MWB fic
For rhythmsextion for a very late Christmas present.
Men with Brooms
Chris/Lennox, pre-movie
PG for swearing
Fourteen years after Margaret Cutter's death, Chris comes to Lennox's apartment in Toronto and they mourn her in their own way.
Somewhere Warm
I'll be there when the morning isn't so concrete
and the condolences aren't faltering in the court yard
thinking cold with your mother's eyes opened half
I'll be the one with the next ten years stretched on my face
- Concrete, Greg MacPherson
Sometimes, though the moments are few and far between, Jim Lennox really hates his best friend. It's uncharitable and more often than not, it's undeserved because he knows Chris hasn't been able to help who he's become and how the whole town used to worship him. That's just part of being the son of Gordon Cutter, it's part of being a curling god, whatever the hell that means. Or, if Lennox is honest about it, whatever it meant. That ended years ago, right around the time Chris left Julie behind at the altar and abandoned the whole town, Lennox included.
Usually, when he's hating Chris, he's alone in his apartment in Toronto that's always too warm because of a broken radiator. Usually he's there smoking a joint in the dark, his eyes half-closed, drowsy shades that block out the light and the sound of the city continuing to move below him. It isn't Long Bay, it isn't his home, but what Chris Cutter doesn't get is that when he left, he changed Long Bay for everyone, not just Julie Foley. He changed it for every person within the borders of that small town and even for some of the people just outside the city limits. Toronto isn't home, but neither is Long Bay anymore, so Lennox sits in his apartment with his stereo on low in the background and he takes a deep hit off his joint.
What people seem to forget, what even Chris himself seems to forget, is that Julie wasn't the only person who was close to Chris. She wasn't even the closest. There's Neil, there's Eddie and Lily, and there's Lennox himself, Chris's self-proclaimed 'second in command', which means nothing these days. It means nothing and yet Lennox still clings to it deep inside. It gives him a purpose, fucked up and discoloured as it may be now, so long after Chris has bailed on them all. What people seem to forget is that when Chris and Gordon lost Margaret, so did the rest of the rink, so did Lennox's mother and Eddie's mother and Neil's mother, because they were like the rink, they were there for each other, they were friends.
Sometimes Lennox is so overwhelming bitter about this that it makes his mouth taste sour and not even the pot and the beer can cover it up. Those are the same moments when he hates Chris and they dissipate almost as soon as they fully form, because Lennox doesn't know how to truly hate anyone. He doesn't know how to hold onto real anger for long. It comes and goes, little reminders of the fact that when Chris left, Lennox lost the whole life he'd built for himself.
And now he has this.
He has Toronto and a pretty solid gig selling pot in some clubs on weekends and right out of his apartment on weekdays and it's not so bad. Sometimes he has parties, sometimes girls come up to visit and he never remembers their names, but that's nothing new. The only women in his life worth remembering are the women from Long Bay and he has to remind himself that he's not there anymore. He's not there and one of those women worth remembering has been dead for more than ten years now. It's a depressing, sobering thought and so he tries not to have it while he's getting stoned. It kills his buzz, which he fucking hates.
So with his eyes closed and his head tipped back, his feet propped up against the window sill, Lennox tries to forget, but forgetting is pretty hard when your past shows up at your apartment door at one in the morning exactly fourteen years after his mother's death. When the soft rap comes, Lennox isn't sure he's heard it at first, but he peeks open his eyes and turns his head in that direction and waits. The second knock is louder and with a soft grunt, Lennox drops his feet and gets up, padding over to the door, barefoot and wearing a pair of old grey sweat pants.
He's not surprised to see Chris standing in the muted half-light of the hallway, although he knows anyone else would be. It's been long enough since he'd run away from Long Bay that people don't expect to see him anymore, but he and Lennox see each other at least once a year. The first run in had involved fists, two black eyes, a fractured jaw and more cursing than Lennox had ever heard before or since. The second time they'd seen each other had been slightly more peaceful and each time had improved upon the last until things had fallen back into the habit they'd had before Julie. It's almost like tradition now. Chris shows up, they fool around, they continue on with their separate lives as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
Although he'll never say it, Lennox both hates it and loves it. It reminds him of a time when things had been not right, but not so screwed up either. But it also reminds him of how everything has changed and Lennox isn't big on change. He would've been pretty content to sell pot and work in the mines in Long Bay and curl every day for the rest of his life. Chris was the only one who hadn't been able to accept that end for them.
"Hi," Lennox says, blinking against the light a little, then steps back and holds the door open so that Chris can come inside. He's not about to say it out loud, but he has a feeling that Chris is here for a different reason tonight. They're both aware of the date; they both know that it's been fourteen years exactly since Margaret Cutter's death. They both know that Chris hasn't dealt well with his mother's death and that even now, years later, all he wants to do is run away.
Lennox remembers being twelve and finding Chris on the side of the highway, skinny shoulders heaving with silent sobs as he dragged his overnight bag through the light spring snow. He remembers leading Chris home, away from the trucks that rumble past and shake the ground they walk on and even though Chris sticks out his thumb each time in a half-hearted attempt to hitchhike, they both know he's coming home with Lennox. It aches, but he remembers being only twelve and tucking his best friend into bed and then asking his own mother if Chris can come live with them since he doesn't have a mom anymore. And he remembers his mother leaning over the counter to cry, her own shoulders shaking just like Chris's had.
"Hi," Chris echoes, stepping inside and closing the door behind him, throwing the deadbolt lock and then sliding the chain lock into place, although Lennox almost always forgets to use it. He drops his bag -- not the same one he'd had at twelve, but similar and the sight of it causes Lennox's chest to constrict painfully -- and takes off his shoes and jacket.
"Jesus, man, your apartment is fuckin' boiling," he comments and Lennox gives a soft laugh and nods, reaching for Chris's jacket so that he can hang it up in the closet nearby. He's not compulsive about being clean, but he's not the fucking disaster people take him for either.
"Yeah, the radiator's broken," Lennox replies, gesturing back toward the kitchen. "I've got half the fucking windows open and it's still too hot."
Chris gives the kitchen a cursory glance, nodding, as if he's actually listening to what Lennox is saying. It's been six months since they've last seen each other, maybe more, but it's like no time has passed at all and Chris is the only person in the world that Lennox is this comfortable with. Once, almost a year ago, Chris has asked Lennox why he wasn't angrier about the Golden Broom and Lennox's only response had been a shrug.
He isn't angry anymore, which isn't to say he wasn't furious at one point, but his anger fades quicker than most. Besides, he figures there are worse things for a person to do and in the end, it sucks, but it's done. And there's no point in being angry over what's done, he figures.
"You wanna throw your bag on the bed?" Lennox asks, gesturing at the bedroom as he finally takes the pinched end of his joint from between his lips and leans over the back of the couch, stubbing it out in an ashtray. They got over being subtle a long time ago, which is good because Lennox isn't big on subtlety to begin with. It's tiring, he finds. Especially when both people know exactly what's going on. It's tiring and pointless, and Chris nods as he heads down the hall to the bedroom, tossing his bag into the bed.
When he comes back into the room, Lennox is back in his chair, his feet up on the window sill, the lights from the street outside reflecting off the lines of his jaw and the solid planes of his chest. He hasn't put himself in this position just to be stared at, but he can feel Chris looking at him and he knows why, so he gives him a moment before he turns, a smile curving up the corners of his mouth. "You want a beer or something?" he asks, still smiling and Chris shakes his head before he sits down on the couch.
As Lennox watches, the tension drains from Chris's shoulders and he leans forward, his elbows on his knees, his fingers in his hair and his back curves in a way that reminds Lennox of how he'd looked that night when they were twelve. He's struggling to keep it together, Lennox has seen it a hundred times before and he imagines it'll always look the same, right up until the day Chris dies and Lennox will be the one struggling to keep it together, shoulders hunched over, body curved into himself.
Slowly, he gets to his feet again, swiping the unlit joint and his lighter from the window sill, and he shuffles carefully over to where Chris is sitting. For a moment he just stands there and then lowers himself onto the couch beside Chris.
"You wanna get stoned?" he asks gently, offering the joint to Chris, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Chris's nod is nearly imperceptible, but it's there and he reaches out with a shaking hand to take the joint from Lennox's fingers. Pushing it between his lips, he ducks his head a little lower and the joint catches the flame when Lennox flicks the lighter open, holding it up so that he can light it for Chris. A small plume of smoke goes up between them and Lennox can see Chris's eyes watering before he pulls the joint free from his mouth and gives a little cough.
"Jesus, Jim, this shit is strong," he manages, giving a weak smile.
"Yeah, it's the good shit, so shut up and smoke it," Lennox replies, mirroring the soft smile as he places the lighter down on the coffee table in front of them. He's close enough to feel the heat wafting off Chris's body, which is nearly uncomfortable in the already too warm apartment, but he doesn't move away.
For a long moment all there is is the thick silence amidst the smell of pot and the warmth of Chris's body and Lennox closes his eyes against it. Against it and maybe with it, too. It's peaceful in a strange way and it's familiar and there's so little in Lennox's life these days that really reminds him of home.
"Here," Chris whispers quietly and passes the joint over to Lennox, who opens his eyes and takes it, pinching it between his fingers as he brings it to his mouth. As he takes a hit, he stays quiet and he waits for Chris to speak again. When it comes, whatever it ends up being, it isn't going to be something happy, so Lennox just waits.
Time goes by and a car honks just once on the street below, the sound cutting through their silence. A light breeze wafts through the open window and goose bumps crop up on Lennox's bare shoulders, though it's a nice change and he smiles into the feeling and takes another hit from the joint. And he waits.
As quickly as the cool breeze hits him, it's gone and when Chris's hand falls between them, his knuckles pressing lightly into Lennox's outer thigh, it's warm and heavy.
"Do you still think about her?" Chris asks finally, taking the joint back when Lennox offers it.
"Yeah," Lennox admits with a soft laugh, smoke pluming out of his mouth when he does. "Yeah, I think about her a lot. Maybe too much considering she wasn't even my mom."
Chris smiles gently at that, and then he ducks his head, as if hiding it. Taking a short hit, he speaks around the joint very quietly, "I like that. I like knowing other people miss her, too."
"People loved her," Lennox answers with a small shrug and he knows that's definitely true. The whole Cutter family was well loved in Long Bay.
"Yeah, but not everyone knew her," Chris points out, glancing over at Lennox quickly before he ducks his head again, lifting his free hand to rub at the back of his neck as he looks down at the glowing tip of the joint. It seems especially bright in the dark apartment and as he hands it back, he says, "Not everyone really knew her. Not like you and the rest of the rink did."
Lennox supposes Chris is right about that. The four of them had spent an awful lot of time at the Cutter home when they were younger, the four of them practically inseparable from the time they were six or seven. By the time she'd gotten sick, Margaret had been as much of a mom to Lennox as his own mother.
"Well, I still think about her, man," Lennox says finally, lifting the joint, although he just looks at it before he hands it back to Chris. He's stoned enough already, his head swimming, his eyelids heavy and tired. "I think about her. I miss her."
They don't talk about this; it's usually stilted and awkward whenever they try to have a serious conversation about something like this. It's why they get stoned, it's why they sit together on Lennox's couch and smoke a joint, quietly mourning in their own way. Lennox wishes that pot could make him loose tongued like it does with Chris, he wishes that he could say all the shit he knows his friend needs to hear right now, but he thinks maybe the problem is that he doesn't truly know what to say to begin with. No matter how hard he tries, he's not that guy.
"She liked you," Chris says with a laugh and even though it's something Lennox has always known, he can't help the smile that quirks his mouth.
"Yeah? That why she kept kicking me out whenever I showed up after midnight?" Lennox asks with a small grin, turning his head a little to watch Chris, to watch the way the smoke wafts around him in the low light of the room. They're sitting on an old couch, one that Lennox brought with him from Long Bay, and the springs stick out, poking into the back of Lennox's thighs, but he doesn't want to move.
"Shut the fuck up, you know she liked you," Chris says and his smile is more genuine this time around. He finishes the joint and then stubs it out in the ashtray that's on the table, looking down at his knees.
"Yeah, I know," Lennox agrees, stretching out on the couch a little, his feet coming up to rest on the coffee table in front of him. He also knows that Chris is still pissed at his dad for having bailed while his mom was dying and frankly, Lennox doesn't blame him. Chris and three preteen curlers weren't the right kind of support for a dying woman. Three preteen curlers weren't the right kind of support for a friend losing his mom.
They both fall silent for a long time until Lennox says, "I remember being... fuck, maybe seven? I think it might've been your birthday party and we were all running around the back yard and Eddie fell and got a bleeding nose. You remember that? Your mom was just so fucking good with that shit, remember? He was crying and then you started crying and it was a bunch of snot-faced kids blubbering like idiots, so your mom cleaned him up and held him in her lap and rocked him while she made up this game for us to play. And within minutes Eddie was scrambling to play with us and you'd stopped crying."
For another long moment Chris doesn't answer, but he nods and swipes the back of his hand across his eyes before he says, "Yeah. Yeah, my mom was really good at that stuff."
Lennox nods as well, because that'd been his whole point, but at the same time, it's a reminder that he sucks at this shit. He's no good at making Chris feel any better, he's just the best friend from back home that he sees every couple of months, the best friend he fools around with and then leaves again. It's not like Lennox wants him to stick around, that's a little too fucking weird for him, but he kind of wishes they could go back to how things were before Chris left Long Bay.
It's a nostalgia that's never going to go away.
They've been friends long enough that Lennox knows Chris doesn't really cry, he just does this thing where his face screws up and his voice goes all quivery and his shoulders shake, so when he sees the beginning signs of that, he gets to his feet and nods down the hall. "C'mon," he says. He's been taking care of Chris since they were kids, they've been taking care of each other and he doesn't know if that will ever really stop.
Maybe he doesn't want for it to stop.
Chris nods and gets to his feet, following Lennox down the hall and the heat of the apartment weighs heavily on them both. When they reach the bedroom, Chris immediately starts stripping down as Lennox pulls the blankets back from his bed and sets Chris's bag down on the floor. They've done a lot of shit together before, a lot of it here in this bed, but right now the only thing Lennox is expecting is for his friend to fall asleep.
When they crawl into bed, Chris's fingers hook in the elastic of Lennox's sweat pants, dragging their bodies closer together. It's not cuddling; they'd insist that they were just fucking around, they their bodies just got close together while they slept or something like that, but it’s comforting all the same. The blankets are kicked onto the floor and Lennox stares up at the ceiling, his gaze tracing the cracks in the plaster as Chris lies beside him, breathing softly.
"I still miss her, man," Chris finally admits after a second and Lennox nods, his hair brushing against the pillow as he continues to look up.
"Yeah. Figure you probably always will," he says and that's his way of saying they probably both will. "It's like... they're still here. I know that's fucking lame, but it's true. It's like they never really leave, you know? Like they're still hanging around, checking up on us, making sure we don't fuck up."
Chris laughs and says, "Yeah, sort of, I guess." Lennox knows he probably doesn't really understand, but that he's learned by this point just to agree when Lennox starts to ramble or he'll never shut up. All he'll do for the rest of the night is try to convince Chris he's right and right now that's not what either of them need.
"The apartment's fucking hot, eh?" Lennox asks after a moment, turning onto his side and closing his eyes.
"Yeah, your radiator's broken, remember?" Chris asks in return, giving a soft, amused sounding laugh.
"Yeah," Lennox agrees, the word long and drawn out, his mouth curving up into a faint grin. When Chris shows up, this isn't how it goes, this isn't what they do. This is like a slumber party compared to the stuff they normally do together, but he finds he doesn't mind all that much.
"My mom was pretty great, wasn't she?" Chris asks, rubbing his face a little and Lennox doesn't have to open his eyes to know that Chris's forehead is scrunching up, he can hear that familiar quaver in his voice and the bed shakes gently with the movement of his shoulders.
"Your mom, Christopher Cutter, was a fantastic, magnificent, luminous woman," Lennox agrees and he reaches over and pats his friend's stomach gently. The touch is light and there's nothing suggestive behind it, it's just a touch meant to be comforting, meant to convey something in the faded streetlight that spills through the slats in Lennox's blinds.
It's the anniversary of Margaret Cutter's death and Lennox thinks maybe they should be back in Long Bay, maybe they should have Eddie and Neil here and maybe it should be something more than what it is. But they can't change that now. All they can do is what they're capable of and right now, he figures, this is it.
It's something small, in her memory, a little gathering of two in an apartment that's far too warm.
And if anyone is interested, here is the song that I played on repeat while writing the beginning of this: Concrete
Men with Brooms
Chris/Lennox, pre-movie
PG for swearing
Fourteen years after Margaret Cutter's death, Chris comes to Lennox's apartment in Toronto and they mourn her in their own way.
Somewhere Warm
I'll be there when the morning isn't so concrete
and the condolences aren't faltering in the court yard
thinking cold with your mother's eyes opened half
I'll be the one with the next ten years stretched on my face
- Concrete, Greg MacPherson
Sometimes, though the moments are few and far between, Jim Lennox really hates his best friend. It's uncharitable and more often than not, it's undeserved because he knows Chris hasn't been able to help who he's become and how the whole town used to worship him. That's just part of being the son of Gordon Cutter, it's part of being a curling god, whatever the hell that means. Or, if Lennox is honest about it, whatever it meant. That ended years ago, right around the time Chris left Julie behind at the altar and abandoned the whole town, Lennox included.
Usually, when he's hating Chris, he's alone in his apartment in Toronto that's always too warm because of a broken radiator. Usually he's there smoking a joint in the dark, his eyes half-closed, drowsy shades that block out the light and the sound of the city continuing to move below him. It isn't Long Bay, it isn't his home, but what Chris Cutter doesn't get is that when he left, he changed Long Bay for everyone, not just Julie Foley. He changed it for every person within the borders of that small town and even for some of the people just outside the city limits. Toronto isn't home, but neither is Long Bay anymore, so Lennox sits in his apartment with his stereo on low in the background and he takes a deep hit off his joint.
What people seem to forget, what even Chris himself seems to forget, is that Julie wasn't the only person who was close to Chris. She wasn't even the closest. There's Neil, there's Eddie and Lily, and there's Lennox himself, Chris's self-proclaimed 'second in command', which means nothing these days. It means nothing and yet Lennox still clings to it deep inside. It gives him a purpose, fucked up and discoloured as it may be now, so long after Chris has bailed on them all. What people seem to forget is that when Chris and Gordon lost Margaret, so did the rest of the rink, so did Lennox's mother and Eddie's mother and Neil's mother, because they were like the rink, they were there for each other, they were friends.
Sometimes Lennox is so overwhelming bitter about this that it makes his mouth taste sour and not even the pot and the beer can cover it up. Those are the same moments when he hates Chris and they dissipate almost as soon as they fully form, because Lennox doesn't know how to truly hate anyone. He doesn't know how to hold onto real anger for long. It comes and goes, little reminders of the fact that when Chris left, Lennox lost the whole life he'd built for himself.
And now he has this.
He has Toronto and a pretty solid gig selling pot in some clubs on weekends and right out of his apartment on weekdays and it's not so bad. Sometimes he has parties, sometimes girls come up to visit and he never remembers their names, but that's nothing new. The only women in his life worth remembering are the women from Long Bay and he has to remind himself that he's not there anymore. He's not there and one of those women worth remembering has been dead for more than ten years now. It's a depressing, sobering thought and so he tries not to have it while he's getting stoned. It kills his buzz, which he fucking hates.
So with his eyes closed and his head tipped back, his feet propped up against the window sill, Lennox tries to forget, but forgetting is pretty hard when your past shows up at your apartment door at one in the morning exactly fourteen years after his mother's death. When the soft rap comes, Lennox isn't sure he's heard it at first, but he peeks open his eyes and turns his head in that direction and waits. The second knock is louder and with a soft grunt, Lennox drops his feet and gets up, padding over to the door, barefoot and wearing a pair of old grey sweat pants.
He's not surprised to see Chris standing in the muted half-light of the hallway, although he knows anyone else would be. It's been long enough since he'd run away from Long Bay that people don't expect to see him anymore, but he and Lennox see each other at least once a year. The first run in had involved fists, two black eyes, a fractured jaw and more cursing than Lennox had ever heard before or since. The second time they'd seen each other had been slightly more peaceful and each time had improved upon the last until things had fallen back into the habit they'd had before Julie. It's almost like tradition now. Chris shows up, they fool around, they continue on with their separate lives as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
Although he'll never say it, Lennox both hates it and loves it. It reminds him of a time when things had been not right, but not so screwed up either. But it also reminds him of how everything has changed and Lennox isn't big on change. He would've been pretty content to sell pot and work in the mines in Long Bay and curl every day for the rest of his life. Chris was the only one who hadn't been able to accept that end for them.
"Hi," Lennox says, blinking against the light a little, then steps back and holds the door open so that Chris can come inside. He's not about to say it out loud, but he has a feeling that Chris is here for a different reason tonight. They're both aware of the date; they both know that it's been fourteen years exactly since Margaret Cutter's death. They both know that Chris hasn't dealt well with his mother's death and that even now, years later, all he wants to do is run away.
Lennox remembers being twelve and finding Chris on the side of the highway, skinny shoulders heaving with silent sobs as he dragged his overnight bag through the light spring snow. He remembers leading Chris home, away from the trucks that rumble past and shake the ground they walk on and even though Chris sticks out his thumb each time in a half-hearted attempt to hitchhike, they both know he's coming home with Lennox. It aches, but he remembers being only twelve and tucking his best friend into bed and then asking his own mother if Chris can come live with them since he doesn't have a mom anymore. And he remembers his mother leaning over the counter to cry, her own shoulders shaking just like Chris's had.
"Hi," Chris echoes, stepping inside and closing the door behind him, throwing the deadbolt lock and then sliding the chain lock into place, although Lennox almost always forgets to use it. He drops his bag -- not the same one he'd had at twelve, but similar and the sight of it causes Lennox's chest to constrict painfully -- and takes off his shoes and jacket.
"Jesus, man, your apartment is fuckin' boiling," he comments and Lennox gives a soft laugh and nods, reaching for Chris's jacket so that he can hang it up in the closet nearby. He's not compulsive about being clean, but he's not the fucking disaster people take him for either.
"Yeah, the radiator's broken," Lennox replies, gesturing back toward the kitchen. "I've got half the fucking windows open and it's still too hot."
Chris gives the kitchen a cursory glance, nodding, as if he's actually listening to what Lennox is saying. It's been six months since they've last seen each other, maybe more, but it's like no time has passed at all and Chris is the only person in the world that Lennox is this comfortable with. Once, almost a year ago, Chris has asked Lennox why he wasn't angrier about the Golden Broom and Lennox's only response had been a shrug.
He isn't angry anymore, which isn't to say he wasn't furious at one point, but his anger fades quicker than most. Besides, he figures there are worse things for a person to do and in the end, it sucks, but it's done. And there's no point in being angry over what's done, he figures.
"You wanna throw your bag on the bed?" Lennox asks, gesturing at the bedroom as he finally takes the pinched end of his joint from between his lips and leans over the back of the couch, stubbing it out in an ashtray. They got over being subtle a long time ago, which is good because Lennox isn't big on subtlety to begin with. It's tiring, he finds. Especially when both people know exactly what's going on. It's tiring and pointless, and Chris nods as he heads down the hall to the bedroom, tossing his bag into the bed.
When he comes back into the room, Lennox is back in his chair, his feet up on the window sill, the lights from the street outside reflecting off the lines of his jaw and the solid planes of his chest. He hasn't put himself in this position just to be stared at, but he can feel Chris looking at him and he knows why, so he gives him a moment before he turns, a smile curving up the corners of his mouth. "You want a beer or something?" he asks, still smiling and Chris shakes his head before he sits down on the couch.
As Lennox watches, the tension drains from Chris's shoulders and he leans forward, his elbows on his knees, his fingers in his hair and his back curves in a way that reminds Lennox of how he'd looked that night when they were twelve. He's struggling to keep it together, Lennox has seen it a hundred times before and he imagines it'll always look the same, right up until the day Chris dies and Lennox will be the one struggling to keep it together, shoulders hunched over, body curved into himself.
Slowly, he gets to his feet again, swiping the unlit joint and his lighter from the window sill, and he shuffles carefully over to where Chris is sitting. For a moment he just stands there and then lowers himself onto the couch beside Chris.
"You wanna get stoned?" he asks gently, offering the joint to Chris, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Chris's nod is nearly imperceptible, but it's there and he reaches out with a shaking hand to take the joint from Lennox's fingers. Pushing it between his lips, he ducks his head a little lower and the joint catches the flame when Lennox flicks the lighter open, holding it up so that he can light it for Chris. A small plume of smoke goes up between them and Lennox can see Chris's eyes watering before he pulls the joint free from his mouth and gives a little cough.
"Jesus, Jim, this shit is strong," he manages, giving a weak smile.
"Yeah, it's the good shit, so shut up and smoke it," Lennox replies, mirroring the soft smile as he places the lighter down on the coffee table in front of them. He's close enough to feel the heat wafting off Chris's body, which is nearly uncomfortable in the already too warm apartment, but he doesn't move away.
For a long moment all there is is the thick silence amidst the smell of pot and the warmth of Chris's body and Lennox closes his eyes against it. Against it and maybe with it, too. It's peaceful in a strange way and it's familiar and there's so little in Lennox's life these days that really reminds him of home.
"Here," Chris whispers quietly and passes the joint over to Lennox, who opens his eyes and takes it, pinching it between his fingers as he brings it to his mouth. As he takes a hit, he stays quiet and he waits for Chris to speak again. When it comes, whatever it ends up being, it isn't going to be something happy, so Lennox just waits.
Time goes by and a car honks just once on the street below, the sound cutting through their silence. A light breeze wafts through the open window and goose bumps crop up on Lennox's bare shoulders, though it's a nice change and he smiles into the feeling and takes another hit from the joint. And he waits.
As quickly as the cool breeze hits him, it's gone and when Chris's hand falls between them, his knuckles pressing lightly into Lennox's outer thigh, it's warm and heavy.
"Do you still think about her?" Chris asks finally, taking the joint back when Lennox offers it.
"Yeah," Lennox admits with a soft laugh, smoke pluming out of his mouth when he does. "Yeah, I think about her a lot. Maybe too much considering she wasn't even my mom."
Chris smiles gently at that, and then he ducks his head, as if hiding it. Taking a short hit, he speaks around the joint very quietly, "I like that. I like knowing other people miss her, too."
"People loved her," Lennox answers with a small shrug and he knows that's definitely true. The whole Cutter family was well loved in Long Bay.
"Yeah, but not everyone knew her," Chris points out, glancing over at Lennox quickly before he ducks his head again, lifting his free hand to rub at the back of his neck as he looks down at the glowing tip of the joint. It seems especially bright in the dark apartment and as he hands it back, he says, "Not everyone really knew her. Not like you and the rest of the rink did."
Lennox supposes Chris is right about that. The four of them had spent an awful lot of time at the Cutter home when they were younger, the four of them practically inseparable from the time they were six or seven. By the time she'd gotten sick, Margaret had been as much of a mom to Lennox as his own mother.
"Well, I still think about her, man," Lennox says finally, lifting the joint, although he just looks at it before he hands it back to Chris. He's stoned enough already, his head swimming, his eyelids heavy and tired. "I think about her. I miss her."
They don't talk about this; it's usually stilted and awkward whenever they try to have a serious conversation about something like this. It's why they get stoned, it's why they sit together on Lennox's couch and smoke a joint, quietly mourning in their own way. Lennox wishes that pot could make him loose tongued like it does with Chris, he wishes that he could say all the shit he knows his friend needs to hear right now, but he thinks maybe the problem is that he doesn't truly know what to say to begin with. No matter how hard he tries, he's not that guy.
"She liked you," Chris says with a laugh and even though it's something Lennox has always known, he can't help the smile that quirks his mouth.
"Yeah? That why she kept kicking me out whenever I showed up after midnight?" Lennox asks with a small grin, turning his head a little to watch Chris, to watch the way the smoke wafts around him in the low light of the room. They're sitting on an old couch, one that Lennox brought with him from Long Bay, and the springs stick out, poking into the back of Lennox's thighs, but he doesn't want to move.
"Shut the fuck up, you know she liked you," Chris says and his smile is more genuine this time around. He finishes the joint and then stubs it out in the ashtray that's on the table, looking down at his knees.
"Yeah, I know," Lennox agrees, stretching out on the couch a little, his feet coming up to rest on the coffee table in front of him. He also knows that Chris is still pissed at his dad for having bailed while his mom was dying and frankly, Lennox doesn't blame him. Chris and three preteen curlers weren't the right kind of support for a dying woman. Three preteen curlers weren't the right kind of support for a friend losing his mom.
They both fall silent for a long time until Lennox says, "I remember being... fuck, maybe seven? I think it might've been your birthday party and we were all running around the back yard and Eddie fell and got a bleeding nose. You remember that? Your mom was just so fucking good with that shit, remember? He was crying and then you started crying and it was a bunch of snot-faced kids blubbering like idiots, so your mom cleaned him up and held him in her lap and rocked him while she made up this game for us to play. And within minutes Eddie was scrambling to play with us and you'd stopped crying."
For another long moment Chris doesn't answer, but he nods and swipes the back of his hand across his eyes before he says, "Yeah. Yeah, my mom was really good at that stuff."
Lennox nods as well, because that'd been his whole point, but at the same time, it's a reminder that he sucks at this shit. He's no good at making Chris feel any better, he's just the best friend from back home that he sees every couple of months, the best friend he fools around with and then leaves again. It's not like Lennox wants him to stick around, that's a little too fucking weird for him, but he kind of wishes they could go back to how things were before Chris left Long Bay.
It's a nostalgia that's never going to go away.
They've been friends long enough that Lennox knows Chris doesn't really cry, he just does this thing where his face screws up and his voice goes all quivery and his shoulders shake, so when he sees the beginning signs of that, he gets to his feet and nods down the hall. "C'mon," he says. He's been taking care of Chris since they were kids, they've been taking care of each other and he doesn't know if that will ever really stop.
Maybe he doesn't want for it to stop.
Chris nods and gets to his feet, following Lennox down the hall and the heat of the apartment weighs heavily on them both. When they reach the bedroom, Chris immediately starts stripping down as Lennox pulls the blankets back from his bed and sets Chris's bag down on the floor. They've done a lot of shit together before, a lot of it here in this bed, but right now the only thing Lennox is expecting is for his friend to fall asleep.
When they crawl into bed, Chris's fingers hook in the elastic of Lennox's sweat pants, dragging their bodies closer together. It's not cuddling; they'd insist that they were just fucking around, they their bodies just got close together while they slept or something like that, but it’s comforting all the same. The blankets are kicked onto the floor and Lennox stares up at the ceiling, his gaze tracing the cracks in the plaster as Chris lies beside him, breathing softly.
"I still miss her, man," Chris finally admits after a second and Lennox nods, his hair brushing against the pillow as he continues to look up.
"Yeah. Figure you probably always will," he says and that's his way of saying they probably both will. "It's like... they're still here. I know that's fucking lame, but it's true. It's like they never really leave, you know? Like they're still hanging around, checking up on us, making sure we don't fuck up."
Chris laughs and says, "Yeah, sort of, I guess." Lennox knows he probably doesn't really understand, but that he's learned by this point just to agree when Lennox starts to ramble or he'll never shut up. All he'll do for the rest of the night is try to convince Chris he's right and right now that's not what either of them need.
"The apartment's fucking hot, eh?" Lennox asks after a moment, turning onto his side and closing his eyes.
"Yeah, your radiator's broken, remember?" Chris asks in return, giving a soft, amused sounding laugh.
"Yeah," Lennox agrees, the word long and drawn out, his mouth curving up into a faint grin. When Chris shows up, this isn't how it goes, this isn't what they do. This is like a slumber party compared to the stuff they normally do together, but he finds he doesn't mind all that much.
"My mom was pretty great, wasn't she?" Chris asks, rubbing his face a little and Lennox doesn't have to open his eyes to know that Chris's forehead is scrunching up, he can hear that familiar quaver in his voice and the bed shakes gently with the movement of his shoulders.
"Your mom, Christopher Cutter, was a fantastic, magnificent, luminous woman," Lennox agrees and he reaches over and pats his friend's stomach gently. The touch is light and there's nothing suggestive behind it, it's just a touch meant to be comforting, meant to convey something in the faded streetlight that spills through the slats in Lennox's blinds.
It's the anniversary of Margaret Cutter's death and Lennox thinks maybe they should be back in Long Bay, maybe they should have Eddie and Neil here and maybe it should be something more than what it is. But they can't change that now. All they can do is what they're capable of and right now, he figures, this is it.
It's something small, in her memory, a little gathering of two in an apartment that's far too warm.
And if anyone is interested, here is the song that I played on repeat while writing the beginning of this: Concrete