Sing a New Song - Chapter 3 - Vee (Vera_DragonMuse), Vera

Chapter Text

Frenchie

The novelty of laying in a comfortable bed while someone else drove him across the country still hadn’t worn off nearly two weeks in. When they’d moved the circus around, they’d had to secure everything down and it was chaos followed by being bored out of your skull. Just sitting upright, strapped down like you were another piece of luggage.

Aside from vague warnings from Stede, there was no one here to tell them to buckle up. He could make his own decisions to loll about on a very nice mattress. At the moment, he was on his stomach, legs swung up behind him reading through the papers in front of him again.

“She wrote me a murder ballad,” he said again, still delighted by the whole concept.

“So you said.” John was sitting up beside him, cross-legged, fixing a tear in one of Pete’s costumes. The man himself was driving at the moment. “Any good?”

“Dunno,” he considered. “Good enough to use, I think.”

“Read it to me then?”

“Do you one better.” He rolled off the mattress to retrieve his guitar.

Alma had handed him the pages that morning though he suspected they’d been left to age a few days. It had been a furtive pass off, her eyes glued to the ground.

“I just think, I mean I wrote this. You don’t have to even read it. Or use it. Set it on fire if you want,” she’d said in a rush. Before he could ask a follow up question, she’d darted off.

The pages had creases, but were otherwise very neat. A final draft copied in ink. Her handwriting was spiky, letters jabbing up and down like the paper was someone that just wouldn't listen. Frenchie pulled the guitar into his arms and sat back down on the bed. He played a few chords, mouthing the words a little, then slowly sang through it for the first time, trying to fit it into the chords. There were phrases that would need to be trimmed down to fit, words tweaked to flow more easily.

“You should do it,” John said when the last note faded.

“At the show?” Frenchie frowned. “It’s not really the vibe.”

“So what? When we’re on it, it’s our stage. You think Stede would say no to his little girl getting some spotlight?”

“You think he’d let her on the stage? Probably would sound better with a bass, probably,” he considered.

“Wasn’t even thinking that, but sure, why not?”

“What was that?” Lucius stuck his head around the door.

“What was what?” Frenchie looked at him blandly.

“Fine,” Lucius huffed. “Be like that. Did either of you need a stop? Pete wants to stretch his legs, but said he could wait until lunch if no one else wants too.”

“Yeah, sure,” Frenchie shrugged.

“Wouldn’t mind getting out for a bit,” John agreed. “Anything around here?”

Which was how all four of them wound up confronted by an enormous truck stop that had an entire wall of jerky.

“You don’t even like jerky,” John pointed out, amused.

“I’ve never had habanero and lime jerky,” Frenchie contended. “I like those things.”

“Your money. You want an icee?”

The four of them walked out with far too much food and drinks the size of their skulls. Lucius had also acquired a baseball cap that declared him as a ‘Hot Momma’ with flames embroidered around the lettering.

“Nice,” Frenchie approved.

“Right? It's a statement piece. f*ck knows what the statement is, but I'm making it.”

They all posed with an enormous statue of a beaver, taking shot after shot and sending them to the rest of the caravan.

Stede: why a beaver?

Frenchie: why not?

Roach: made fried beaver tails once. Did not contain actual beaver. 😔

Frenchie: what was in it?

Roach: fried pastry. Put nutella and strawberries on it

Frenchie: damn. I want some tail.

Beside him, Lucius snickered and Frenchie elbowed him.

Roach: might be one for the cooking lessons

Back on the RV, Frenchie practiced the song over and over, pausing to saturate his mouth in blue frozen bliss and gnaw through a piece of jerky which wasn’t half-bad. Someone asked him about lunch at some point, but he just waved them off, concentrating on getting it right.

The arrival at their destination surprised him. This RV park was tucked into the woods, a mountain silhouetted in dusk before them.

Hours of practice left his fingertips and brain a little sore.

“Do you want a grilled cheese?” John offered, surveying him when he finally emerged.

“Yes,” he decided. They were doing something more complicated outside, most likely. It was raucous already.

But there was nothing better than standing just out of the way as John buttered a pan and got out bread. They’d done this ritual in many places. The smell was as homelike as any odor from Frenchie’s childhood. It was love and care and grease.

John cut rounds of tomato, bright red with the season, and layered on thick white slices of provolone. A mutual preference though it had been John’s first, and now Frenchie’s through time and exposure.

They ate, pressed shoulder to shoulder at the little dining table. They’d strung fairy lights around the windows and they twinkled prettily.

“Sorry I phased out this afternoon,” he offered as he finished out his first sandwich.

“S’alright.” John shrugged. “I just moved out here after a while. You making progress?”

“Some. Did you finish that repair?”

“It’ll hold now, but the thing is more patch than dress. We should probably do something new.”

“You don’t have anything in lavender,” Frenchie considered. “You’d both look good in it.”

“Could do some lavender tulle over blue fabric.”

They sketched out a design together after they ate. The party outside went on without them.

Pete

The venue was tight, but the stage was larger than Pete had been expecting. The owner had let them come early to set up and rehearse. Pete took to the stage, pacing over the boards, thinking about throwing distance and the lights that hung precariously low.

“Got to be a scarf night,” John determined, right alongside him. “Knock one of those out and we’ll be dancing on glass.”

“I hate the scarves,” Pete grumbled.

“I know, but they look okay. Maybe some of the hollow balls?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Better than nothing. We’ll have to switch up the music. I’ll tell Luc.”

John rustled in their bag and pulled out the box of gauzy scarves with their carefully weighted hems. They ran a warm up, passing them back and forth without the music. Pete still counted under his breath, an unbreakable habit even now. Up went green and orange and they hit his hands on 2 and 4.

Then John started turning pirouettes, and those added numbers to the timing. So Pete compensated with a step and clap, more and more scarves flying into the air. It made its own song, the rough rhythm of hands and feet across the wood.

John started humming a tune that Pete recognized. He whistled along, weaving the notes between claps. From the empty audience, someone started strumming, too low to be Frenchie’s guitar. The bass notes kept a rhythm along with them.

Vaguely, Pete was aware of a door opening and closing. The club’s staff had been trickling in as they got set up. Barback was already carrying in kegs. Nothing to concern himself with.

Scarf, clap, stomp, scarf.

“No.” The word echoed through the room. Buttons very firmly declining something. Pete frowned, slowing to look out over the room. One of the scarves settled over his head instead of into his hand.

There by the bar. Buttons was leaning away from an all too familiar face.

“What the f*ck is he doing here?”

John followed his gaze and frowned. “Why? Who is that?”

“f*cking Zipper. I thought he was on an island somewhere or dead.”

Zipper had a rough look to him like maybe the last years had done a few things to him. He was leaning in too close and Buttons, who backed down for no one, took a step backward. Said something that Pete couldn’t make out and Zipper took another step forward. Buttons held up both hands and Pete was already jumping off the stage when a bright blur of color zipped by and with the clear rage on a pissed off adolescent, spat:

“You leave him alone.”

“Who the f*ck let a kid in here?” Zipper’s voice carried.

And sure enough, there was Charlie. He was still clutching his book, holding it to his chest like a shield as he had put himself between Buttons and Zipper.

“The bar isn’t open,” Charlie held himself up to his full four foot ten. “I’m allowed. You should go though.”

“I work here. And I can talk to who I want, kid.” Zipper did not seem amused. sh*t.

Pete charged forward, prepared to protect Charlie from himself. He heard John’s feet hit just a second after his as they crossed the room. Was Buttons f*cking crying? Oh, he was going to ruin this motherf*cker’s entire month.

And then, materializing from seemingly nowhere, there was Stede, as mild-mannered as you pleased in his khakis and polo.

“Buttons, do you want to talk to this man?” He asked softly.

“No,” Buttons repeated, baring his teeth.

“Excellent. Why don’t you go take care of the set pieces? I think Jim could use a hand.”

“I wasn’t done,” Zipper growled.

“I really don’t give a f*ck,” Stede said pleasantly. “He’s done with you. Now why don’t you go do whatever your job is around here before I call your boss and inform her that you’re being unbearably rude to the talent?”

“He is not the talent.”

Pete hovered just behind Stede now, unsure of how to play it. Stede glanced over his shoulder and just winked at him. Hell. The man was going to give him an ulcer one day.

“Buttons is extremely talented. He can deliver his feelings in pure tone and inspire an entire audience to move.” True. Usually toward the door, but it was a movement. “He is indispensable to our company. Where as I am sure you are eminently replaceable. So off you go.”

“Yeah!” Charlie punctuated.

“Thank you, Charlie, that's enough now. Oh, and Mr....I didn’t catch your name?” Zipper muttered something that sounded fake. “Mm. Of course. Let me assure you that if you bother him again, I will let Pete and John here do what they would likely wish I was doing right now. Off you pop now.”

Zipper eyed up John with a frown. When he saw Pete, he sneered in recognition, but turned on his heel and marched into the room behind the bar. Hopefully that was his station and that would be the last they saw of him.

“Right!” Stede clapped his hands on Charlie's shoulders. “Good job, please don’t do that again.”

“I wasn’t going to hurt him,” John put in.

“I know you weren’t,” Stede rushed to assure him. “So sorry to use you as a threat, my dear.”

“I was going to,” Pete said grimly. “He’s a real piece of work. Left Buttons cold then thinks he can just walk up to him for a chat.”

“An ex then?” Stede frowned. “Let’s make sure Buttons isn’t not alone tonight if we can.”

The word spread fast and Buttons found himself on the receiving end of so much attention that he got a little wild-eyed and trapped looking. The owner cornered Stede before he started getting into makeup and they had a long quiet discussion that Pete watched from a distance, ready to start swinging if needed. He hadn’t gotten his blood up like this in a long time.

“You all right?” Lucius put a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah. No. Not sure,” Pete admitted. “Just want to make sure we don’t get a raw deal out of this.”

“Stede’s on it,” Lucius brushed a kiss on his cheek. “He’ll annoy them into seeing it his way.”

Charlie

Mr. Hands didn’t say much as they hiked out to his tent. Charlie had switched out his sneakers for the hiking boots he had packed without much hope and the sleeping bag that Dad had let him take as long as it was rolled tight. His backpack was just his regular one, stuffed a little full, but it would only be one night.

The long summer sun was still out though it had given up on its full blaze and settled into a murky gold when filtered through the leaves. There was a hiking trail, beaten down by other feet and winding upward. Mr. Hands set a steady pace, seemingly unaware that you were supposed to slow down for kids. It was great. Charlie liked moving a little faster and not having to wait for the slowest person in the group to catch up.

He wasn’t sure if Mr. Hands was annoyed by the turn of events. He had the same mildly irritated expression that he always seemed to have unless Mom made him laugh. Mom was good at getting people to smile, it was like a superpower.

They were only a mile and a half out from the parking lot when Mr. Hands veered off the trail. Charlie stayed on his heels, ducking through thicker foliage. The campsite must’ve been marked though Charlie hadn’t caught it in the fading light. There was already a tent pitched, Mr. Hands’ chair close to an established firepit. There was water somewhere close, Charlie could hear the rush of it.

“Hungry?” Mr. Hands asked.

“Yes. Um. I have some things. I didn’t think you brought enough for two. Peanut butter and jelly?”

“Keep it in your bag,” he said firmly. “I’ve got enough. Peanut butter and I don’t get along.”

“Okay,” Charlie set his bag down. “Sorry.”

Mr. Hands didn’t acknowledge that. “You know how to build a fire?”

“Yes.”

“There’s kindling in the pit already. Pile of sticks and some decent bigger bits to the right. I’ll start on dinner.”

So entrusted, Charlie went very diligently about his work. Usually some adult hovered over them when they did this and it was odd to just be let loose. Mr. Hands even gave him the box of matches without commentary. It only made Charlie want to do it correctly all the more. He built a careful log cabin formation. It wasn’t particularly cold, but there also wasn’t much wood. It would last longer this way.

Carefully, he lit the match and touched the kindling. When it caught, he didn’t get overexcited, just blew softly on it until the flames licked up the sticks that he’d scaffolded up. Then he sat back on his heels and watched the flames rise.

“Not bad,” Mr. Hands declared. He’d balanced a cutting board on his knees and there was now a mound of vegetables on the board. “You a vegetarian like your sister?”

“No. That’s Alma and Pop’s thing. Mom and I still get hamburgers when we go out.”

“Good. Don’t have any alternate protein.”

Then quick as a snake, Mr. Hands pulled out links of sausage from his cooler, chopping them down to thin discs that mixed in with the vegetables. The whole lot went into a long handled pan that he held directly into the flames. It smelled good almost immediately.

“Usually we just have hot dogs and they get half-burned,” Charlie told him.

“Man can’t live on hot dogs alone. That’s how you get scurvy.”

“Do people still get scurvy?”

“Happens.” Mr. Hands flicked his wrist and everything in the pan jumped around. Only a few slices of pepper fell into the fire. “Not like it used to. Can’t eat anything without someone stuffing vitamins into it.”

“That’s good though. No one wants scurvy.”

“Or vitamin D deficiency or whatever other nasty sh*t happens to people that just have hardtack to eat. There’s plates in the bag next to the cooler. Forks too.”

They weren’t paper plates or plastic forks to be thrown away later. Heavy plastic plates and actual metal forks. They ate one of the best campfire meals Charlie had ever had with actual cutlery.

“This is really good,” he offered. “Thank you.”

“Anyone ever told you not to talk with your mouth full?” Mr. Hands huffed.

“All the time,” Charlie chewed and swallowed. “I forget.”

It took time to tidy up after. Everything had to get stowed away so the food smells wouldn’t attract animals. Once neatened, Mr. Hands paused and surveyed Charlie carefully.

“I don’t have anything to entertain you with,” he declared.

“That’s okay. I brought a book.”

Apparently, so had Mr. Hands. Or at least, he had an e-reader. Which made sense. It was smaller and easier to pack and had its own light, but was annoying since it thwarted Charlie’s inherent nosiness about other people’s books. So instead he just had to ask,

“What are you reading?”

“Shutter Island by Dennis Lehane,” Mr. Hands touched something on the screen. “Not sure I like it yet.”

“So why are you reading it?”

“Like his other books just fine, figure it’ll happen in it’s own time. Why? What are you reading?”

Charlie held up the thick paperback, “I Don’t Want to Kill You.”

“Good news for me.” Mr. Hands took that pretty calmly.

“No, that’s the title. It’s the third in a series about this guy who worries he’s going to be a serial killer one day and instead winds up killing demons.”

“They write that sh*t for kids?” Mr. Hands frowned.

“It’s YA. The main character is a teenager.”

“Huh.” Mr. Hands didn’t ask any follow up questions, so Charlie went back to reading.

It was maybe not the best choice to read by firelight in the dark with someone he only kind of knew nearby. Yet Charlie didn’t get freaked out as he often did when he read such things too late at night. Maybe it was the full moon which shed a lot of light or maybe it was just that Mr. Hands seemed about as interested in him as one of the trees.

Eventually, Charlie started cracking yawns that must’ve been impossible to miss.

“You take the tent,” Mr. Hands told him. “I wanted to sleep out tonight anyway.”

Charlie wasn’t sure he believed him, but he also very much wanted to sleep in the tent, so he didn’t argue. It was cozy once he zipped up the flap. Something soft had been laid on the ground. The woods were loud, in their own way, providing their own lullaby. He listened to the chorus of insects, the wind in the leaves and his own breath caught in the cooling air. Sleep came for him without incident.

Most of Charlie’s friends liked to sleep in. Apparently it was something newly minted teenagers were supposed to do. Whatever hormone regulated such things hadn’t crashed into Charlie yet. Pop often said he was a late bloomer (which is totally fine, Charlie, everyone gets there in their own time), so maybe the day would come when he didn’t wake up with the dawn, but it hadn’t happened yet.

Sometimes he and Alma passed each other like ships in the night, she first going to bed, rising like a zombie from the couch and him taking her place, whiling away the hours until the rest of the house rose. Mom and Pop weren't early risers either and often he'd been up for hours before everyone else's day started.

So when he got up with the dawn the next morning, he tried to be quiet, unzipping the tent slowly.

Mr. Hands was already awake. There was a thermos in his hands and he was dressed in slightly different clothes, otherwise Charlie might’ve thought he hadn’t moved at all. He wasn’t reading anymore either, just staring into the embers of the fire without much expression at all. Before Charlie could say a word, his eyes darted to him.

“Good, you’re up,” Mr. Hands declared. “Coffee?”

“Yes,” Charlie said quickly. He was not actually allowed to drink coffee yet though Alma often let him sneak sips of hers.

A second thermos was summoned from a pack and Mr. Hands poured in an inky black liquid from a small kettle. After another accessing look to Charlie, he dusted in a white powder that turned it into a more familiar shade of brown. Charlie accepted it, taking a cautious sip. It was hot as lava and left a bitter taste on his tongue. He held onto it tightly. It was way better than the sugar mountains that Alma drank.

Mr. Hands pointed upward. “What do you think of making the peak?”

It was hard to see the rise of the mountain when one was on it, but Charlie had seen it from the parking lot. They were in the foothills of the range, but it was still more than Charlie had ever attempted.

“Can we?”

“It’s that or trying to get someone to open the door for you this early and good f*cking luck with that.” Izzy snorted. “Didn’t hear them get back until 2.”

“You could hear them from here?” Charlie asked with some surprise.

“They’re not quiet. Don’t usually do much breakfast. You want a granola bar?”

“Please.”

Mr.Hands doused the last of the fire and packed up the campsite while Charlie ate and sipped carefully at the gasoline-thick coffee. The sunrise finished with a last tinge of orange-pink. With brutal efficiently, everything was knocked down into Mr. Hands’ pack. Hefted it up onto his shoulders, it made him look a little like a disgruntled turtle.

“On your feet then, Bonnet.” Charlie clambered up and held the thermos back out to Mr. Hands. “Hold onto it if you’re not done.”

The trail was well-marked, notches and signs along the way. In the light of day, Charlie could make out the arrow that had pointed to their campsite. It was hard to make out even in the light of day. He wondered how someone got night vision like that. If it was natural or cultivated.

A chipmunk skittered out of their way and overhead, a hawk’s piercing cry shot through the sky. It smelled good here, damp and green. Their steps beat a rhythm on the ground. Day dreams carried him through, imagining the hawk swooping down, large enough to ride or burrowing underground with the chipmunk, having a feast of acorns.

Gradually, the trail sloped and rose. There were trickier bits and Charlie had to scramble to keep up, imagination falling away to concentration. Eventually they reached a boulder, jutting out into the trail. It was small enough that an adult could pull themselves over, but Charlie wasn’t going to be able to make it. Before he could look for an alternate route, Mr. Hands set down his pack.

“Come here.” He got down on one knee and laced his hands together. “Step up and reach.”

“Really?”

“Don’t have all day about it. Come on.”

It was weird to step on someone’s hands, not steady and also a little wrong, but as he pushed up, Mr. Hands stood and it was easy to catch the edge and pull. He rolled a little, unbalanced, but landed safely otherwise.

“Cool!” He enthused.

“Move,” Mr. Hands ordered, shouldering his pack again. Charlie backed away and watched as he pulled himself up without so much as a grunt.

“You’re strong,” Charlie said, then winced at how awkward that sounded.

“Spend enough time on it and you’ll get there,” Mr, Hands’ shrugged. “More effort than skill. You’ve got pine needles in your hair.”

Charlie brushed them out as they started up walking again.

“You need to learn the skill to make the effort though,” he pointed out.

“Learning how is easy, sticking with it is hard,” Mr. Hands rephrased after a moment’s thought. “People like me, don’t pick up new things easily, but we can grind and get good at what we do know.”

“You think I’m different?” Charlie guessed.

“I don’t know you,” he said neutrally. “But if it’s effortless to pick up something new, sometimes you don’t figure out how to stay with it.”

“You mean my dad,” Charlie guessed.

“Nah. He’s a lot of things, but a stubborn ass is definitely high on the list. Not thinking of anyone in particular.”

“You don’t like him though.”

“I don’t,” Mr. Hands agreed easily.

“Why not?”

Mr. Hands snorted, “Just don’t. Don’t you know someone that you don’t like and you don’t have a good reason? Just everything they do gets under your skin?”

Charlie frowned, “Not for no good reason.”

“Maybe it started for a reason. Just ended up somewhere else.”

“Yeah then. There was this guy in my science class last year that made fun of my friend and even though he made up for it, I still hate him a lot.”

“So it’s like that.”

“What about Eddy?”

“What about her?”

“She’s good at lots of stuff. And sticks with it.”

“She’s a law unto herself. Can’t be counted.”

“Maybe you just can’t divide people up into categories,” Charlie offered. It was something his mom said a lot to Alma when she got on a good rant about good and evil.

“Got to do something to make sense of things,” Mr. Hands shrugged. “Or you’ll wind up spinning in circles.”

The day warmed around them, sweat starting to prickle on Charlie’s skin. When they stopped for Mr. Hands to dislodge a rock from his shoe, Charlie finished the last of the coffee and slid the thermos into a side pocket of his bag. His feet hurt a little, and his legs burned, but it felt good too. Like he was stretching some new muscle.

The shaky waves of caffeinated energy carried him up. He started darting off the path to document moss, snapping pictures of unusual rocks and anything else that interested him. This was usually when the scout leaders started snapping and herding, eager to reach their goal. But Mr. Hands seemed content to let him range around like a deranged squirrel.

“How high do you think the mountain is?” Charlie asked.

“Not a damn clue.”

“Huh. I bet it has a name, I can look it up when we go back.”

“What’s it matter?”

“Because then I’ll know what I can do.”

Mr. Hands nodded once, apparently accepting that as a complete answer and pushed on.

The trees thinned as they got closer to the peak, the full heat of the day coming down around their heads. Mr. Hands was sweating now too and pulled a bandanna from his pack, moping his face with a grimace.

They reached the peak all at once, the trees breaking almost entirely into a wild sparse grass. Someone had managed to drag an entire picnic table up here though time and weather had partially rotted one of the benches. Charlie sat down heavily on the other, dropping his backpack and digging out his water bottle.

The world stretched out at his feet. The trees they had pushed through were a hundred shades of green on top, the parking lot a black line with glittering metal of vehicles spotted through. He thought he could make out their cluster of RVS, slumbering giants next to compact cars. Beyond that was more trees, and the winding road that led back to the main roads.

“It’s all so small,” Charlie said quietly. Beside him, Mr. Hands sat down heavily on the bench, shedding his pack.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Mr. Hands leaned back on his elbows, his legs extending out. He was smaller than his father and Pop, but somehow seemed to take up room like Eddy did. Exploding outward. “All the things you worry about, just tiny dots.”

“Is that why you like it?” Charlie asked.

“You ask big questions for a kid.”

“I’m a teenager.”

“Barely.” It didn’t sound like judgment, just a statement of fact. Charlie made a protesting noise anyway. “Don’t be in such a f*cking rush. Years come at you if you want them or not.”

“Okay, fine, but you didn’t answer my question.”

“I didn’t,” Mr. Hands agreed.

“So?”

Mr. Hands rolled his eyes, but answered, “I like it because I like spending time alone. Somewhere different.”

“But you brought two of everything,” Charlie frowned. "Like you expected company."

“Things get dirty,” he shrugged.

“But-” Charlie started then stopped, biting his lip. “I’m sorry. You probably didn’t want me along last night or today.”

Mr. Hands sighed, “You’re fine, kid. And it’s not like I’m out here trying to be a hermit. Roach came out a few nights ago. Pete and I went fishing at the last spot, probably will again before the trip is over.”

“So alone sometimes?”

“Enough so alone doesn’t become lonely.”

“I hate being lonely,” the vehemence welled out of him. “Especially when there are a lot of people around.”

“Not exactly a kid’s dream trip, is it?” Mr. Hands asked dryly.

“Alma’s having fun. When she’s not crying all the time.”

“Different for her. She likes all that,” Mr. Hands waved a hand at the RVs like he was summing something up in its entirety.

“I like some of it,” he said loyally. “But it’s still just adults doing adult stuff a lot and I have to stay in the dressing room all the time. And it’s loud so I can’t just read like I would at home during a party.”

“Your mother thinks you’re going to fall into a book and not come out one day,” Mr. Hands told him with a quirk of amusem*nt in his lips.

“She said that?”

“Mm.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to tell me that.”

“Eh.”

“I’m not going to. Books are just easier than people sometimes.”

“They f*cking well are.” Mr. Hands snorted. “You hungry?”

They ate chicken salad and carrot sticks. The hawk Charlie had heard earlier, flew over head, then dove down into the trees. Lunch time for everyone apparently.

Food devoured and peak sufficiently crested, they headed back down the mountain. Mr. Hands went in front of Charlie instead of side by side and Charlie figured he’d annoyed him too much or something. Except that Charlie tripped over a root and probably would’ve gone head over heels for a hundred feet if Mr. Hands hadn’t put out his arm and stopped his forward momentum in its tracks.

“Slow it down,” he advised and Charlie took in a shaky breath.

“Yeah, ok.”

They came across the boulder again and this time, Charlie was able to wiggle over the side and jump down. Mr. Hands didn’t offer to help, but now Charlie could see how he watched him, out of the corner of his eye. Like the hawk.

When the trail leveled out, they walked side by side again, so that was all right.

“Were you a scout?” Charlie asked.

Mr. Hands barked a laugh, “Not even f*cking close. This is a more recent thing.”

“You’d be a good one,” Charlie decided.

“You think that’s a compliment, don’t you?”

“It is?” Charlie ventured.

Mr. Hands smirked, "Thanks then."

They emerged out into the parking lot just as Charlie was realizing that he was a little tired and very ready to sit down. There were a few people milling about, including his father who was in one of the folding chairs under John and Frenchie’s canopy. He had been gazing right into the woods and sat up straighter as soon as he spotted Charlie.

“Dad!” he said excitedly and found another little burst of energy to run across the parking lot. He pulled out his phone. “I saw the coolest moss!”

“Did you?” Dad grinned. “Show me.”

“Look at this, it’s all spiky,” he tilted the phone to him.

“Ah, polytrichum juniperinum. Juniper haircap,” Dad peered at the photo. “They used to think it reduced swelling. Useful underneath all the spikes.”

“Does it actually?”

“No idea, we’ll have to look it up. Did you see anything else interesting?”

“Oh yeah,” Charlie flipped through the photos and his father listened intently as he rattled through his finds and his description of the hawk.

“Well, it sounds like you enjoyed yourself.”

“Yeah, it was really cool. I’ve never hiked up a whole mountain before.”

“Yes, that is quite the accomplishment. Why don’t you go wash up and we’ll figure out what we’re doing this afternoon. I think there’s a mini-golf course nearby.”

Charlie headed for their RV, then realized he hadn’t actually said goodbye or thank you to Mr. Hands. He turned back and found his father had cornered the man himself. They were standing several feet apart. Both of them had their arms crossed over their chests.

Hesitating, Charlie watched until his father nodded and stepped away, letting Mr. Hands continue on. He was apparently headed for Jim, a smirking call of,

“Hey, boss, having fun living off the land?” rang out and they seemed to fall into conversation.

He didn’t want to interrupt and felt awkward about it now anyway. Instead, Charlie went in and dropped his backpack on the ground near his bed. Alma was perched on her bed, brushing out wet hair.

“Hey, Charlie. How was camping?”

“Pretty great. How was working the show?”

“Awesome,” she smiled at him. “You’ve got dirt on your face.”

“Yeah, you’ve got eyeliner on your nose.”

“Do I?” She scrunched it up. “I scrubbed and everything.”

She didn’t, but he’d leave that to her to figure out.

“You going mini-golfing?”

“Why not?” She shrugged. “Should be interesting. Was Mr. Hands nice to you?”

“Yeah, guess he was,” Charlie shrugged right back at her. “Why? Did you think he wouldn’t be?”

“No idea. Dad was weird about it, that’s all.”

Charlie thought about what Mr. Hands had said. “They just don’t like each other.”

“I noticed. Figures Dad would hate one of Mom’s best friends.”

Maybe it did figure though Charlie wasn’t sure how. He showered, washing fragments of pine needles out of his hair. Fresh clothes and then a bowl of cereal to sate rising hunger and it was like he’d never left the RV. Alma had vacated the living area and Eddy had come back, poking through the fridge.

“Hey, kiddo. Hungry?”

“Uh huh.”

They both had bowls of sugary cereal, crunching through with determination when Dad came back in. He paused to drop a kiss on the crown of Eddy’s head, then leveled Charlie with a serious look. Serious looks never fit quite right on Dad’s face. Like someone had hastily pasted over his usual baffled pleasantness.

“I had a talk with Izzy,” Stede started.

“Hoo boy,” Eddy exhaled quietly.

“It’s fine, thank you, honey,” Dad huffed. “Anyway, I spoke with him and we agreed that on performance nights, you can camp with him unless he has other business.”

“Really?” Charlie and Eddy asked at the same time in wildly different tones of voice.

“Really,” Dad nodded. “We’ll find a sporting good store between now and the next performance so you have your own tent. And apparently you also need a proper pack.”

“I have one at home.”

“It’s fine, we’ll pick something up. You can give it your scoutmaster when you get back for someone else to use.”

Charlie got up and hugged his father. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Dad hugged him back hard. “Please don’t get eaten by a bear. It’d be very hard to break the news to your mother.”

Oluwande

Jim and Izzy were talking about business, so Oluwande tuned them out in favor of doing the crossword. It was unspeakably hot, but he liked it that way and was content to sip on iced tea. Maybe he could sweat out the inadvisable amount of mojitos he’d had last night.

“You want some jerky?” Frenchie asked, swinging by with a bag hanging from his fingers.

“What kind?”

“Habanero and lime.”

“You have my attention.”

“Some here too,” Jim held out their hand. “Boss?”

“No." There was a twitch of his lips. Something suppressed.

“Suit yourself.” Frenchie spread a few pieces around. “Anyone up for mini-golf?”

“Not even if you paid me.” Oluwande bit into a piece, chewing slowly.

“They’ve got go-karts too,” Frenchie offered like that was an incentive.

“I’m in,” Jim decided. “You going to stay here?”

“Probably,” Oluwande shrugged. “Hold down the fort.”

“Boss?”

“No,” he said again and yeah, he was definitely amused by them trying to rope him in.

“So boring,” Jim decided.

“You’re boyfriend just said no too.”

“Yeah, but Oluwande is interesting in a lot of other ways.”

“You think you can live the way I have and be boring?”

“Yes. Because you’re doing it right now. Super snooze.”

“It really takes every hair of self-control I have not to put you in your place sometimes,” Izzy said without a hint of malice.

“I’d kill you,” Jim said, in the same tone. “Not even break a sweat doing it.”

“Okay then,” Frenchie glanced at Oluwande. Apparently if you hadn’t seen the Jim and Izzy show before it struck an odd chord.

“Yeah, it’s a whole thing," Oluwande gave him a 'what can you do' look and Frenchie seemed to accept that.

The mini-golf and go-kart contingent cleared out within twenty minutes. Oluwande found himself with a fidgety Izzy, who probably should be headed back into the woods, but was instead lingering around the campsite for reasons known only to himself. The only other people that had stayed behind was John and he was having a nap.

“Got five letter word for cranky?” Oluwande asked him, mostly so he could acknowledge the situation. “Starts with a t.”

“Testy?” Izzy said after a moment.

“Yeah that fits, thanks.” He wrote it carefully.

Izzy drifted to Jim’s chair, almost circled it fully before sitting down gingerly. Oluwande did him the courtesy of ignoring him, scratching in a few more answers.

“Luc’s birthday is next week.”

“Yeah?” Oluwande frowned down at the circled clue. “Usually he doesn’t do at thing about it.”

“I know.” The man leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees.

“But you want to do something and you want me to do something for you,” Oluwande guessed, putting his pencil down regretfully.

“Not...maybe.” Izzy scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yes. I need your help. And Jim’s. Mostly Jim’s, but it’s easier to ask you. They’ll give me holy hell and I’m not ready for that just yet.”

“I tell them everything,” Oluwande warned.

“Fine. Good. That’s easier. You tell them.”

“Gotta tell me first though, man.”

“I know,” Izzy groaned.

And he told Oluwande what he wanted to do.

“Oh f*ck yeah,” Oluwande grinned at him. “I will definitely help with that. Won’t even charge you. Amusem*nt factor alone...”

“f*ck,” the word was gritted out between his teeth, but Izzy’s shoulders were shaking a little too. Laughter, bubbling up from somewhere deep. Oluwande could work with that. He texted Jim right away.

Jim: I miss all the good sh*t. TOMORROW we begin. Do not start without me.

Oluwande: Wouldn’t dream of it.

Sing a New Song - Chapter 3 - Vee (Vera_DragonMuse), Vera_DragonMuse (2024)

Chapter Text

Frenchie

Pete

Charlie

Oluwande

References