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Fall comes in fast that year, cool rainy weather sweeping in to replace the September sun before the high school’s been back in session for a month. There’s a definite chill in the air when they walk home, the whisper of more rain always on the horizon.
FP’s never been the type to dress for the weather - he wears his leather jacket or letterman all freezing winter and well into the summer heat, shivering in sneakers and bare ears when it snows and sweating in the sun. He’s been known to wear sleeveless shirts in late, chilly fall, or cover his bruises with long sleeves when it’s ninety degrees in the shade. He has no rainjacket or any kind of snow gear to ease the changing of the seasons; indeed he has very few clothes at all, which explains most of the disparity. It’s not hard to be dressed poorly when your whole wardrobe for all four seasons fits in a duffel bag.
Tonight, though, he’s warm in an old, stretched-out man’s sweater from Goodwill that’s two or three sizes too big for him. He has three of these in his closet, all secondhand and thin from overuse. FP’s never owned anything that wasn’t worn and mended, but he cherishes these specifically for their derelict appearance. Gladys teases him frequently that he’s trying to look more like Kurt Cobain. Maybe there’s a grain of truth in that, but there’s another association that’s more precious to him:
They remind him of his mom.
Linda used to dress in sweaters just like these when FP was growing up. He remembers how the sleeves were always too long for her, how she would let him fidget with the worn collars when she held him on her lap. When she’d died, senior had tossed them and the rest of her clothes without a second thought. It was too much to hope that they had found their way into Riverdale’s thrift store inventory - it was more than likely that those memories of his childhood were laying buried wherever the landfill trash from almost ten years ago ended up.
But either way, when he’d come across this one in the belly of the thrift store a year ago, he’d almost cried from the memory. Fred had been with him, and FP remembers him half-heartedly warning him about how thin the fabric was before he must have seen the look in FP’s eyes. Fred had fallen silent and paid the dollar for it without a second thought, and on the way home FP had explained it to him as best he could without crying harder. This was something he had retained from his childhood; boys didn’t cry. Certainly not over something like a sweater.
When they’d reached the corner where they usually parted ways, Fred had pulled it out of the bag and over FP’s head, even though it still smelled like the musty store. FP, predictably, had been in a T-Shirt that was much too light for the weather, but the sweater was just right.
“You look good in it,” Fred had said, just that, a little smile on his face and love in his eyes. And FP had worn it almost the entire year since, drifting back to the thrift store now and again to see if anything similar ever showed up, eventually taking home two cousins to the original. The sweater was now more worn than ever, with holes at the collar and hem, but FP just grew more and more attached to it. Fred and FP traded clothes freely, everything from hoodies to gym socks to boxer shorts, but Fred had never asked for one of those sweaters. FP would have lent them freely - there was nothing in the world so valuable to him as Fred - and surely Fred knew that, but he still didn’t ask. That was just how Fred was.
FP does have one of Fred’s own hoodies on his bedroom floor - an RHS Athletics one with Andrews on the sleeve. He has one of his own too - currently somewhere at Fred’s house, probably stuffed into the closet where Fred’s zillions of other hoodies and shirts are threatening to burst the closet at the seams.
Fred has a wardrobe that changes with the seasons: baseball tees in spring that show off his newly well-defined arm muscles, cut-off denim shorts and cropped T-shirts in summer that drive FP to throes of sexual frustration for those long weeks at the end of the school year, and from fall into winter he favours oversized hoodies and fluffy crewnecks that hang on his small body like a tent. He looks so unbearably cute in them that FP can no more concentrate throughout their shared classes in the fall than he can when Fred’s bare back is exposed to him all June.
That’s what he’s wearing when he knocks on FP’s door in the middle of that rainy fall night. It’s well past Fred’s usual curfew, so his best friend is the last person FP expects to see when he peers through the crack of the door out into the rain. It’s not pouring, but it’s damp, small cold droplets falling out of the dark sky with enough persistence to get the trees and eaves dripping. Fred also owns at least two raincoats, so he’s not sure why his friend’s just in his big crewneck sweater, the shoulders and sleeves damp and his hair soaked down to his head.
He knows there’s something wrong right away. Fred comes in and doesn’t say anything, just stands in FP’s kitchen like he’s somehow an unwelcome guest. He has his shoulders hunched and his eyes cast down, looking like a kitten that had had water thrown at it. His sweatshirt sleeves hang all the way past his hands, and he’s playing with his fingers almost nervously, though the actual gesture is lost somewhere in his sleeves. FP’s holding him immediately, hands on Fred’s shoulders, which are almost buried under the fabric of his sweater.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” FP asks immediately, worry making his voice harsh and clear.
“I just needed to see you.” Fred’s voice is too soft, his eyes red from crying when he glances up into FP’s face. He’s shivering from the cold, and sniffling like his nose is running. He blinks furiously, lips trembling. “I wanted to see you.”
“In the middle of the night?” FP prompts gently, eyes travelling instinctively down Fred’s body to see if he’s hurt. He can’t tell if he’s hiding anything below the oversized sweater, but there’s at least no sign of blood or broken bones. Fred looks back down at his soaked feet, letting FP see how wet his brown hair is. It’s dripping, and there’s a stripe of darker fabric running down the back of his sweater from the collar.
He mumbles something to the floor, and FP catches the words my dad.
“Your dad?” he prompts, gently using his fingers to tip Fred’s head back up so he can look him in the eye. Fred sucks in a gulp of air, his pale cheeks now taking on a pink tinge from the change in temperature.
“We had a fight.” Fred’s pale little hand comes up to rub a tear off his face with his knuckle, the skin ice cold when it brushes FP’s wrist. His voice is teary and fragile as a sheet of stained glass. “It’s just s-stupid, I’m sorry.”
“About me?” FP asks quietly, already anticipating the answer. Artie Andrews made no secret of the fact that he thought Fred could have found a better best friend, though he was at least decent enough never to say it to FP’s face. But FP could feel the way Artie’s eyes swept his leather jacket, painting him with the same brush as the rest of the Southside. FP can’t fully blame him. He’s never really felt good enough to be Fred’s best friend either. Fred says nothing, and FP prompts him gently. “Fred?”
“No.” Fred’s eyes are filling up with tears again, looking straight at FP at last, and the raw, honest, grief in them makes FP feel like he’s being ripped apart from the inside. Fred had the sweetest face he’d ever met, and the flipside of that was that whenever he got upset, it was like watching a little kid find out there was no Santa Claus. “Not you. About me.”
Fred pulls out of FP’s grip and starts pacing the kitchen, shoulders tightening towards his ears again. His lips are pressed tight together, and FP recognizes the look of someone who’s trying desperately not to cry. He feels himself relaxing somewhat, though his stomach still clenches to see Fred so obviously distressed. But at least FP knows what’s going on. Or he has a good enough guess.
“I’m never going to be good enough,” Fred whimpers coherently in the middle of his pacing and muttering, confirming FP’s read of the situation. He’s leaving a small river of water on the shitty trailer linoeleum as he walks back and forth, sniffling and wiping his nose and face briskly with one of his too-long sleeves. FP’s heart sinks more and more as he watches him.
He knows how viciously Fred holds himself up to an impossible standard, set already high by Artie and his brother and higher still by his own insecurity. FP knows that deep in Fred’s heart, whatever he says in fits of rebellion, he has a desperate need to be accepted by his father and himself.
On very rare occasions, watching Fred suffer under these self-imposed pressures, FP feels a fleeting sort of relief that the bar was set so low for him. It sucked to have everyone - yourself included - think you were a piece of shit, but at least he’d accepted long ago that torturing himself wouldn’t change the outcome.
“He wants me to be perfect,” Fred whispers, hiccuping in the middle. He had slid neatly from self-pity to rage and now back again, the puddle of water growing under his feet. His face crumples when his eyes land on FP, and he finally stops pacing. “I’m sorry, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. You’ve been through so much, and I’m just-” He gestures with one floppy, too-long sleeve, his face falling even further. “I’m sorry, FP-”
FP crosses the kitchen and wraps his arms around Fred in a tight hug. Fred freezes in surprise, and then returns the hug tenfold, squeezing FP’s back furiously. Protectiveness explodes in FP’s mind like fireworks as the cold rain from his best friend’s clothes soaks into his front.
Fred’s his best friend and his sweetheart, and he’d hurt anyone, any day, who let him think he was less than wonderful. But something about Fred in that sweater makes him seem a thousand times more vulnerable, until FP can hardly bear to uncurl his arms from around Fred’s skinny frame. It feels like a betrayal worse than death to let go. Maybe it’s because he hates to think of Fred feeling cold, maybe it’s because he looks so small when he’s drowning in his big sweaters, or when his body seems all the smaller and bonier when you have to search for it through all that fabric. He feels like he’s holding something incredibly delicate and precious, and it’s an effort to release him.
FP puts his hands on either side of Fred’s face, holding his frozen cheeks.
“Come with me,” he says, in a tone that brooks no argument.
Fred’s right, that FP is usually the one in the position of asking for help, and usually in much more dire circumstances. But the flip side of that is that FP knows exactly what Fred would do when someone showed up bedraggled and crying at his door, aching for a love that felt impossible to get.
He leads Fred into the bedroom, stopping to grab his bath towel from the bathroom door. FP pushes Fred down onto the bed, then gets down on his knees and unlaces both of Fred’s dripping wet Nike sneakers, easing them off his soaked feet. Fred hasn’t made a move to use the towel that FP had dropped in his lap, so FP gets up and rubs his hair briskly with it until it’s a bird’s nest of damp brown waves. He combs his fingers playfully through it, pushing it back from Fred’s face so he can see his eyes.
“I’ve got dry clothes,” he promises, rummaging through his falling-apart dresser until he comes up with two thick pairs of holey socks, an undershirt, sweatpants, and underwear. He changes Fred’s socks first, then helps him pull his huge blue sweater up off over his head. It comes off attached to his soaked T-shirt, and even his narrow bare chest is damp with rain. Fred stands obediently and helps FP change his lower half, though his fingers stay just loose and clumsy enough that he doesn’t entirely take over. FP glances at the closet and sees what he’s looking for immediately: another one of his cherished Goodwill sweaters hanging near the front.
He slips it over Fred’s head, helping him slide his arms clumsily through the sleeves. The worn fabric clings to his body in a way the thicker sweater had only obscured, bringing attention to his bony elbows and shoulders. FP would have given him the one he was wearing, but it’s a little damp from their hug, and he doesn’t want him to catch cold. He pulls the hem down firmly and glances around the floor until he locates the school sweatshirt that had crossed his mind earlier - it’s the warmest and newest piece of clothing he owns.
It’s not Fred’s, he realizes, as he pulls it out of the mess on the floor - they must have switched back at some point unknown to him, so he’s holding his own. He can tell even without checking the sleeve, because of the size. Their school initials are printed on the front in the shape of a football, his name and number embroidered on the sleeves in blue and gold. Fred had always loved that sweater, and it’s still plush inside from newness, the fleece not yet worn flat. When he gets it over Fred’s head, he feels something in him relax at last. If nothing else, he can keep Fred warm. Warm and safe.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, very close to his best friend, so that their thighs are almost on top of one another. Fred’s staring at his hands, which sit limply in his lap, and FP leans in and kisses him gently on the temple before standing up.
Fred speaks up at once, his voice worried. “Where-”
“I’m going to be right back,” FP promises.
He all but runs to the soggy kitchen, boiling a kettle of water and digging his hairdryer out of the bathroom cabinet while he waits. When the kettle finally boils, he starts making a cup of hot cocoa so hurriedly that hot chocolate sloshes over the sides, blistering his fingers. When he re-enters his room, Fred’s still sitting on the end of the bed, wrapping himself up in FP’s sweatshirt and pulling the sleeves over his hands.
“I made this for you,” FP offers, holding out the mug of cocoa until Fred takes it. Fred looks into the mug and smiles slightly when he sees what’s inside. While he’s drinking, FP plugs in the hairdryer and blasts Fred’s wet hair with it, lifting it through his fingers so that it dries evenly without burning his scalp. Little by little he feels Fred coming back to him, breathing more normally, his shoulders loosening, as though he’s actually defrosting him from ice.
When FP crosses to the foot of the bed again, Fred looks up at him with eyes that have a spark back in them. He’s not quite smiling, but there’s such a tender, affectionate look on his face that FP suddenly feels a little shy. He’d rather this expression than Fred’s sadness, of course, but even after all this time he wonders if he’ll ever get used to being on the receiving end of that naked affection. Fred holds out his cup, lukewarm and half-empty, and FP takes it gently out of his fingers.
“All done?” he asks, and when Fred nods he sets it aside on the night table and climbs onto the bed to smother him in a ferociously tight embrace. FP pulls them both gently down onto the mattress, squeezing Fred tightly and securely in his arms. Fred ducks his head into the hollow of FP’s neck, his hair, still warm from the blow-drier, tickling FP’s throat. FP kisses him on the head and snuggles him like his life depends on it.
“You are good enough,” he whispers ferociously in his ear, a lump rising unexpectedly in his throat. He hugs Fred tighter, trying not squeeze the tears out of his eyes, though Fred can’t see him. “You are wonderful, okay? You are incredible. You are perfect to me. ”
Fred says something very soft that’s lost in the space between FP’s shirt collar and skin. FP readjusts just enough so that he can lay with his forehead pressing against Fred’s forehead, looking right into his big brown eyes.
“What was that, mumbles?” he asks softly, tracing the downy curve of Fred’s cheekbone with his finger.
Fred’s lips curve into a smile. “You know,” he replies softly. FP thinks he does.
FP rubs his back as Fred’s eyes close against the pillow, drawing the comforter up over both of them to keep him warm. He links their legs together below the sheets and watches as Fred’s eyes flutter closed. His muscles loosen under the pressure of FP’s arm until he’s relaxed, but FP doesn’t release him from his warm embrace. The urge to take care of him is like a physical fire burning in his chest, and he thinks he could happily hold him in this nest of blankets for the rest of his life.
Maybe there’s a little bit of his mother in him after all.