So I just found this post because I am frantically avoiding writing by poking through my website hits, and then I went and dug up this early draft version of Don and Charlie's December 25, which I thought might interest you. :)
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Once they reached a larger street, twinkling with Christmas lights and here and there an actual open business, Don was watching for a motel, scanning blocks ahead for likely looking signs. A door opened beside them, and Don reached for Charlie's arm, stepping sideways to make room for the people coming out, even as a burst of warm air and the smell of sweet and sour hit him.
Charlie stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, looking longingly through the windows of the Chinese restaurant, and for a moment Don stared at him. He only looked cold and hungry, but Don found himself wanting to be inside--where he belonged, where they both belonged--with a shocking intensity. He tried to fight it down, but the emotion was suddenly nearly swamping him, memories of a lifetime of December 25ths, kneeling on his seat while his mother molded his hand around a set of chopsticks, feeling cool and superior five years later when she did the same for Charlie. Even the miserable Christmas right after his mother's death, when he and his father and Charlie had sat in grim silence over their meals. They'd been together, they'd been family.
Don had to look away, across the street, fighting to get his face under control, and Charlie said, "Don?"
"Yeah," Don said, turning back, pushing him gently toward the door, as if he were only hungry. "Let's get some dinner."
The waitress's smile wasn't knowing, Don told himself, just... recognizing. He smiled back, but Charlie was looking around in wonder, at the red walls and gold dragons. They were seated in a booth toward the back, and Charlie immediately became fascinated by the Chinese zodiac on the placemat. "How old do you think I am?" he asked, without looking up, and Don's throat went tight.
He picked up his water glass and took a sip, actually looking at Charlie for a moment, as if he didn't know. Charlie had always looked young to him, but he didn't now, not when Don looked at his face, instead of just looking at him and seeing Charlie. His face wasn't quite gaunt, but his cheekbones stood out sharply, and his cheeks had faint hollows, shadowed now with stubble. He was looking at Don wide eyed, curious, patient, but there were lines around his eyes faint, but visible to an eye that still superimposed Charlie as a toddler over every subsequent Charlie. And his eyes... Even now, bright and calm, there was something in Charlie's eyes that had never been there before, something that was far from young.
Don looked down and shrugged, and the motion felt tight and strained. "I dunno," he said. "Maybe thirty?"
"Thirty," Charlie repeated, sounding pleased with the number, then glanced down at the placemat. "That makes me a Rabbit. Pleasant, affectionate, cautious. You think?"
Don smiled a little. They'd always said cautious was all wrong for Charlie, but now it fit better than anything. "Yeah, maybe."
Charlie grinned. "What about you?"
Don glanced down at the placemat, though he didn't need to. "Dog," he said, and took another sip of water.
"Loyal, faithful, demanding," Charlie read off. "1970? You're thirty-five?"
"Yeah," Don said, though the number sounded foreign. He tried to remember his last birthday, and couldn't. It was lost somewhere in the awful blur of the first week. He hadn't even thought about it until now.
And wasn't thinking about it now, either. Their waitress walked up and asked if they were ready to order, and Charlie grabbed a menu and looked instantly overwhelmed. Don was about to take mercy and order for both of them when Charlie abruptly snapped the menu shut, smiled brightly at the waitress, and said, "I'll have a thirty."
Don stared. Charlie had always done that when he was feeling adventurous--named an arbitrary number without even looking. Their waitress took their menus and walked away, and Don realized he'd ordered something and had no idea what. Probably something he'd eaten a thousand times. Charlie had gone back to staring around them in delight, watching the other customers, the waitresses coming and going from the kitchen. It was his first time in a restaurant, that was all--but he'd been just as voraciously curious as a little kid, and when Charlie wasn't looking at Don his eyes didn't look old anymore. Don kept his own eyes on the door, trying not to think of it as an escape route.
When their food arrived, Charlie took one shrewd glance at the chopsticks in Don's hand and picked up his own; after a moment of clumsiness--Don could see him thinking too hard about what his fingers were doing--the knack of it came back to him. He grinned at Don, and Don smiled helplessly back and started eating--sweet and sour chicken, like he was five years old again. He didn't know what Charlie had, but it involved pineapple; Charlie was experimenting with spearing the pieces on the ends of his chopsticks.
They were nearly finished when the waitress brought the check, laying it down with a couple of fortune cookies. "Happy Hanukkah," she said brightly, and walked away even as Charlie said an offhanded, "Happy Hanukkah," back.
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Once they reached a larger street, twinkling with Christmas lights and here and there an actual open business, Don was watching for a motel, scanning blocks ahead for likely looking signs. A door opened beside them, and Don reached for Charlie's arm, stepping sideways to make room for the people coming out, even as a burst of warm air and the smell of sweet and sour hit him.
Charlie stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, looking longingly through the windows of the Chinese restaurant, and for a moment Don stared at him. He only looked cold and hungry, but Don found himself wanting to be inside--where he belonged, where they both belonged--with a shocking intensity. He tried to fight it down, but the emotion was suddenly nearly swamping him, memories of a lifetime of December 25ths, kneeling on his seat while his mother molded his hand around a set of chopsticks, feeling cool and superior five years later when she did the same for Charlie. Even the miserable Christmas right after his mother's death, when he and his father and Charlie had sat in grim silence over their meals. They'd been together, they'd been family.
Don had to look away, across the street, fighting to get his face under control, and Charlie said, "Don?"
"Yeah," Don said, turning back, pushing him gently toward the door, as if he were only hungry. "Let's get some dinner."
The waitress's smile wasn't knowing, Don told himself, just... recognizing. He smiled back, but Charlie was looking around in wonder, at the red walls and gold dragons. They were seated in a booth toward the back, and Charlie immediately became fascinated by the Chinese zodiac on the placemat. "How old do you think I am?" he asked, without looking up, and Don's throat went tight.
He picked up his water glass and took a sip, actually looking at Charlie for a moment, as if he didn't know. Charlie had always looked young to him, but he didn't now, not when Don looked at his face, instead of just looking at him and seeing Charlie. His face wasn't quite gaunt, but his cheekbones stood out sharply, and his cheeks had faint hollows, shadowed now with stubble. He was looking at Don wide eyed, curious, patient, but there were lines around his eyes faint, but visible to an eye that still superimposed Charlie as a toddler over every subsequent Charlie. And his eyes... Even now, bright and calm, there was something in Charlie's eyes that had never been there before, something that was far from young.
Don looked down and shrugged, and the motion felt tight and strained. "I dunno," he said. "Maybe thirty?"
"Thirty," Charlie repeated, sounding pleased with the number, then glanced down at the placemat. "That makes me a Rabbit. Pleasant, affectionate, cautious. You think?"
Don smiled a little. They'd always said cautious was all wrong for Charlie, but now it fit better than anything. "Yeah, maybe."
Charlie grinned. "What about you?"
Don glanced down at the placemat, though he didn't need to. "Dog," he said, and took another sip of water.
"Loyal, faithful, demanding," Charlie read off. "1970? You're thirty-five?"
"Yeah," Don said, though the number sounded foreign. He tried to remember his last birthday, and couldn't. It was lost somewhere in the awful blur of the first week. He hadn't even thought about it until now.
And wasn't thinking about it now, either. Their waitress walked up and asked if they were ready to order, and Charlie grabbed a menu and looked instantly overwhelmed. Don was about to take mercy and order for both of them when Charlie abruptly snapped the menu shut, smiled brightly at the waitress, and said, "I'll have a thirty."
Don stared. Charlie had always done that when he was feeling adventurous--named an arbitrary number without even looking. Their waitress took their menus and walked away, and Don realized he'd ordered something and had no idea what. Probably something he'd eaten a thousand times. Charlie had gone back to staring around them in delight, watching the other customers, the waitresses coming and going from the kitchen. It was his first time in a restaurant, that was all--but he'd been just as voraciously curious as a little kid, and when Charlie wasn't looking at Don his eyes didn't look old anymore. Don kept his own eyes on the door, trying not to think of it as an escape route.
When their food arrived, Charlie took one shrewd glance at the chopsticks in Don's hand and picked up his own; after a moment of clumsiness--Don could see him thinking too hard about what his fingers were doing--the knack of it came back to him. He grinned at Don, and Don smiled helplessly back and started eating--sweet and sour chicken, like he was five years old again. He didn't know what Charlie had, but it involved pineapple; Charlie was experimenting with spearing the pieces on the ends of his chopsticks.
They were nearly finished when the waitress brought the check, laying it down with a couple of fortune cookies. "Happy Hanukkah," she said brightly, and walked away even as Charlie said an offhanded, "Happy Hanukkah," back.