FNL fic: Fall Asleep In the Fast Lane (Matt, Landry) Gen
Friday Night Lights
Fall Asleep in the Fast Lane
Matt, Landry. Rated E for Everyone.
The entire town has gathered for this and he doesn’t want this night to end. Hardcore spoilers for the pilot. Plus pie.
Thank you to askmehow for a wonderful beta. Remaining mistakes are mine.
Fall Asleep in the Fast Lane
“She’s fading.”
The voice is quiet next to him, barely audible over the din in the lobby. He blinks rapidly; his eyes burn with want of sleep. To his left Landry’s watching his grandma, who is smiling fuzzily at a woman to her left, a nurse with a son in the war. She looks well enough at first glance, but when Matt leans forward to look around Landry, he recognizes the way she slumps when she’s tired, how she keeps jerking her hand to keep awake.
“I guess we should go then.” The words are weak, without conviction. He doesn’t want to go just yet, not with news fixin’ to be given at any minute; there’s shame in being the first to leave. Riggins threads in and out of the crowd in a rough circle, making everyone around him nervous. Smash has claimed a bounty in one of the hard plastic chairs that seem to dot all hospital waiting rooms; the two of them trade glances every so often but it’s a language that Matt doesn’t understand. The entire town, it feels like, has gathered for this and he doesn’t want this night to end right now. Not with his heart still racing and jitters coursing through him.
They’re sitting on the edge of a planter, pushed so close by the crowd that Landry’s pressed flush against his leg and shoulder. On Matt’s right, a woman with a blue and yellow paw painted on her face is crying; she’s somebody’s mother, but he’s not sure whose. When Landry cracks his neck, he presses harder on Matt and the hidden hand that’s settled almost unthinkingly at his back stills for just second.
“I can take her.” Landry nudges him with a shoulder. “I’ll take her and come back for you.”
His eyes are hot and they burn like hell, but he couldn’t sleep if he tried. Landry’s leaning away from him now, saying quietly that it’s getting late, it’s probably time to head out; his grandma looks askance at Landry but there’s warmth beneath it. He continues that Matt should probably stay here with his teammates and it’s that magic word-team-that causes her to give in.
“You-I’m proud of you.” She beams at him, letting Landry help her stand without too much trouble. “Amazing. I’ve always said so.” Here Landry grins outright, although whether it’s at the words themselves or the way Matt’s shoulders are suddenly around his ears is anyone’s guess.
“Thanks, Grandma. I’ll, uh-I’ll see you tomorrow all right?” She’s still beaming, nodding and they exchange I love yous and goodnights. Landry just watches and lets Matt’s grandma begin to lecture him about driving too fast in parking lots.
Landry’s departure is marked by the jangle of keys and a sudden air-conditioned breeze on his left arm. The space is immediately occupied by another body, a smaller one that doesn’t lean against him to pass warmth between their shoulders. She’s dressed in a yellow skirt with a blue shirt with little panther head silhouettes pinned to it. Her ponytail is tied back with curly blue and gold ribbon. She looks like she belongs here more than Matt does.
Matt passes the minutes by seeing how long he can go without moving a muscle. Again and again he replays the pass, the most perfect pass he’s ever thrown and, once Street’s on his feet, will ever get to throw. Man, can this kid throw. At one point he realizes he’s laughing quietly to himself and clenches his jaw to keep silent.
On the other side of the lobby Riggins has stopped pacing, opting instead to lean against the huge pane glass windows, tilting his head back to stare at the fluorescent lights. He looks smaller down there; the folks around him push off the glass to give him a wide berth. He, too, is not dressed in Panther colors. In a sea awash with blue and yellow, Riggins stands out the way Matt never has.
Coach Taylor’s wife is passing along the planter, gently pushing shoulders back so that she can get by without too much trouble. Her murmurs of apology fall on ears too busy sorting through meaningless medical jargon to pay attention. Matt pulls his legs back, but his seventh grade teacher told him he’s always been all gangly limbs and not enough between the ears and she trips over his gargantuan feet anyway. She puts her hand on his knee to catch herself, straightens up with an apology that slides right under his own.
He puts his hand on her arm to steady her. He can smell perfume on her: sweet, but not overpowering; it’s nice, like early springtime. It softens the acrid smell of the hospital. He’s been here a few times and it’s always smelled vaguely medicinal in a way that burns his nostrils. Now that scent is mixed with everyone else’s; his eyes and throat are burning with it.
“Matt Saracen.” She says his name like she’s trying it out for size.
“Yeah. Uh, I mean, yes ma’am.”
“It’s been quite a night for you, hasn’t it?”
“Yes ma’am. For, uh, f-for all of us. ”
She looks at him for a minute, squints at him under the harsh lights of the waiting room. Finally, “You did a good thing out there tonight.”
He smiles, even though it feels wrong to smile when he knows that Street is just around the corner. “Th-thank you ma’am.”
There’s a pause when he thinks she’s going to say something else, but she just tilts her head and looks at him again before giving him a weak smile and moving toward the doors where her daughter’s standing. Julie looks red-eyed and puffy faced and Matt looks away because it seems wrong to look at her after she’s been crying, even if half the people in here look the same.
By the time Landry returns carrying a half empty carton of waffle fries that he protectively shields from Matt, a little over half the waiting room has emptied. Both of Matt’s seatmates have exited. Rigs is still leaning against the window and Smash has moved two chairs together to lie down uncomfortably, but some of the other guys have gone home. Julie trailed her mother tiredly out the sliding doors about fifteen minutes ago and most of the younger crowd has cleared out. Matt feels like he should stay, but when Landry moves to sit down on the planter, Matt stands up, wincing when his knees and back crack. The need to be outdoors where he won’t be crushed by the smell of sweat and sleep and fear is overwhelming. He can’t sit here anymore; his muscles are begging to be stretched and used.
It’s almost impossible to leave without passing Smash. He nods a casual goodbye to Smash only to realize that he has his eyes closed against the cold overhead lights. He tries to breathe when he passes Reyes and a few other guys all sitting in a row. A couple nod, one raises a hand in a half-wave. “Nice pass, man.”
Tim Riggins doesn’t blink. He’s in another world.
It’s one of those nights that looks cold, but is actually sticky and hot. Landry walks a couple paces in front of him, strangely and thankfully silent. He’s jingling his keys in one hand, swinging the linked key rings around his finger. The stupid plastic Panther paw that Matt gave him back when he was so stupidly excited about joining the team is glinting bright gold in the darkness.
Matt filches the waffle fries from Landry once they’re in the car. They’re cold, heavy with congealing grease, and relatively tasteless. He shifts restlessly in the passenger seat; his back is all tension and sharp pain. While he’s pulling out of the parking lot, Landry fiddles with the wheel on the radio until he nearly hits a stop sign and he ends up just shutting the thing off.
“They tell you anything?”
Matt shrugs. “This is just the waitin’ period. We’ll see when he wakes up.”
“Huh.” When he looks over, Landry is nodding viciously like he’s having a conversation with himself. Outside, the streets are dark; even EZ’s parking lot is empty. Matt squints past his own reflection to see the bored wait staff inside.
“Was, uh, everything okay? With, you know, Grandma and stuff?”
“She warned me not to eat the pie on pain of death.” Landry looks over at him. “I think that woman has some misdirected anger.”
A smile ghosts across Matt’s face and he slouches in his seat, tipping his head back and closing his burning eyes. As soon as his eyes are closed, he’s on the field again, hearing the roar of the crowd in his ears. Jason Street goes down again and no one even notices until he doesn’t get right back up. Coach Taylor’s spitting on his face as he screams over the crowd, Smash is grabbing his hand. The ball is flying, right where he wanted it to; he stops, looks, and throws the damn thing as hard as possible right into Reyes’ waiting arms. Perfect.
“You planning on staying here all night?” When Matt looks over, Landry’s looking over at him, twisted so that he’s got one hand on the back of Matt’s seat. Matt straightens up fast before he realizes they’re no longer moving.
There’s no one to be seen up or down the street, just a bunch of dark houses with broken steps and rusty fences. “You wanna come in?” Off Landry’s look, “Pie.”
“So long as you don’t tell her I ate it.”
Matt swings out of the car, catching the passenger door on the curb. It scrapes when he slams it shut. “No promises.”
He fumbles with the key because Landry apparently couldn’t be bothered to leave the front light on. When he steps inside, it smells like tuna fish and Aquanet. Landry follows, perfunctorily wiping his feet on the mat. “I haven’t been here in a whole thirty minutes.”
“Look different?” He leaves Landry to shut the door.
“Very.”
One of the lights in the kitchen is burned out; he keeps meaning to change it and never does. The pie is untouched on the counter, a red bow stuck to the top. Landry brushes past him, knocking his shoulder against Matt’s and causing the knife in Matt’s hand to cut a haphazard edge on of the pieces. He leans both elbows on the counter separating the kitchen from the breakfast nook and a glint over his shoulder catches Matt’s eye. It’s the silver “Happy Birthday” banner they put up year after year, except it’s been turned around and has “Congratulations Matt!” scrawled across the back in magic marker.
He focuses on centering the plate exactly in the center of the microwave so he doesn’t have to look over. It’s a new microwave; there’s a button for pie. When he presses it, the timer automatically starts counting down from fifty-five.
“There’s ice cream in the freezer.” Landry shrugs when Matt looks at him. “This isn’t exactly the night we imagined.”
Matt lets out his breath. “Yeah. Me neither.” A half-gallon of Bluebell Homemade Vanilla is nestled in between a bag of frozen chicken breasts and a stack of TV dinners. Little flecks of ice flake off when he scrapes his fingernails over the sides. He digs two spoons out of the drawer, lets Landry begin scooping out the ice cream while Matt retrieves the pie.
It seems silly to dirty two plates, so he just sets the one down on the counter and Landry plops two scoops of ice cream between the slices. Matt drops his forearms on the middle edge of the counter, leaning over even though his back won’t thank him later, and Landry resumes his position, spooning a swirl of pie filing with the beginnings of vanilla ice cream soup into his mouth. Their shoulders make a right angle, not touching until Matt switches to eat with his left hand.
For a minute the kitchen is silent except for the sounds of the spoons scraping against the plate. The first bite of the pie burns his tongue, but he barely feels it. He’s still replaying it all in his mind, over and over, even though the rest of him wants to drop dead on the floor. The muscles in his neck and back are coiled tightly with energy; he knows sleep won’t come easily tonight. He can feel Landry’s speculative gaze on him, the stupid little smile Landry’s making around his spoon.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Matt stops his spoon halfway to his mouth to look at Landry.
“You’re just-you know. You did good out there tonight.”
Matt looks down at the pie. “Yeah. Won the game.”
“Oh right. ‘Cause what I really care about is whether Dillon wins the game.” Landry shoves his shoulder against Matt’s. “You should’ve seen her face. Like Christmas and birthday and Thanksgiving all rolled into one. She was proud of you.” He squints at Matt, drawing cinnamon swirls in the melting ice cream. “I was proud of you.” Landry makes a face with a quiet laugh, like he can’t believe it.
There’s nothing to say to that except thanks, which just seems to fall flat, so Matt piles more pie into his mouth and nods.
“So was it awesome?” He points his spoon at Matt.
Matt laughs and drops his head. “Yes. Definitely. Definitely awesome.”
A quick grin, then, “I guess things’ll be different now.” When Matt looks up from his pie, Landry’s staring at his piled spoon.
“Street’ll be up in no time.”
“He wasn’t moving.”
“Two weeks. Tops.” Landry still looks doubtful, mangling his piece with the spoon until it’s just a bunch of brown lumps in the melting ice cream. “Hey.” He leans pressure on Landry’s arm until he looks up. He’s clear eyed, eyebrows arched in question. “What d’you think’s going to happen anyways?”
Landry taps his spoon in the mess. “I don’t know. That I’ll have to start sitting in the booths at EZs?”
“Don’t you know that QB picks the seats? We’ll bring them to us.” He picks a hand up and pushes Landry back off the counter a little. Landry smiles automatically and when he settles back down Matt swings his free arm around Landry’s neck. He pulls him close and leans in at the same time, misjudging the distance and knocking their heads together.
“You had to brain damage me to prove your point? Jesus, you really do belong out there.” Landry attempts to push Matt away from him by putting his hand on Matt’s face and just ends up sticking his elbow right in the sticky sugary mess between them. He mutters ominous things, reaching to the right and grabbing a stack of napkins. He wipes off the mess, throwing a dirty balled up napkin at Matt’s head and missing by half a foot. It sails harmlessly to into the wall and drops to the floor. Matt looks down at the weapon and back up at Landry with raised eyebrows.
“Maybe you should stick to music.”
“Maybe you should stop assaulting me.”
They’re both standing fully now, facing each other with the counter between them. “This changes nothing. Trust me.”
Landry makes a face like he doesn’t believe it for a second, but picks up his spoon again. Matt leans against the counter again, watching Landry draw little stick figures in the syrupy slop. Behind him the banner rustles as the air conditioning kicks on with a loud cough. The cold air feels nice on the back of neck. “Thanks. For this.” When Landry looks up from his masterpiece, Matt makes a vaguely encompassing gesture. The answer is some kind of mumble lost the in sound of the spoon scraping over the plate; everything else is quiet. Matt closes his eyes and his shoulders drop for the first time in hours. He’s suddenly so exhausted that he could pass out right here with his face buried in the cinnamon and sugar. When he opens his eyes Landry’s watching him, spoon hanging out of his mouth.
“I did it.”
“Yup.”
“Wow.”
He knows that tomorrow he’ll wake up with a sore back and neck and on the radio they’ll talk about how he didn’t know the plays and everyone will be so busy sending flowers, cars, and prayers to Jason that in two weeks no one will remember his name and he’ll go back to digging trash and fetching water. But right now, under the glow of the one working light bulb with the mess of baked apple goo and ice cream soup on a plate between them, it doesn’t matter because tonight, this night, some no-name sophomore threw a perfect pass his first time on the field and won the game.
That was him. And he’s hanging on to that.
end.
Feedback appreciated.
Fall Asleep in the Fast Lane
Matt, Landry. Rated E for Everyone.
The entire town has gathered for this and he doesn’t want this night to end. Hardcore spoilers for the pilot. Plus pie.
Thank you to askmehow for a wonderful beta. Remaining mistakes are mine.
Fall Asleep in the Fast Lane
“She’s fading.”
The voice is quiet next to him, barely audible over the din in the lobby. He blinks rapidly; his eyes burn with want of sleep. To his left Landry’s watching his grandma, who is smiling fuzzily at a woman to her left, a nurse with a son in the war. She looks well enough at first glance, but when Matt leans forward to look around Landry, he recognizes the way she slumps when she’s tired, how she keeps jerking her hand to keep awake.
“I guess we should go then.” The words are weak, without conviction. He doesn’t want to go just yet, not with news fixin’ to be given at any minute; there’s shame in being the first to leave. Riggins threads in and out of the crowd in a rough circle, making everyone around him nervous. Smash has claimed a bounty in one of the hard plastic chairs that seem to dot all hospital waiting rooms; the two of them trade glances every so often but it’s a language that Matt doesn’t understand. The entire town, it feels like, has gathered for this and he doesn’t want this night to end right now. Not with his heart still racing and jitters coursing through him.
They’re sitting on the edge of a planter, pushed so close by the crowd that Landry’s pressed flush against his leg and shoulder. On Matt’s right, a woman with a blue and yellow paw painted on her face is crying; she’s somebody’s mother, but he’s not sure whose. When Landry cracks his neck, he presses harder on Matt and the hidden hand that’s settled almost unthinkingly at his back stills for just second.
“I can take her.” Landry nudges him with a shoulder. “I’ll take her and come back for you.”
His eyes are hot and they burn like hell, but he couldn’t sleep if he tried. Landry’s leaning away from him now, saying quietly that it’s getting late, it’s probably time to head out; his grandma looks askance at Landry but there’s warmth beneath it. He continues that Matt should probably stay here with his teammates and it’s that magic word-team-that causes her to give in.
“You-I’m proud of you.” She beams at him, letting Landry help her stand without too much trouble. “Amazing. I’ve always said so.” Here Landry grins outright, although whether it’s at the words themselves or the way Matt’s shoulders are suddenly around his ears is anyone’s guess.
“Thanks, Grandma. I’ll, uh-I’ll see you tomorrow all right?” She’s still beaming, nodding and they exchange I love yous and goodnights. Landry just watches and lets Matt’s grandma begin to lecture him about driving too fast in parking lots.
Landry’s departure is marked by the jangle of keys and a sudden air-conditioned breeze on his left arm. The space is immediately occupied by another body, a smaller one that doesn’t lean against him to pass warmth between their shoulders. She’s dressed in a yellow skirt with a blue shirt with little panther head silhouettes pinned to it. Her ponytail is tied back with curly blue and gold ribbon. She looks like she belongs here more than Matt does.
Matt passes the minutes by seeing how long he can go without moving a muscle. Again and again he replays the pass, the most perfect pass he’s ever thrown and, once Street’s on his feet, will ever get to throw. Man, can this kid throw. At one point he realizes he’s laughing quietly to himself and clenches his jaw to keep silent.
On the other side of the lobby Riggins has stopped pacing, opting instead to lean against the huge pane glass windows, tilting his head back to stare at the fluorescent lights. He looks smaller down there; the folks around him push off the glass to give him a wide berth. He, too, is not dressed in Panther colors. In a sea awash with blue and yellow, Riggins stands out the way Matt never has.
Coach Taylor’s wife is passing along the planter, gently pushing shoulders back so that she can get by without too much trouble. Her murmurs of apology fall on ears too busy sorting through meaningless medical jargon to pay attention. Matt pulls his legs back, but his seventh grade teacher told him he’s always been all gangly limbs and not enough between the ears and she trips over his gargantuan feet anyway. She puts her hand on his knee to catch herself, straightens up with an apology that slides right under his own.
He puts his hand on her arm to steady her. He can smell perfume on her: sweet, but not overpowering; it’s nice, like early springtime. It softens the acrid smell of the hospital. He’s been here a few times and it’s always smelled vaguely medicinal in a way that burns his nostrils. Now that scent is mixed with everyone else’s; his eyes and throat are burning with it.
“Matt Saracen.” She says his name like she’s trying it out for size.
“Yeah. Uh, I mean, yes ma’am.”
“It’s been quite a night for you, hasn’t it?”
“Yes ma’am. For, uh, f-for all of us. ”
She looks at him for a minute, squints at him under the harsh lights of the waiting room. Finally, “You did a good thing out there tonight.”
He smiles, even though it feels wrong to smile when he knows that Street is just around the corner. “Th-thank you ma’am.”
There’s a pause when he thinks she’s going to say something else, but she just tilts her head and looks at him again before giving him a weak smile and moving toward the doors where her daughter’s standing. Julie looks red-eyed and puffy faced and Matt looks away because it seems wrong to look at her after she’s been crying, even if half the people in here look the same.
By the time Landry returns carrying a half empty carton of waffle fries that he protectively shields from Matt, a little over half the waiting room has emptied. Both of Matt’s seatmates have exited. Rigs is still leaning against the window and Smash has moved two chairs together to lie down uncomfortably, but some of the other guys have gone home. Julie trailed her mother tiredly out the sliding doors about fifteen minutes ago and most of the younger crowd has cleared out. Matt feels like he should stay, but when Landry moves to sit down on the planter, Matt stands up, wincing when his knees and back crack. The need to be outdoors where he won’t be crushed by the smell of sweat and sleep and fear is overwhelming. He can’t sit here anymore; his muscles are begging to be stretched and used.
It’s almost impossible to leave without passing Smash. He nods a casual goodbye to Smash only to realize that he has his eyes closed against the cold overhead lights. He tries to breathe when he passes Reyes and a few other guys all sitting in a row. A couple nod, one raises a hand in a half-wave. “Nice pass, man.”
Tim Riggins doesn’t blink. He’s in another world.
It’s one of those nights that looks cold, but is actually sticky and hot. Landry walks a couple paces in front of him, strangely and thankfully silent. He’s jingling his keys in one hand, swinging the linked key rings around his finger. The stupid plastic Panther paw that Matt gave him back when he was so stupidly excited about joining the team is glinting bright gold in the darkness.
Matt filches the waffle fries from Landry once they’re in the car. They’re cold, heavy with congealing grease, and relatively tasteless. He shifts restlessly in the passenger seat; his back is all tension and sharp pain. While he’s pulling out of the parking lot, Landry fiddles with the wheel on the radio until he nearly hits a stop sign and he ends up just shutting the thing off.
“They tell you anything?”
Matt shrugs. “This is just the waitin’ period. We’ll see when he wakes up.”
“Huh.” When he looks over, Landry is nodding viciously like he’s having a conversation with himself. Outside, the streets are dark; even EZ’s parking lot is empty. Matt squints past his own reflection to see the bored wait staff inside.
“Was, uh, everything okay? With, you know, Grandma and stuff?”
“She warned me not to eat the pie on pain of death.” Landry looks over at him. “I think that woman has some misdirected anger.”
A smile ghosts across Matt’s face and he slouches in his seat, tipping his head back and closing his burning eyes. As soon as his eyes are closed, he’s on the field again, hearing the roar of the crowd in his ears. Jason Street goes down again and no one even notices until he doesn’t get right back up. Coach Taylor’s spitting on his face as he screams over the crowd, Smash is grabbing his hand. The ball is flying, right where he wanted it to; he stops, looks, and throws the damn thing as hard as possible right into Reyes’ waiting arms. Perfect.
“You planning on staying here all night?” When Matt looks over, Landry’s looking over at him, twisted so that he’s got one hand on the back of Matt’s seat. Matt straightens up fast before he realizes they’re no longer moving.
There’s no one to be seen up or down the street, just a bunch of dark houses with broken steps and rusty fences. “You wanna come in?” Off Landry’s look, “Pie.”
“So long as you don’t tell her I ate it.”
Matt swings out of the car, catching the passenger door on the curb. It scrapes when he slams it shut. “No promises.”
He fumbles with the key because Landry apparently couldn’t be bothered to leave the front light on. When he steps inside, it smells like tuna fish and Aquanet. Landry follows, perfunctorily wiping his feet on the mat. “I haven’t been here in a whole thirty minutes.”
“Look different?” He leaves Landry to shut the door.
“Very.”
One of the lights in the kitchen is burned out; he keeps meaning to change it and never does. The pie is untouched on the counter, a red bow stuck to the top. Landry brushes past him, knocking his shoulder against Matt’s and causing the knife in Matt’s hand to cut a haphazard edge on of the pieces. He leans both elbows on the counter separating the kitchen from the breakfast nook and a glint over his shoulder catches Matt’s eye. It’s the silver “Happy Birthday” banner they put up year after year, except it’s been turned around and has “Congratulations Matt!” scrawled across the back in magic marker.
He focuses on centering the plate exactly in the center of the microwave so he doesn’t have to look over. It’s a new microwave; there’s a button for pie. When he presses it, the timer automatically starts counting down from fifty-five.
“There’s ice cream in the freezer.” Landry shrugs when Matt looks at him. “This isn’t exactly the night we imagined.”
Matt lets out his breath. “Yeah. Me neither.” A half-gallon of Bluebell Homemade Vanilla is nestled in between a bag of frozen chicken breasts and a stack of TV dinners. Little flecks of ice flake off when he scrapes his fingernails over the sides. He digs two spoons out of the drawer, lets Landry begin scooping out the ice cream while Matt retrieves the pie.
It seems silly to dirty two plates, so he just sets the one down on the counter and Landry plops two scoops of ice cream between the slices. Matt drops his forearms on the middle edge of the counter, leaning over even though his back won’t thank him later, and Landry resumes his position, spooning a swirl of pie filing with the beginnings of vanilla ice cream soup into his mouth. Their shoulders make a right angle, not touching until Matt switches to eat with his left hand.
For a minute the kitchen is silent except for the sounds of the spoons scraping against the plate. The first bite of the pie burns his tongue, but he barely feels it. He’s still replaying it all in his mind, over and over, even though the rest of him wants to drop dead on the floor. The muscles in his neck and back are coiled tightly with energy; he knows sleep won’t come easily tonight. He can feel Landry’s speculative gaze on him, the stupid little smile Landry’s making around his spoon.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Matt stops his spoon halfway to his mouth to look at Landry.
“You’re just-you know. You did good out there tonight.”
Matt looks down at the pie. “Yeah. Won the game.”
“Oh right. ‘Cause what I really care about is whether Dillon wins the game.” Landry shoves his shoulder against Matt’s. “You should’ve seen her face. Like Christmas and birthday and Thanksgiving all rolled into one. She was proud of you.” He squints at Matt, drawing cinnamon swirls in the melting ice cream. “I was proud of you.” Landry makes a face with a quiet laugh, like he can’t believe it.
There’s nothing to say to that except thanks, which just seems to fall flat, so Matt piles more pie into his mouth and nods.
“So was it awesome?” He points his spoon at Matt.
Matt laughs and drops his head. “Yes. Definitely. Definitely awesome.”
A quick grin, then, “I guess things’ll be different now.” When Matt looks up from his pie, Landry’s staring at his piled spoon.
“Street’ll be up in no time.”
“He wasn’t moving.”
“Two weeks. Tops.” Landry still looks doubtful, mangling his piece with the spoon until it’s just a bunch of brown lumps in the melting ice cream. “Hey.” He leans pressure on Landry’s arm until he looks up. He’s clear eyed, eyebrows arched in question. “What d’you think’s going to happen anyways?”
Landry taps his spoon in the mess. “I don’t know. That I’ll have to start sitting in the booths at EZs?”
“Don’t you know that QB picks the seats? We’ll bring them to us.” He picks a hand up and pushes Landry back off the counter a little. Landry smiles automatically and when he settles back down Matt swings his free arm around Landry’s neck. He pulls him close and leans in at the same time, misjudging the distance and knocking their heads together.
“You had to brain damage me to prove your point? Jesus, you really do belong out there.” Landry attempts to push Matt away from him by putting his hand on Matt’s face and just ends up sticking his elbow right in the sticky sugary mess between them. He mutters ominous things, reaching to the right and grabbing a stack of napkins. He wipes off the mess, throwing a dirty balled up napkin at Matt’s head and missing by half a foot. It sails harmlessly to into the wall and drops to the floor. Matt looks down at the weapon and back up at Landry with raised eyebrows.
“Maybe you should stick to music.”
“Maybe you should stop assaulting me.”
They’re both standing fully now, facing each other with the counter between them. “This changes nothing. Trust me.”
Landry makes a face like he doesn’t believe it for a second, but picks up his spoon again. Matt leans against the counter again, watching Landry draw little stick figures in the syrupy slop. Behind him the banner rustles as the air conditioning kicks on with a loud cough. The cold air feels nice on the back of neck. “Thanks. For this.” When Landry looks up from his masterpiece, Matt makes a vaguely encompassing gesture. The answer is some kind of mumble lost the in sound of the spoon scraping over the plate; everything else is quiet. Matt closes his eyes and his shoulders drop for the first time in hours. He’s suddenly so exhausted that he could pass out right here with his face buried in the cinnamon and sugar. When he opens his eyes Landry’s watching him, spoon hanging out of his mouth.
“I did it.”
“Yup.”
“Wow.”
He knows that tomorrow he’ll wake up with a sore back and neck and on the radio they’ll talk about how he didn’t know the plays and everyone will be so busy sending flowers, cars, and prayers to Jason that in two weeks no one will remember his name and he’ll go back to digging trash and fetching water. But right now, under the glow of the one working light bulb with the mess of baked apple goo and ice cream soup on a plate between them, it doesn’t matter because tonight, this night, some no-name sophomore threw a perfect pass his first time on the field and won the game.
That was him. And he’s hanging on to that.
end.
Feedback appreciated.