--

He'd been leaning up against his truck, a beauty, a 78 Ford rebuilt over a slow summer when he hadn't been able to find much work painting houses and fixing roofs. Street smiled a movie star white smile at him, his arms almost freakishly buff where he rolled the wheels on his chair, and cocked his head.

"A fuckin' Ford? You didn't tell me you were driving a Ford. I wouldn't have let you pick me up."

Tim smiled back, a real one, and it made his eyes scrunch into laugh lines under his sunglasses. "Yeah, yeah," he mumbled, and pushed himself off the side of her bed to help Street with his stuff. There was an airport dude behind him with some sort of cart, holding Street's bags. He went over and started unloading them without asking, the only acknowledgment a nod. When he had them squared away in the bed, he turned back, only Street had already wheeled himself around to the passenger side, waiting.

"Chevy finally died on me," Tim explained quietly, helping Street up into the seat even though he hardly needed it. The brief weight of him was a shock; Tim didn't remember him feeling so sturdy. "The engine block cracked and I got a good deal on the Ford."

"I don't wanna hear your excuses," Street said, fastening himself in. "Put my chair in the back, man."

Tim shut the door and gathered up Street's chair. He wondered if it folded down, but it was so intricate looking, all shiny metal and huge, pimped out wheels, that he just left it the way it was. It fit in the bed fine.

They settled into a silent camaraderie in the truck. Street rolled the window down and rested his elbow on it, staring out at the road. Tim tried to think of something to say, focused on it so intently that a BMW pulling out of long-term parking nearly sideswiped him. Tim honked and flipped him off.

"How was Australia?" he finally asked, as Street stared at him, startled by the near collision. "See any kangaroos?"

"We won, it rained the whole time, and I didn't get to leave my hotel room to sight-see even once. Jesus, I forgot how hot it was here."

Tim flicked on the air conditioner, which rattled ominously; he'd been meaning to fix it, the last of the Ford's imperfections, but there was always a game on or whatever. He thwacked the dash with his fist and the rattling subsided to a dull, occasional clack.

"Congratulations, man," he said, soft over the noise of Street cranking up his window.

"Lyla came out for the game," he said, with nothing in his voice but casual fact. "Smash said he'd try but I think he was busy with PR."

"How is Miss Garrity these days?" Tim asked, not because he didn't know or would have wanted to know, but because he figured Street might want to talk about it.

"She's still Lyla," Street shrugged, "I was worried about her flyin' that whole way, she's due in November and she looks like a freaking beach ball already, but she was fine. Her husband's nice. He's a realtor."

"I know."

Lyla moved to Houston a year before she was supposed to graduate college, and she sent Tim Christmas cards with her and her realtor husband wearing reindeer antlers on their heads, and she always wrote inside, Lord give you many blessings, Tim.

"She asked after you, said she tried to call you and get you to come," Street went on, in the same tone he'd been using. "But you didn't pick up."

Tim was silent. He lifted his head a little so he could look at Street's face in the rear-view, but he couldn't see much, just the side of his cheek, his sideburn. His hair had grown out a lot. He didn't look too pissed.

"I know how you are with phones, Riggy," Street laughed, "and it would have been me talking to Billy about some awkward football shit."

"I don't live with Billy anymore," Tim said, wondering why he felt insulted, and Street turned to look at him, unavoidable. "I couldn't afford to go."

"I would have paid for your ticket."

"Yeah, well." He flicked a glance across his shoulder at Street, just returning it so he wouldn't look like an asshole any more than he already did, but Street caught it and held it. Tim counted himself lucky the traffic was spaced out on the freeway, or there'd be another near miss of an accident.

"How far to Dillon?" Street asked, like he didn't know, still not breaking their eye contact. He licked his lips and smiled uncomfortably.

"Few more hours."

Street turned on the radio, and Tim went back to looking at the road.

--

The house wasn't as empty as Street probably remembered it, but it was still on the sparse side, the cardboard beer girl gone and the walls a plain white with no pictures. The biggest improvement was a big screen tv Tim bought off Craigslist and drove to Austin to get, paranoid and checking the tarp covering it from the rain the whole way home. Street gave a low whistle upon seeing it, Tim's arms straining with two of his suitcases, stalled behind him in the doorway. Street wheeled further inside.

"I don't want to know what you had to do to get that." Street swiveled the chair around the couch to get closer, staring at the tv, his reflection in it looking awed.

"I sold drugs for a Columbian," Tim said, and kicked the door closed behind him. "Do you want these on the bed?"

"There's a bed? I thought I was going to have to kick it on the couch."

"Hell yeah there's a bed. It's got sheets and a quilt."

Tim walked down the hallway, leaving Street to his own devices, and went into the guest room. It had been Billy's room, not a place he spent much time in, but it did well enough as a spare. It was the master, technically, with an adjoining bathroom and a picture window facing the sad backyard with its unmowed grass. Tim figured he was better off staying where he was, though, and who needed an adjoining bathroom anyway. Too many memories.

He set the suitcases on the bed, angled them so their zipper faced outwards for easy access. It felt like an unfinished task and he just stood there for a minute, itching to unzip them and unpack, be helpful. He didn't think Street would appreciate him rustling through his shit, though, so he left it and stepped out of the room.

Street wasn't where he left him in front of the tv. Curious, Tim wandered around the corner and found him in the kitchen, sitting in front of the fridge with the door open.

"You don't have any food," he said.

"I figured we'd order pizza or go out or somethin'," Tim muttered. Street hadn't been real clear on the details of his stay in Dillon. He thought they'd hang out for a day or two, shoot the shit and eat greasy food, maybe watch some tv. But the tone in Street's voice, Tim didn't know. It sounded like he should have stocked up.

"You don't even have any beer."

He hesitated. This might not be the best time to tell Street that he didn't drink. Much. Two girlfriends ago, he puked on her lawn and passed out and nearly died of alcohol poisoning, and they made him go through rehab. Sometimes it pissed him off but he saved a surprising amount of money. Street wanted beer, though, and Tim wasn't about to be a bad friend and deny him a six pack.

"I guess we could go to the store," he offered, ran a hand through his hair.

Street closed the fridge and wheeled up to Tim, bumped his legs with the side of the chair playfully. "Let's go."

--

Tim pushed along a cart at the Kroger, Street ahead of him pointing out things he wanted. He seemed to like pretzels; there were three bags of them in the cart. Street was a marathon shopper, faster than Tim, even, who liked shopping about as much as doing his taxes. He piled some ground beef in next to the pretzels and Miller Lite. He was picking out the cheese Street said he liked when he noticed Street had stopped moving.

He was talking to Mr. Snyder, their 8th grade journalism teacher. Tim took it as an elective because Street said it would be easy, they could write bullshit little stories about football or whatever, and he ended up with a D-. Worst semester of his life, back before he could get rally girls to cheat for him. An assistant coach took him aside and told him flunking pansy-ass classes would not make for him playing fullback in high school.

Tim pushed the cart closer, feeling like he was prey edging in the wrong direction, and watched as Mr. Snyder rolled a brick of cheddar in his hands, smiling at Street.

"How's your parents?"

"Fine, they're just fine, sir, they moved to Dallas a few years back."

"I heard. How's your rugby going? Are you moving back to Dillon?"

Now Tim really felt like he should have stayed away, standing silently with his cart. Neither of them seemed to notice he was there.

"We just won a championship in Australia, so the rugby's been good. Off-season now, I thought I'd come back and visit." He looked around for Tim at that and seemed surprised to see him there at his side. "I'm staying with Riggs until he kicks my butt out."

"Hi, Mr. Snyder. Sir."

Tim didn't extend his hand, thought that would be too formal. Mr. Snyder nodded at him, as friendly as anything. He seemed to have forgotten the article Tim wrote that worked him up so hard Tim thought he was going to get punched in the mouth, country music being the only genre of music that wasn't retarded (a direct quote).

"Nice to see you, Tim. I figured seeing Jason, you wouldn't be far behind."

"Yep," Tim said.

"Uh." Street seemed to be at a loss, drumming his fingers on the arms of his chair and staring up at Tim still. "Well. We've got some shopping to finish up, but it was nice running into you, Mr. Snyder."

"You two come down to the school and say hi, if you get the chance."

"Sure," Street smiled, the same smile he gave to pastors and cheerleaders and local newspapers asking him about the latest touchdown. It made Tim's stomach pang to see it.

"Keep him out of trouble," Snyder continued, nodding towards Tim, but he was still smiling. Wider, now, indulgent.

"You bet I will."

"Take care, now." He walked off with his cheese, shaking his head like he was amused by something. Maybe he was. Tim figured he looked as dumb as he'd been in 8th grade, standing by and letting Street do all the talking.

"Remember when you wrote that article--" Street began, the corner of his mouth lifting into a shit-eating grin.

"I remember," Tim grinned back, and pointed out the cheese he thought Street liked. "This the one?"

"Yeah." Street's voice went soft, and suddenly Tim felt awkward all over again, like Snyder hadn't left. He stared down into the cart like it might help. "C'mon, let's get some stuff to make nachos."

--

Street snuck a twelve pack of Old Milwaukee into the cart when Tim was off getting bread (white and rye), and Tim had watched it go by on the belt with something like dread. He didn't think Street was going to polish off all that by himself, and if he was being honest, there was no way he could resist if that and the Miller were going to be in his fridge. What the hell, it wasn't like he was going to end up on the verge of liver failure over a weekend with Street. Street looked out for him.

Street popped a can open almost as soon as they were in the door, hissing out a breath of satisfaction and flicking on the tv. Tim grabbed a bag of chips and a bag of pretzels, opened both, and set them on the table in front of the couch. Which was... not the best set up, actually, a long reach. Tim considered it.

"D'you want to sit on the couch?" he asked. "Might be more comfortable. Must suck being in that chair all the time."

"Yeah," Street agreed, sounded distracted. He eyed the pretzels on the table and wheeled himself closer to the couch. "Gimme a hand."

Tim knew from experience that Street could handle this on his own, but two strong arms made a difference. Street put the brakes on; Tim put a hand somewhere close to Street's waist and wrapped an arm around him, helped him maneuver. It was another moment of surprise like at the airport when he grunted under the strain of Street's weight, nearly flush against his body. Just went to show how long it'd been since they did this.

"What have you been eating?" he groaned, dumping him as gently as possible, the couch creaking with its load. Street's shirt had ridden up with their effort and Street smoothed it down.

"A lot of pussy," Street said, very seriously, and cracked a grin. "Hand me the pretzels and get your ass out of the way, I can't see the tv."

Tim sat down and used his foot to drag the table closer to the couch, reaching for the pretzels with almost no effort. He dug around and pulled out a handful, handed the bag off to Street, who clutched it almost protectively to his chest.

Old times, and yet not at all. Street made him get the beer he'd set down on the table and Tim felt odd seeing Street's throat work with swallows in his peripheral vision. Street seemed to notice Tim wasn't really watching the game and looked over. They both kind of smiled stupidly at each other, just with how familiar it felt to be sitting on a couch, football in the background, screaming fans and an overexcited announcer. Street's face was flushing with the beer; he was such a fucking lightweight. Tim said as much.

"Compared to who?" he barked a laugh, gesturing with the beer. "Not all of us drink as an Olympic sport, you know."

Tim coughed. "Uh. Yeah. Here's the thing. I don't really drink. Anymore," he qualified lamely.

Street's eyes widened. He took in Tim, sitting with a handful of pretzels and nothing else. "Holy shit! You're on the wagon?"

"Kind of." He scratched behind his ear. Street kept on staring at him, then looked at his own beer, then back at Tim. "It's no big deal. I'll have a beer or two, man, I just don't party."

"Oh." Street's face started to register something other than shock. Tim couldn't quite tell what was taking its place, but it seemed good. "I'm proud of you, dude. That's... not what I was expecting."

"You can still drink," Tim said, in case Street was getting the wrong idea. "Like I said, I can have a beer."

Street nodded. "Sure, yeah. I got a dead soldier here," he said, waving the can, "you want to toss it out for me?"

Tim took the can from Street's outstretched hand and stood up, feeling something like relief. He thought Street might have made a big deal out of it, get all teary-eyed like Billy, or laughed hysterically like Tyra had. But he hadn't. He was cool. He was Street.

--

The game turned into some crappy network drama, so Tim found some DVDs with shit blowing up and girls wearing very little to occupy them. Street still heckled and got all upset when things happened that he didn't agree with or found stupid, and Tim just sat back and watched him, more amused by the show he put on than by some action stud with a case of the red ass.

"What the fuck? You're not going into that building without cover, are you fucking insane?" He ranted at the screen some more, big arm gestures, until he finally calmed down a bit and saw Tim watching him. "Can you believe this shit?"

"Nope," Tim smiled.

"You're not even watching it," Street accused.

"Nope."

"Asshole," Street laughed, flinging a pretzel at his head. It bounced off of Tim's forehead and he nabbed it before it was lost forever in the couch. "So."

"So."

"Six years since we did this, about."

Longer. Six years since Street went on his rugby bender, leaving Dillon in the dust for good. But if they were being technical, seven. Seven since they sat down on a couch and had a good time, no Lyla or whatever bullshit standing in their way and making things complicated. He knew what Street was getting at, knew they were probably in for some weird heart to heart, but he couldn't find it in himself to get anxious over it. He felt warm and lazy all over, too good to ruin. They were still friends.

"Yeah."

Street looked down at his hands, the bag of pretzels on his lap. It was more than half empty now. He was smiling faintly. "It's good to be back. Makes me wonder why I ever left."

That seemed like a stupid sort of thing to say. Everyone, especially Street, knew Dillon wasn't big enough for him. Even after the accident, it couldn't be. "You were out, you know, seein' the world and shit."

"I guess."

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, halfheartedly watching the movie. Street didn't make any more impassioned speeches about the plot or the dude who was saving the day's lack of planning.

"Hey, Tim?"

"What?"

"I think Mr. Snyder thought we were, like, a couple."

Tim took a moment to figure that out. "What, like gay?"

"Mhm. I mean, we're out shopping together. And. I guess I got that feeling."

"Weird."

It had happened before, back in freshman year when some of the other jocks didn't like how the plays seemed to feature the Street-Riggins team as a rule. They were best friends, class together, practice together, hanging out and going to the movies together. Tim broke a guy's nose and eventually it faded into nothing, not even whispers. Just high school bullshit.

Street turned his head back to Tim and he realized how close they were sitting to each other. "Funny, right?"

"Right," Tim agreed, slow, not sure what Street was getting at.

"Tim?"

"What?" Tim asked, feeling like they were stuck in some sort of question loop.

Street kissed him square on the mouth. Tim's whole body went rigid and spastic at the same time. He jerked sideways and his arm brushed against the bag of pretzels, nearly knocking it onto the floor. Street didn't let him go far, reached out and grabbed him by his neck. Tim started to say, what?, but Street covered his mouth.

They kissed slack and softly, like they were surprised by it. Tim could taste the beer making Street's mouth bitter under the salt of the pretzels, and scooted up the couch to get at a better angle. Street sucked on his lower lip and wound an arm around Tim's shoulders, dragging him close, so close he felt like he was going to slip onto Street's lap. It got faster and harder, Street making a noise in the back of his throat that got trapped between them.

Tim pulled back and wiped his lips. His dick was hard in his pants; he hadn't worn boxers because there were none clean, and the combination was distracting as hell. "What was that?" he asked, genuinely confused.

Street grabbed his hand and pulled it down from his face so he could kiss him again. It shut him up pretty effectively.

--

This wasn't like the stuff they did, those few nights Tim stayed over at Street's house when they were kids. And that was usually after JV practice ran late, when Tim didn't want to go home and watch Billy clean up after dad, who'd pissed himself on the couch. That was just about coming, you scratch my back I'll scratch yours, hands sweaty around each other's dicks and dirt from the field still under Tim's fingernails, dirt that never seemed to come off.

This felt like it was inevitable, and it was weird, a buzzing in Tim's skin since he met Street at the airport.

Street let his head rest against the back of the couch, his mouth open. Tim worked him over, quick shuffle of his hand over his dick, going harder and harder as Street's breathing turned heavy and puffed out quiet grunts. Tim pressed his open mouth to the side of Street's neck and bit just soft enough to redden the skin. It wasn't kissing. He didn't think he could do that again without shooting in his jeans.

Precome made his palm damp. Tim sucked in a breath at the sensation, huffed it out against Street's skin, felt the vibration of his answering moan against his lips. Street's hand grappled over his thigh, and Tim thought he was hunting for the zipper, so he spread his legs as best he could in the tight quarters.

"Timmy, wait," Street choked, and Tim didn't stop jacking him, just lifted his head.

"Huh?"

"You tryin' to rip my dick off, man?" he asked, eyes gleaming with amusement and how turned on he was. "I can feel it. It's not numb."

"Oh." Tim flushed and felt his stomach drop. His hand released Street's cock like it'd been burned, and he squirmed, feeling like a total idiot. "Yeah. Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Street half-whispered.

He titled his head so they weren't even an inch apart, and stared up at Tim. He waited, uncertain, until Street surged upward the final inch to press their mouths together, humid and sloppy. Tim shifted closer, about to start jacking him again, but startled when he felt Street's fingers close over his own. Street slipped him the tongue and wrapped both of their hands around his cock, slip-sliding way slower than Tim had been. He squeezed around the head and made a noise into Tim's mouth, bit the side of his lip, languorous.

"I'm gonna come," he mumbled, right up against his face, and tightened his hand like a vice around Tim's.

"Come on," Tim urged him, going along with Street's long, tight strokes. He felt the wet of Street's come hit his knuckles and his own cock twitched, watching him fall apart and gasp with each spurt.

Street's hand went limp and Tim peeled them apart, come all over his fingers and on the bottom of Street's shirt. He didn't know what to do, if he should grab something to wipe it off or get up and wash. He didn't know if he should jerk off. He thought maybe he could press up against Street's side and come like that, if it got down to it.

"Take it out," Street said, watching him. It startled the hell out of Tim, which in turn kind of made him laugh. "Timmy--" Street's hands weren't clumsy at all at popping his button and yanking down the zipper, pulling his dick free. "Commando, classy," he looked up and grinned, wolfish.

Tim stared at Street while he got what was possibly the best handjob of his life. He'd always vaguely thought about how much better a guy would be at working a dick, sure and practiced. He kept swallowing, couldn't get in enough air, balls drawing up tight.

He choked out "Jay" as a warning. His come got everywhere, all over both of their shirts since Street apparently couldn't aim for shit. After, he moved until he was staring up at the ceiling, Street a warm presence at his side. He didn't know what to say.

Turned out he didn't have to worry about it. "Are you going to bring me a washrag or not?"

"I can't feel my legs." After he said it, he felt like the world's biggest idiot asshole. "Uh."

"I know, I'm that good," Street laughed, smug, and shoved at Tim's shoulder. "Go get me a rag, Timmy."

He somehow managed to get himself up and into the bathroom, running a washcloth under tepid water. His reflection was wide-eyed and smiling in a sort of dumb way, hair fucked up and cheeks red like he'd been drinking. His mouth tasted like Street's spit and was all numb from kissing.

Tim shut off the tap and went back to Street, feeling like. He didn't know what, exactly, but different. Good.

-- End.

gin@metallicar.org