O1. Red Running Shoes
O2. A Collapsible House
O3. White Knuckle Charge
O4. Error in the Universe
O5. One-Hour Photos

In which Nixon holds his breath, Luz can’t shake off last night’s glitter, and Speirs begrudgingly spares a life.

O6. Fresh Horses

“Grub’s up, boys!” came Ann’s bright voice from the kitchen.

Dick nearly spun on his heels and shot through the doorway at a healthy clip. Nixon followed at his own leisurely pace down the stairwell and into the dining room. There was already an empty seat for Nixon at the table. And noticeably no Mr. Winters to fill it and complete the nuclear family.

Ann strolled out of the kitchen, a pitcher of lemonade in hand and a milk carton in the other. She set them beside a huge ceramic bowl of steaming mashed potatoes, the chunks of red skin still visible, a stack of apples and oranges, a plate of August-ripe corn on the cob, and a half-singed old terracotta cooker. Which, when Mrs. Winters lifted the lid and unleashed a cloud of sweet, hot steam, smelled terribly wonderful. He wondered if there was some unspoken contract in the food. Eat a pomegranate seed in Hell and never get out, as the story went.

“What is that?”

“Turkey pull,” Dick answered. For once, that tight-lipped mouth was loosened by a real smile. Nixon stood behind the empty chair uncertainly. “It’s my favorite. First night after practice, they spoil me.”

“Not that you’re lucky,” Ann pointed out, as she sat down across the loaded table from Dick. “He could eat a horse and its baby during cross-country season. There might not be much left. He’s worse than Harry sometimes.”

“Go ahead and sit down, Lewis,” Mrs. Winters said. Invitingly, warmly, with a tinge of amusement to her quiet little smile. “It’s nice to have a full table again.” The untainted sentiment with which she smiled across that abundant table was so strange to him it was creepy. In his right mind, Nixon would have politely bowed out, tuned out Dick’s best attempts, and hightailed it out of there, tact be damned. But he could not bring himself to do it, and, silently rationalizing, sat in that empty chair and passed his plate for an ear of corn when Dick held out his hand.




“Reference to Captain Kirk?”

“Hm?” Dick hummed absently as he sauntered out onto the doorstep, drying the last of dish soap suds on his jeans. A little dragon’s tongue of cigarette smoke answered him as it flew from the tip of Nixon’s cigarette in the August night breeze. Dick glanced down at him; Nixon flicked his lighter open and closed as if on cue. “Oh, the nickname?” He chuckled. “Yeah, something like that. Harry’s the Star Trek fanatic, not me. I’ve got a pretty good finishing kick, too, so the name just stuck.”

Nixon continued to flick his Zippo compulsively open-closed, open-closed, open-closed. Whatever had compelled Nixon to stay, when he was obviously welcome to go and just as welcome to stay, now was itching at him for decision. Odds that decision would be a healthy one seemed rather slim.

Dick settled down beside him and caught a noseful of cigarette smoke, for which Nixon didn’t apologize. He’d fled so quickly from the dinner table afterwards for a nervous smoke it’d made Dick feel uncomfortable too, like he’d been holding his breath underwater the entire time. Cradled that cigarette like a life raft now. The street was unevenly dark, with the flicker of the malfunctioning street lamp at the corner almost beating in time of that open-close clicking. It was an empty kind of night. Even the neighbor’s lights were dim or out, and it was a new moon. Dick hated the idea of Nixon just wandering into that darkness aimlessly. Hated the idea he’d ever willingly choose such a path.

“So, where’s your father, if he’s not here for those mashed potatoes?” Nixon asked abruptly.

Dick waited a moment before he answered. Nixon pointedly did not look over at him—he was probably humoring him with that half-surprised face when he really wasn’t all that surprised.

“Stationed in Ramstein since May. It’ll be his third tour.” Dick couldn’t help but notice the incessant flicking stopped while he’d answered, and, with silence quickly approaching again, Nixon snorted and his thumb nervously set back to work fighting off the quiet. The smooth silver of the Zippo was smudged with fingerprints.

“Air Force, huh.” Less of a question than an almost amused, almost annoyed grunt.

Dick hummed an affirmative and Nixon glanced over at him, expecting to be bathed in a glow of military pride. The back of his head burned a pale orange-red beneath the single porch light and there was a distant kind of smile haunting his face. Nixon didn’t enjoy being proven wrong. Turned away and exhaled sharply, this time careful to face the street, before Dick could make some dreadful eye contact.

“Not surprising, I guess,” he muttered around the cigarette.

“You know, we have a spare room if you need—”

“I’ve already decided to stay,” Nixon interrupted. “You can save me the long-winded schpeel.”

Nixon could almost taste that unspoken concern sitting thick in the air whenever they stood near, and even more intolerably strong sitting side by side. He definitely felt honest surprise replacing it now. Dick kept staring at him and it was as obnoxious as a bird’s beak tapping against glass.

“I know you won’t let me go, anyway. Probably planning on fattening me up on homemade food, too. Render me physically unable to escape. But it’s cheaper than a hotel, I suppose.”

When Nixon glanced over at him, Dick looked nearly shocked, but quickly ducked his head and recomposed himself. “Good. I’m glad.”

“I don’t like being handed things, for the record.” He turned his head to give Dick a scowled warning against all this undue generosity. All the kindness that left a strange taste in his mouth, kind of familiar and filling like a plateful of homemade mashed potatoes. Blue blood and Irish recipes didn’t mix.

Dick turned to face him. All Nixon could think of was some bird’s beak pounding against the glass and his hands echoed the beat. Open-closed. Open-closed. “Duly noted.”

Nix turned to stare out at the street again. “Congratulations. You’ve got yourself a new stray,” he said, and Dick laughed out loud.

Luckily, though, the high-pitched trill of a cell phone broke it before Nixon could get too uncomfortable with the laughter. Strangers by definition shouldn’t be so damn accommodating.

Dick muttered an apology to the side before he stood up and flipped open his phone. Nixon thumbed the lighter once more before he stuck it in his pocket. The nervous motion had lost its appeal—and watching Captain Kick thumb around the keyboard for the ‘Answer’ button was amusing enough. He glanced up and silently let loose the smoke in his mouth while Dick stared at the cell phone, face glowing blue-white for a moment before finally finding the right key.

“Hello?” he answered. “Oh, hi, Coach. How are you?” He ambled off onto the lawn as he spoke—something about practice. Intervals this, icing that, Jake-someone-or-other every once in a while. Nixon strained to ignore the conversation and stood up without a sound.

“Alright, yes… See you there.”

There was an unfinished cigarette snubbed out on the concrete step when Dick turned eventually around, and a light on in the guest room on the second floor.

He pressed his mouth thoughtfully closed for a moment, and cut in before Coach Amos could bid him goodbye. “Actually, I have something to ask you.”




Liebgott rolled out of bed a minute before his alarm would have sounded and kicked around the assorted piles of comic books, crumpled t-shirts and running shorts until he’d found a relatively clean set of clothes. When the alarm screamed at him, he growled and did his best to smack it quiet with one arm still clumsily seeking the appropriate sleeve. The sun was already intruding through the half-pulled blinds, lighting on the opposite wall, illuminating the bottom half of the concert posters covering the walls. A quick breakfast of toast, water, and a healthy gulp of something heavily caffeinated and he was out the door on nothing but the power of his own feet.

Elsewhere in town, Webster was sitting stiffly and unhappily on the living room windowsill. He was guzzling down a glass of water and kneading his right quad muscle from hip to knee as he waited for the weather. Instead, he ached through a few insipid commercials. Once his feet had stopped throbbing, not to tender to walk on anything but carpet, he’d crawled thankfully into bed without another thought. In the morning, he woken up in the exact spot he’d fallen. Slightly more confident about the coming practice and determination welling anew, he tried to crawl out of bed. And immediately fell back into place, grimacing.

Forgot to stretch out. Shit.

He couldn’t wait for Buck and Luz to get their share of amusement out of that, as he hobbled forth on sore feet, aching legs. They simply refused to extend beyond polio-cripple mobility without aching terribly. But, when he did so, making his way to the car as quickly as he could without wincing, there was surprisingly little tormenting. He slid into the backseat and there was no singsong chorus of “I told you so.”

Luz’s head was rolling back and forth on the reclined seat as the car swayed, completely asleep except for the few mumbles he’d let out in complaint of Buck’s driving. A quiet Luz was eerily like a dead Luz. For as long as Webster had known him—granted, it was essentially one rather intense hour and a half—he’d managed to keep joking and laughing all five miles. No one but Liebgott had been laughing during hills. A slightly sadistic noise.

Grinning, with a vicious little pull to his mouth that was infuriating and dismissive at once. Webster felt a renewed swell of resentment, and a little twinge of impatience shot down to his swollen toes.

“Hey, Web. Feeling it yet?” Buck asked. He looked as disappointingly chipper as ever, with a big grin and bright cheeks.

“Unfortunately yes,” he said. Luz only groaned his agreement. “What happened to him? He seemed perfectly fine yesterday.”

Buck’s hearty laugh filled the entire car, above the din of morning radio shows. “Oh, it’s not running that did that to him,” he said, his grin filling his entire face. Webster leaned forward in between the front seats and curiously looked him over. “George here was up half the night with the senior dance team after they finished with practice. Attended a late-night showing of Rocky Horror downtown. He’d just gone to bed when I had to pull him out again.”

“Jesus, is that glitter in his hair?” Web muttered, reaching up and flicking a few shimmering flecks out of Luz’s half-ruffled hair, to which he remained completely oblivious. “I’m glad someone had a good time last night. Means I definitely won’t be dead last.”

“We’ll see who has fun today. Or who even shows up,” Buck reminded him. “I don’t think the Coach’s going to get a good first impression of George here, though.”

“A good athlete always follows exercise with cult musicals and drag.”

Buck laughed, and took an especially sharp left turn, causing Luz to roll into the window with a groan.

Lipton let out one as well, though his was fueled by exasperation and tinged with a little reluctant flattery. His cellphone, which had buzzed on the bedside table for ten minutes now, obscenely early, finally quieted. But immediately the absence was filled with the doorbell chiming through the house. Their terrier mutt quickly sounded the alarm and flew to the front door. With all the wild abandon of a rabid wolf, Lipton could hear the dog door swing shut with a thwak! and Rufus’ nails click clacking along the walkway.

The doorbell rang again, and Lip wearily lifted his head from underneath the pillow. He could hear Ron’s aggravated sigh while Rufus must be again ritually watering his car’s tires but bit back any urge to scold him. As many parts Ron was intimidating, Rufus was two parts as fast and two parts as obnoxious. Third time the doorbell rang, Lipton clamored out of bed and nudged the window open wide enough to poke his head through.

Sure enough, Speirs stood practice-ready at the door, a brown-black blur scampering around his feet with its entire backside whipping back and forth in excitement. He stood stone still, but stared balefully down at Rufus, if deciding whether or not he really deserved to live for his actions. Rufus had gotten in the habit of jumping and snapping at the drawstrings of his running shorts. Speirs had begun to plot ways to kill him without upsetting his boyfriend.

“Ron?” Lip called sleepily. “What are you doing here? Practice isn’t for an hour and a half.”

“Let me in. For the runt’s sake,” he said, his intense dark eyes still visible from the height and beneath his slightly overgrown black hair. He rung the doorbell again, and, luckily, drawn by the high-pitched chime, Rufus plunged back inside before he could lose his patience.

Lipton didn’t bother to change as he walked carefully downstairs in his boxers and shirt—his mother was gone for work, and the rest of his siblings couldn’t be bothered until two in the afternoons during the summer. “You were just here,” Lipton reminded Ron upon opening the door, though there was little real annoyance in his voice. Mostly sleep. “Only eight hours ago.”

“I can leave.”

Lipton gave a long-suffering smile as he shut the door behind him and began to follow his boyfriend up the stairs. At a slightly slower pace. “No, that’s alright. Here to give me a ride?”

“Not before practice,” he said matter-of-factly, as he strolled into Lipton’s room and surveyed it, as if it something could have changed significantly since he’d been there last night. “You’d be too tired to run. I came to make sure you stretched out properly before you ran. But, if you want—” For all his stone-faced seriousness, Lipton could always see that brief spark of playfulness beneath. “Shut that door. Before that dog gets in.”

Lipton shook his head and briefly fought back a smile. He shut the door behind him, and, before Speirs could advance, that wicked expression fighting past his stony one, raised a finger toward him. “Hold on. Let me sit down first. I’m not going to twist my knee anymore than I have to.”




“Lew.”

Nixon grumbled. Almost resented that Dick’s voice was the first thing he heard in the black of dreamless sleep. That kid could never quit dragging him out of whatever comfortable spot to sleep he’d found. He groaned loudly so he wouldn’t have to hear his name repeated and burrowed beneath the pillow. Threw his arms out from under the blankets to tug it tightly over his head.

“Lew,” Dick repeated, closer now. “Get up.”

“What goddamn time is it?” Nixon growled at him, tucking his knees close to his chest to bundle the blankets around him, as well as be in prime position to push any unwanted meddling runners away if need be. There was a glorious moment of silence. Nixon sighed happily into it and felt himself already slipping away into dream—he was dreaming Dick was closing that door behind him, and the whole family left him to sleep for as long as he damn well pleased.

Dreaming peacefully until a hand descended on the pillow and yanked it away from him, revealing him to the sunlight like some unworthy slug beneath a rock.

“Time for practice.”

“Yeah?” Nixon growled again. It was surprising how uncoordinated he felt, squinting blearily and unable to recover the pillow as Dick yanked it out of reach. “Then go, I don’t fuckin’ care…”

There was something like laughter in Dick’s tone, and heat and authority in his hand as it clapped Nixon on the shoulder. “Up now. You’re coming with.”