The prospect of being in Boomhauer's house—a place that smells of mahogany, sterile soap, and Jeff’s skin—is enough to make his knees weak. The "latchkey" life was lonely for most, but for them, it was freedom. With Dale’s mother drifting through the haze of drug dens and his father "traveling," and Jeff’s parents perpetually on call, the Boomhauer residence was a sanctuary of teenage secrets.
"A freaky cuddle date?" Dale repeats, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You mean... the works? The incense? The heavy blankets? The... specific sweaters?"
"Dang ol' you know it, man," Boomhauer says, pulling his shirt over his head, the scent of him blooming in the air. "Whole nine yards."
The two couples split off in the parking lot. The sky is turning a bruised purple, the streetlights flickering to life. Hank climbs into Bill’s beat-up car, feeling the comfort of the cracked vinyl seats. Bill is already talking about the menu, his excitement infectious. For a moment, the fact that Hank is shorter than the varsity center doesn't matter. In this car, with Bill looking at him like he hung the moon, Hank is exactly the right size.
"I think I'm gonna get the double burger," Bill says, his hand finding Hank's in the space between the seats. "And then we can share the pie. How's that sound, Hank?"
"Sounds like a plan, Bill," Hank replies, his grip firm. "A real solid plan."
Meanwhile, Dale is already striking a match as they reach the bike, the sulfurous flare illuminating his sharp features for a second before he takes a long, shaking drag. He hops onto the back of Boomhauer's bike, clinging to the older boy's waist while holding the cigarette expertly away from the wind. He presses his face against the back of Jeff's leather jacket, inhaling the cold wind, the tobacco, and the scent of the man he loves. He knows things other people don't—he knows that the principal is skimming from the cafeteria fund, and he knows that the English teacher is writing a romance novel under a pen name—but the most important secret he keeps is the way his heart thumps against his ribs when Jeff accelerates.
As they pull away from the school, leaving the shadows of the football stadium behind, Dale feels a surge of triumph. The world might be growing taller, and the future might be uncertain in this changing decade, but as long as he has the scent of Jeff Boomhauer in his lungs and a "freaky" evening ahead of him, he is the king of his own strange, small world.
"Step on it, Jeff!" Dale shouts into the wind, exhaling a plume of smoke that vanishes into the Texas night.
"Dang ol' you got it, man talk m'bout blast off, yo!"
The sound of the engine drowns out the quiet anxieties of the day, leaving only the hum of the road and the promise of a February night in Texas, where, for a few hours, nobody has to grow up at all.