#holtzwriting

[bluegrasshole]

Adam Birkholtz’s Foolproof Guide to the Perfect Birthday

because i never posted it on tumblr in full and i’m craving that sweet validation. holsom fluff ???? two words i never thought i’d say. there are dick jokes tho so don’t worry i haven’t been kidnapped. 6k and rated T for “total drama holster”. content warning: ABBA

ao3

As far back as he can remember, people have told Adam Birkholtz that he is too dramatic. It’s usually said in an exasperated tone, by his parents and schoolteachers and coaches -- that Birkholtz boy is quite the character, or Adam, do you have to be so loud? they say, and then sigh. Sometimes it’s said with amusement, often when he first meets new teammates or people at parties -- is he always like this? And someone -- ok, usually Jack or Dex -- nods and rolls their eyes and says you have no idea. Point is, people say it all the time, even though it’s definitely not true. And now he’ll never, ever get the chance to prove them wrong, because on March 28th, 2016, Holster’s going to die.

March 28th, 2016, Justin Oluransi, co-captain of the Samwell Men’s Hockey team and love of Holster’s life, is turning 23, and Holster doesn’t know what to do about it. It’s in a week, and he’s got nothing.

They’ve long since had a rule for holidays and birthdays and anniversaries to forego gift-giving in favour of less stressful things like dates and hat tricks, so at least he doesn’t have to worry about that. It’s just, he’s been busy – being co-captain and co-Haus-supervisor is a lot of work, and his fourth year classes have been kicking his ass, and they’ve been practicing more than ever trying to rebuild the team post-Jack, and playing too, and he and Ransom been having like, a lot of sex, and – fuck. So he hasn’t had much time to plan anything for Ransom. And it’s kind of freaking Holster out.

The thing is, he wants it to be perfect. Because, well, he loves Ransom. Duh. They’ve only been together for 152 days (and 3 hours) but really, they’re both on the same page about the whole together-forever thing. Even when they weren’t dating, being apart for any length of time was never going to be an option. They’re like, soulmates or something. Swolemates, if you will. They put the romance in bromance. And the sex is swawesome. Double duh. So Holster just wants this birthday to be unforgettable, because it’s a first out of many firsts and also their last year as students in the place they met, and just – he needs it to be good. Alright?

On the 20th, Holster does what any desperate man in his position would do: he turns to sitcoms for help.

It only takes four episodes of Full House, six of Modern Family, and a whole season and a half of Friends to conclude that really, Ross never deserved Rachel at all, and that this plan is a totally inefficient use of his time. He’s still exactly where he started, with his heart rate sitting between light jog and Chowder touching a puck off the ice, and getting closer to that time Nursey spilled some vodka-cran on Dex’s laptop by the minute.

He walks into the Haus after his afternoon class on the 22nd to find Bitty struggling through some French grammar with Jack on Skype, as has become a normal sight in the past few months.

“Hey guys,” he says, properly dejected, and throws his bag down and thumps into a chair. It creaks ominously but he ignores it to lean his chin on his arms and sigh.

“Holster?” Jack says. Bitty nods and turns the screen so it captures half of each of them. Jack waggles his fingers at him and Holster can only muster up the will to show his teeth and nothing more.

“Everything alright?” Bitty says.

“No,” he says, and then, like a stroke of brilliance, it comes to him. Why does he have to do all the thinking and planning? He’s surrounded by people who know Ransom nearly as well he does, isn’t he? He sits up fast, and both Jack and Bitty blink at him, frowning.

“It isn’t?” says Bitty slowly.

“Uh, not yet, but it’s fine, I think. Hey,” Holster says, “what is like, your ideal date? Hypothetically.”

Bitty reddens instantly and glances at Jack, whose frown has turned into a confused smile.

“Oh,” Bitty says, “um. Hypothetically? Maybe, uh, cooking together, then bringing what we made to have a picnic in the sun. You know. Bring a few beers, some sandwiches, pie. There’s a nice river by my house with a clearing that’s kind of hidden from -- oh. Um. Hypothetically, that kind of thing.”

In Providence, Jack coughs. “We did that this summer,” he says.

“And wasn’t it nice?”

“It was,” Jack says. They share a heated glance, which is impressive given that Jack’s face is on a computer screen. Sounds like it was probably nice and naked, Holster thinks, which honestly sounds like right up his and Ransom’s alley. Except, well, they don’t cook much, and it’s March. There’s snow on the ground. So. That’s out of the question.

Bitty’s phone trills and he jumps up. “Alarm for my laundry. I’ll be right back.” He pats Holsters shoulder quickly and leaves.

“Nothing planned for Rans’ birthday, huh,” Jack says, leaning closer to the screen. Holster knows for a fact that Jack has all his friends’ birthdays in his phone and the alarms are set to ring a week in advance, the day before, and the morning of. Goddamn organized bastard.

“Don’t wanna hear it,” Holster grumbles, crossing his arms. “What’s your answer?”

“Okay, okay. Don’t tell Bittle but,” Jack says, lowering his voice, “I’ve rented out the rink at the Rockefeller for a private hour-long session for us around midnight on New Year’s Eve.”

Holster isn’t able to describe the sound that comes out of his mouth -- half laughter, half squeak, half snort. Oh, whatever. So he’s never been that great at fractions.

“How much did that cost you?” he says, his voice sounding strangled even to his ears. “That’s in nine months!”

Jack just shrugs. “Think it’ll top a picnic?”

Holster gapes. “I -- Jesus, Jack. I can’t do that for Rans.”

Just then, Bitty walks back into the kitchen with a laundry basket full of hot clothes and sets it down with a clatter next to the table. He cracks open a can of beer he must have brought from downstairs, and takes another from the top of the basket and waves it at Holster. A drink sounds nice right about now, actually. He takes it gratefully.

“Hm? Can’t do what?” Bitty asks.

“Hiking,” Jack says rapidly.

“It’s true. I hate hiking,” Holster says. “And nature. Fuck trees.”

Bitty frowns. “You and Ransom went on a camping trip in August. You said, and I quote, that you are the Kings of the Forest, Sires of the Squirrels, and Lords of the Leaves, and that if you could take the earth’s hand in marriage, you would, and you’d ask the rivers to marry all three of you as Justice of the Peace. Actually, I think I have a screenshot. Here, look--”

“Uh, I developed an allergy to dirt over the winter. Gives me this rash, like, down there. Super painful.” Ignoring once more the creak of the chair under his weight, Holster slides it back. “Gotta go. Thanks for the help!”

He drains the can of beer in thirty seconds -- not quite a record but fast enough that he’ll have to tell Rans about it later -- and runs out to the tinny sound of Jack’s laughter before Bitty can ask any more questions.

The next day finds him following the frogs to Annie’s after practice, because Dex has a shift and Chowder and Nursey need to study, and Holster still has a capital-P-Problem.

“Oh! I’m so excited you’re going to study with us,” Chowder says as he pushes the door open to the sound of the tinkling bell. The warmth and the scent of coffee wraps around them and Holster breathes in deep. “I’ve been meaning to pick your brain actually, about this stats project I think you did last year? With that cool prof, Daigle?”

“Hm?” Holster’s momentarily distracted by the sweets display, but shakes his head to clear his head of chocolate chips and turns back to Chowder and Nursey. Dex goes behind the counter. “Oh, yeah, I’ve still got it on my computer. Yo, uh, I’ve got a question.”

“So do I,” Dex says, tying his apron around his waist and making his way to the register. “What do you want?”

Nursey leans on the counter and winks. “Surprise me.”

“You’re getting black coffee,” Dex says without pause. He types it into the POS quickly and doesn’t look up.

“With a surprise?”

“No.”

“A surprise shot of hazelnut?”

“I guess you’ll find out,” Dex says. “What about you two? Nursey’s treat.”

Holster orders something sweet as Nursey splutters a half-hearted protest and Chowder gets something that has a colour vaguely reminiscent of milky tub juice (never again, he reminds himself), and they stand at the counter watching Dex make their drinks with the same agility and confidence that makes him a great player on the ice. For a second, Holster is envious of that calm, because he himself hasn’t felt very calm lately, and then remembers that this is Dex, and calm is the opposite of his natural state of being anywhere else.

Five days, he repeats over and over in his mind. Five days left to plan something for Ransom.

“What is like,” Holster starts, readjusting his laptop bag on his shoulder, “your ideal date.”

“Sharks game!” Chowder says immediately, to no one’s surprise. “Or, huh, maybe bowling. Bowling’s fun. Cait and I love bowling.”

“Mm, nothing says romance quite like putting your feet in stinky shoes worn by hundreds of other people,” Dex says. He hands Nursey his drink -- decidedly not just black coffee -- and starts in on whatever grassy thing Chowder wants. It probably has kale or something in it. Ew.

“What do you know about romance?” Nursey asks.

Dex ignores him. “Look, Holster. It’s easy. Go to Jerry’s. You can sit for a while, it’s cheap, there’s food, good beer, a pool table for when the conversation gets awkward, and if you’re lucky there’s live music. Dinner and entertainment, all in one place,” he says.

“Hm. A truly optimal bird-to-stone ratio,” Holster says. “And I do appreciate efficiency. I’m just looking for something a bit more, uh, special? Rans and I go to Jerry’s all the time.”

“You asked, bro,” Dex says, shrugging. He scoops something neon green into a cup of ice and Holster barely holds back a grimace, choosing instead to turn to Nursey with what he hopes is a beseeching look on his face. It’s one thing practicing your most convincing expressions in the comfort of your own shared bathroom in a frathaus, but it’s another to actually use them.

“Derek Malik Nurse. My favourite, most fanciest man. What about you?”

Nursey barely has the time to open his mouth before Dex and Chowder answer at the same time: “Poetry reading.”

“Hey! That’s not -- it’s -- okay, yeah, probably.” Nursey takes a sip from his mug and comes away with a whipped cream mustache on top of his regular facial hair. “But in my defence, it’s a nice relaxing environment and a great opportunity to move past small talk and delve into the deeper questions of essentialism and our purpose in life and what comes after death.”

“In reality nothing gets him hot like a poem with a good rhyme scheme,” Chowder fake-whispers into Holster’s ear.

“Second only to one without a rhyme scheme at all,” Dex says.

“Aw, fuck you guys. Who paid for your drinks again?”

“And left me a nice tip. Twenty-five percent, Nursey? Maybe you’re not so bad after all,” Dex says. “By the way, you’ve got a little -- yeah -- oh, no, you made it worse. Oh well. Tough luck.”

“Goddamn it!”

Chowder laughs all the way to their table, and Holster, well, Holster still has nothing.

He corners Ollie and Wicks behind the cafeteria salad bar at suppertime when he tells Ransom he’s going to get more tartar sauce for his fish sticks, and asks them his question. They hesitate for a second, nod simultaneously, then fist bump without even looking at each other. A level of synchronicity he and Ransom strive to achieve, but probably never will.

“Paris,” they say together.

Holster snorts. “For real, come on.”

“Bro,” Wicks says, “you said ideal, not realistic.”

“Yeah. That Eiffel tower shit is like, wicked ideal. The ultimate.”

They fist-bump again, of course. In his amusement and slight confusion (amusion, he decides in his head -- or, confusement, maybe), Holster forgets the tartar sauce completely, but distracts Ransom with a well-timed kiss and the whispered promise of a backrub when they get back to the Haus. Across the table Bitty rolls his eyes at the sight and opens his mouth to say something that will most definitely start with F and rhyme with Chris Pine, and in his haste to stick his tongue out at him, Holster accidentally puts it in Ransom’s ear. Instead of the expected indignant squawking he gets a half-shiver which is like, ok, weird, definitely getting filed in his head for... later.

“You doing okay?” Ransom asks that night, after later. “I feel like we haven’t seen each other much these past few days.”

They’re naked and sweat-sticky but warm and wrapped up in each other and blankets in the bottom bunk, Holster’s feet hanging off the edge through the hole they cut in the frame for this specific purpose. He feels like he’s the sleepiest he’s ever been, probably, so he burrows his face deeper into Ransom’s neck and sighs.

“M’just busy,” he mumbles, unwilling to put the effort into making himself more understandable than he has to. Ransom will get him. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” Ransom says. Holster doesn’t remember answering -- the next thing he knows, it’s morning, and Ransom is scrambling to turn off their alarm as George Michael asks them to wake him up before he go-goes. After a second of relative silence -- there’s the shower squealing below them and a few loud thumps of someone coming up the stairs and Bitty singing Ariana Grande somewhere -- Ransom groans, leans over to kiss Holster on the cheek, then rolls out of bed to get ready for the day.

Holster’s walking to class an hour later with March and one of their other econ friends, regretting mostly every decision in his life that has led him to this point. He’s only got a few days left and is no closer to finding anything worthy of Justin-Love-of-Holster’s-Life-Oluransi. Actually, he’s less and less sure that anything worthy exists.

“--and then the prof said… Adam! Holster?” March says, and Holster shakes himself.

“Huh?”

“What’s up with you, bro?” says Jimmy Jeffers. Nice guy, but what else would you expect from a guy named Jimmy? It’s a good name. There’s a shortage of Jimmys in the world, Holster thinks.

“Adam!” March repeats.

“Oh, shit. Sorry. I’ve been distracted lately, I guess,” he says.

March squints up at him then nods decisively. “Justin’s birthday,” she says, though it seems to be mostly for Jimmy’s benefit. “Next week. He’s got nothing.”

“Who’s Justin?” Jimmy asks.

Holster gasps and brings his hand to his heart. “Bro, how can you not know who Justin is? Everyone knows who Justin is. I can’t believe this.”

“Check your Facebook, he’s on there,” March says, rolling her eyes and waving a hand in dismissal at Jimmy, who immediately takes out his phone. “Talk to me, Birkholtz.”

“You dated him. What do you think I should do?” Holster asks, recognizing the desperation in his tone and unable to stop it.

“Weird,” Jimmy mutters.

“Dated is a strong word for what we did,” she says, “which, by the way, you were there for most of.”

“Weirder,” says Jimmy again, jumping over what looks to be a fallen snowcorgi and twisting to avoid someone on a bicycle riding by. The sidewalk is filling with people making their way to and from class, kicking their way through the slush and salt that’s built up on the ground.

“Don’t bring the fact that we’ve seen each other naked on multiple occasions into this. I need help!” Holster cries. He buries his face in his hands. “If I don’t find something to do for Ransom’s birthday, I’m going to die, plain and simple!”

“Adam, watch--”

March’s voice cuts off abruptly as Holster, still hiding behind his fingers, collides with another body -- a man’s, slightly past middle-aged, in a well-fitted navy suit and fluffy green earmuffs. The man blinks up at him, rubbing his forehead -- he’s very short, even by Holster’s standards, and vaguely familiar in the way that a man you’d seen on a Febreze commercial a couple times might be familiar if you walked by him in the street -- and smiles.

“Laser tag,” the man says.

Holster’s hands fly to his mouth. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

“Excellent,” the stranger says, reaching up to pat Holster on the shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, Holster can see March hit Jimmy’s arm repeatedly, gaping, and Jimmy whispers something furiously and pulls out his phone. “Laser tag!”

“What?” Holster asks. Because, well, what?

“There’s a great place in the north end of town that rents out a room for birthday parties. I’m a regular there -- I go every weekend. Here, do you want their card?” The man is beaming, adjusting his suit and hitching his leather messenger bag back into position, the reaches into his breast pocket to pull out a stack of business cards, every one the same. He hands one to all three of them. “Gotta run. Good luck!”

The man dashes off into the snow and Holster is left with his mouth open, brow furrowed in confusion, unsure whether or not that was just a fluffy green hallucination. Except, well, he is holding a business card, and March and Jimmy are too.

“Oh my god,” March breathes, then bursts into laughter.

“That -- that was the president. Samwell University’s president,” Jimmy says, turning his phone around for Holster to see. Sure enough, there he is, with his own Wikipedia page and everything. “Weirdest.”

“You know,” March says later, once they’ve finally slipped into the back of their lecture hall only two minutes later, “it’s not such a bad idea. Want me to send a message?” She points to her laptop, where the laser tag place’s Facebook page is open, and Holster shrugs, because what else can he do?

Concentrating on class isn’t happening, so instead he texts Ransom a dirty limerick which could probably give Nursey a run for his money in the poetry department (There once was a d-man named Ransom / Who Holster thought very handsome / He had a big dick / Enjoyed a good lick / One half of the sexiest twosome), and doodles aimlessly in the margins of his notebook. Laser tag could work, he thinks, as long as they’re not like, in a game with a bunch of kids… but maybe he could bring the others along for some surprise team bonding, which could be fun. Ransom would enjoy the couple hours of distraction from his homework and it’s competitive enough that it would hold everyone else’s attention. Also, like, shooting shit is fun as fuck. Maybe it’s not romantic or anything, but --

“Aw hell,” March whispers. She points to her computer screen. “It’s booked up until Tuesday.”

Holster all but collapses onto the desk.

“Well, there’s always dinner and a movie,” Jimmy says, patting Holster’s arm gently.

It’s time, Holster thinks, to haul in the big guns.

Lardo’s studio space is on the other end of campus, in an old convent repurposed in the 70s as first the building for Samwell’s secretarial sciences then later as the art department. General consensus is that it sees as many if not more portraits of Jesus and Mary now as it did as a convent, because, well, art students. When Holster knocks on the door of Lardo’s designated space, he’s totally unsurprised that Shitty is the one who opens it, dressed only in what looks to be a fuschia jock strap. That probably wasn’t a very common sight for the old nuns, anyway.

“Holster! The man, the myth, the -- are you still growing, dude? I swear to fuck you weren’t this tall last time I saw you. Hey, Lards, Holtzy’s here. Seriously, brah. What’s Bitty putting in his pies?” Shitty says, mostly all in one breath. He steps aside to let Holster in, who enters to see Lardo lying on a paint-splattered tarp, an arm thrown over her eyes, a googly eye stuck to her wrist and a bag of two-bite brownies half-empty beside her. There are crumbs on her mouth, and three cans of Redbull on a table in the corner.

“You alright?” Holster asks, poking her with his toes. He plops down next to her and crosses his legs, really hoping the paint on the tarp is dry. It makes a crinkly, plasticky sound as he arranges himself.

“Just brought a piece down to the kilns,” Shitty says, falling too, more gracefully than is generally expected from a man of his aesthetic. He lays his head on Lardo’s stomach. “She worked on it for weeks.”

“Tired,” Lardo says. Her voice is hoarse. “Art. Hard.”

“Believe me, I know,” Holster says.

Lardo’s arm lifts slightly so she can squint at him. “How,” she says. “You’re not an artist.”

Holster pffts. “Just because you don’t appreciate my Abba fanfiction doesn’t mean no one does.”

“I’m more of a One Direction guy myself,” Shitty mumbles. Lardo begins petting his mustache with her thumb which would be sweet if Shitty didn’t moan softly with each downstroke (and if he wasn’t ninety five percent naked).

“Right. Okay. Well.” Holster clears his throat. “What is your ideal date?”

“Are you propositioning us? I swear I had a recurring dream of this exact situation in two different languages last year, neither of which were English. Do you speak Dutch, by any chance?” Shitty says, and Holster doesn’t quite know how to answer. Luckily, Shitty has never needed a response to continue his ramblings. “Nevermind. Stoned stargazing, definitely. Looking up at the universe, feeling small, but like, connected. Because you’re together. You feel me, brah? Like you’re part of a community. More than the sum of your parts. God, that’s beautiful. Should I write that down? Remind me to write that down.”

There’s a pause, a silence filled only by the steady drip-drip of the sink in the corner of the room and the noise of the tarp moving with each breath Lardo and Shitty take.

“Is he well?” Holster eventually asks Lardo. She raises an eyebrow at him.

“The doctors say there’s nothing we can do,” Lardo says. Her hands move up to scratch at his hair. “So, there’s this park uptown, right? Across the street from this laser tag place, I think. D’you know it?”

“I’m... familiar, yes.”

She pushes Shitty’s head down to her thighs and sits up sleepily, like a mummy awoken from her slumber. “Okay, well, it’s super gorgeous in the summer, with this river running through it,” she says. “You can rent a swan boat and shit. They have little food dispensers so you can feed the ducks. And in the winter they have an outdoor rink run by the town, and a bunch of snow tunnels at one end of the park, and like, snowman-making competitions. There’s a hot chocolate vendor too. So I always thought… No, no. It’s stupid.”

“What! What!” Holster straightens his back. This could be it.

“Well, alright… Uh, there’s this bridge at one end of the park. Beautiful wrought iron, overlooks these ice sculptures that light up when the sun sets. Super pretty.”

Of course Lardo would figure it out for him. Why did he ever ask anyone else? “Oh my god, is it one of those bridges you can put a love lock on?” he asks, incredibly excited. It might be the answer to his desperate calls for advice to the universe.

She frowns. “What? No. I’ve just always wanted to spraypaint a dick on it.”

“Nice,” Shitty says with emphasis.

“You know, bring some rum to keep you warm, go at like two in the morning, and just fucking paint it on there. It would represent how the bourgeoisie --”

Alright, so Lardo isn’t any help. Why was he kidding himself that it would be so simple? He doesn’t bother listening to the rest, choosing instead to turn and fall face forward onto the tarp. His nose lands in a splotch of paint that is definitely not dry. Just his fucking luck.

He texts his family group chat that night, because sitting across from Ransom at the library and watching the fucking adorable way he bites his lip when he’s concentrating hard isn’t accomplishing anything. In fact, with every lip-bite, Holster feels his soul hurtle towards death even faster.

Me [7:43]: Friends, family and acquaintances, what would be, in your opinion, the most romantic date ever? This is by far the most important question I have ever asked you.

TyrANNAsaurus Rex [7:43]: dibs on being an acquaintance

Mama B [7:43]: Ooohhh!!!!

Mama B [7:46]: Maybe a fancy homemade supper, some good wine, then a walk downtown

Mama B [7:47]: That’s how your father proposed, twenty-five years ago last January!!! :-)

Ransom barely looks up when Holster snorts, only furrows his brows deeper and bends so close to his paper his nose is almost touching. Which is so cute. God, his boyfriend is fucking gorgeous. Ugh. Holster feels like he’s going to explode.

TyrANNAsaurus Rex [7:49]: yikes lol

Rebecky with the good hair [7:52]: going to a fair. winning stuffies for each other. funnel cakes. kissing him at the top of the ferris wheel

Me [7:53]: It’s March

Mama B [7:54]: I thought you were dating Justin, not March????

Holster sometimes regrets telling his mother everything about his life (or, like, almost everything). This is one of those times.

TyrANNAsaurus Rex [7:55]: what’s this for anyway

Me [7:56]: It’s for Ransom’s BIRTHDAY. You should KNOW THIS. I THOUGHT I told you to put his birthday on the family calendar MOM

Rebecky with the good hair [7:58]: she just got up from the couch to go check it

Rebecky with the good hair [8:00]: ok she’s back, she says it’s not there. whoops

Rebecky with the good hair [8:01]: we’re going to the mall to get him something before it closes. anna you coming

TyrANNAsaurus Rex [8:02]: only if u buy me a pretzel. extra mustard

Rebecky with the good hair [8:03]: fine. come downstairs. i’ll go get dad in the garage

Me [8:03]: what about me!!!

Me [8:06]: UGH I’M DISOWNING YOU ALL. YOU WERE MY LAST HOPE

Me [8:07]: goodbye

Me [8:07]: f o r e v e r

“Holster?”

Holster nearly drops his phone at the sound of Ransom’s voice, and scrambles to catch it, fumbling a few times.

“Babe! It’s not time to stop yet, is it?” he says, smiling widely with his phone precariously caught between his pinky and ring finger.

“You’re. You’re humming that song,” Ransom says. His voice sounds strained. “The sad Abba one. Slipping Through My Fingers.”

“Oh. Shit. I’m sorry, Rans,” Holster says, wincing. Abba has betrayed him again. “The Winner Takes It All would maybe be more appropriate thematically in this situation. Or Knowing Me, Knowing You? Actually, no, I got it. SOS. A classic. Wait, who am I kidding? They’re all classics.”

Ransom looks pained. “Babe.”

Right. Time to go be distracting somewhere else. Holster kisses Ransom on the cheek with a gentle reminder to text him when he needs a few minutes break before moping off to the Haus, determinedly in silence.

Friday they have practice again, and Saturday is spent on a bus to Connecticut, then playing, then sleeping, then driving back the next morning. Everyone’s exhausted, even on the trip up, and Holster caught the bus driver’s questioning eyes in the mirror when they first climbed aboard.

“Long season,” he said, shrugging. “And midterms.”

That’s not really the reason he’s struggling now. He’s just, well, tired, mostly. Frustrated with himself. He’s the worst boyfriend in the world probably, and should just go curl up into that weird crawl-space behind the washer and dryer in the basement that Ransom swears is where the ghosts go during the day. It’s true that it often smells like berry Lip Smackers down in that general area, though Holster’s not sure that isn’t just Chowder’s laundry detergent.

Whatever. Point is, Holster should know what to do for his boyfriend’s birthday, shouldn’t he? He knows Ransom better than anyone in the world (he knows this for a fact because he once sent Ransom’s family a questionnaire about Ransom, so he could compare answers -- none of them got Ransom’s favourite Yankee Candle scent, which is Honey Clementine, and only Dami, the eldest Oluransi sister, knew that number three on Ransom’s bucket list is to touch Serena Williams’ right bicep).

When Holster wakes from his nap on the bus, his forehead wet and cold from where he was leaning on the rattling window and a funny feeling in his stomach, he realizes there’s only one thing left to do: give up.

The bus driver drops them off at the rink, and it’s Nursey and Ransom’s turn to bring the equipment in. Normally Holster would stay and help, but it’s snowing hard and Tango looks like a puppy left out in a storm, so Holster rolls his eyes and asks if he and Whiskey would like a drive back to their rez. He can come get Ransom later. One of the only things he can do for him, apparently.

“How are you doing, Holster?” the unfailingly polite Tango asks as soon as he climbs in the back seat of Holster’s old-ass maroon Sunfire.

“Why? Does it look like I’m doing bad?” Holster says. In the rear-view mirror, Tango’s eyes go wide and concerned. Whiskey, of course, only snorts.

“Well, it does now,” he says in that drawling, bored, monotone voice of his. Though his eyebrow twitching does indicate slight interest, maybe.

“Oh no!” Tango gasps, then scoots up in the middle seat as far as his seat belt allows him so his head is nearly level with Holster and Whiskey’s. “What’s wrong, Captain?”

“I don’t deserve to be called that right now,” Holster grumbles.

“But we won yesterday,” Tango says. He sounds confused, but Holster can’t confirm if his face matches it, because it really is snowing pretty hard and he has to focus on not hitting any students or university presidents that might be out for a stroll. It probably does, though. Perpetual confusion is like, most of Tango’s personality. Sweet kid, though.

“I’m no longer captain of my own life and relationship, so I’m demoting myself. Well, metaphorically-speaking.”

“Holy fuck,” Whiskey whispers, and hits his head on the back of the seat a couple times.

Since he’s got nothing left to lose, Holster decides to ask one last time. It’s not like he’s going to get a good answer, not from a couple eighteen-year-olds, but fuck it. Right? All in.

“Um. Hey. Okay, first of all, if you tell anyone I asked you this I will, uh, turn you both upside down and pour Pepsi up your nose,” he begins, to cover his bases.

“I prefer Coke,” Tango says promptly.

“I know. So, it’s Ransom’s birthday tomorrow, and I don’t have anything planned yet, so… what sounds like the perfect date to you? I’m pretty fucking desperate.”

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Tango’s practically vibrating in his seat. “I love the aquarium. There’s one in Boston! Oh my god. If you go, can I come?”

Whiskey twists in his seat and rolls his eyes. “This is stupid,” he says.

“Aquariums aren’t stupid,” Tango says.

“Not that,” Whiskey says. “I mean, you’re asking the wrong question. Why does it matter what we think is the best date?”

“I don’t think I understand,” Holster says. He pulls into a parking space near the residence.

“I know I don’t understand,” Tango says.

It’s only later, when he’s picked up Ransom and Nursey from Faber and brought them back to the Haus, and he’s in the kitchen watching Ransom talk to Bitty about the moisturizing benefits of coconut oil versus shea butter, that he thinks he finally gets it.

The chair creaks one last time as he leans back to enjoy the image, and gives out under his weight with a crack! and followed by the heavy thump! of his tailbone hitting the hard floor.

“Oh my god!” Bitty cries. Ransom looks like he’s torn between laughter and concern, and the giggles are winning out. “Are you alright?”

“You know, Bitty?” Holster says, sprawled out on his back with shards of wood poking his ass and back, and Ransom’s eyes crinkling in mirth and something even warmer. “I really think I am.”

In the end, it takes a couple hours of work, some very important phone calls, and much begging and chore-switching with the other Haus-mates, but when Ransom comes home from afternoon class on March 28th, 2016, the attic has become a giant, structurally-sound blanket fort, the Haus TV has been moved upstairs along with all game consoles, there’s four different kinds of takeout on the desk, a grocery bag full of snacks, a variety of condoms laid out on the bed, and Holster, sitting in the nest he made of pillows, waiting with a birthday cupcake and a party hat, beaming.

Ransom drops his bag and immediately crawls up next to Holster. The cupcake barely makes it out of the way before Ransom attacks Holster’s mouth with his mouth.

“Babe!” he says between kisses. “This! Is! Amazing!”

“You think?” Holster says. He’s so, so happy.

“Yeah. Look at all this! Is that green curry and chicken wings? And you got me a cupcake instead of regular cake? God, you know me so well.”

Because he can, Holster kisses him again. “I know you like how tiny they look in your big hands,” he says. “Oh, and everybody cleared out for the night, so it’s just us.”

“I can’t believe you did all this,” Ransom says, collapsing onto the bed of fluffy pillows and smiling up at the polar-fleece ceiling. “How long have you been planning?”

“Oh, a little while,” Holster says, which is not even a lie. “You wanna play a round of Super Smash Bros? Winner gets to pick the sex playlist later.”

Ransom sighs happily and holds out his arms, and Holster goes easily. “Not yet. Come here and bask with me.”

“Happy birthday,” Holster says. He snuggles closer.

Everything is right in the world once more: Ransom is happy, Holster has accomplished something great, and no one died. Only one chair was harmed in the making of this birthday gift. Why did he think he needed a grand, romantic date or a fancy night out or any of those things the others suggested? This is what Ransom wants, this is what he wants, and this is just… them. Together.

As far back as he can remember, people have told Adam Birkholtz that he is too dramatic. Which actually, is kind of fine, as long as he’s still got Ransom.

“Best birthday ever,” Ransom says.

That’s all Holster ever wanted to hear.

[bluegrasshole]

bones, and how to bury them

title by @wholockviantime. 1.6 k of ??? epiphanies ??? and some in french too. also posted on ao3.

bitty:

the closet in jack’s bedroom is big -- cavernous, almost -- and new, and clean, and mostly empty. overwhelmingly empty, maybe. bitty can picture it, though, with its shelves and hangers full of clothes that belong to him too and shoes and jerseys and extra sheets, but the image is not for right now. jack doesn’t say anything but bitty knows he’d like to buy bitty new things to fill his closet with, make it theirs, but. for now, he’s content with his one drawer. 

and the thing is, it really is big. so big bitty doesn’t mind going in there to put the laundry away while jack’s at practice. there’s a storm picking up outside but it’s warm in here, and jack’s got a big truck so he’s not too worried about him driving in the snow. he folds it all neatly, precisely, which he sure as hell doesn’t do for his own clothes. the closet even has a light, which turns on from the outside, so bitty doesn’t have to spend any time in the dark. it’s warm and comfortable and bright and

until it’s not. the bulb flickers off and bitty drops the socks from his arms, because the feeling is immediate. creeping in, squeezing his throat, taking his head and spinning it around. the fuck was he thinking? this closet is small. tiny, even, and he can’t breathe. he left his phone on the bed and his eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness -- or maybe he shut them tight and hasn’t been able to open them yet. it’s so fucking dark in here, and he remembers, he remembers --

he turns, nudges a sock with his toe as he does, and. and there’s some light from the windows in the bedroom creeping in from the cracked door, so he runs, and makes it to the bed gasping for lungfuls of air. the first thing he sees is his phone lit up with a text from jack: radio said the power’s out. i’m on my way home. be there soon. and one from his mom, from earlier, asking about how his weekend went. he hesitates, and looks back at the door now thrown wide open, then picks up the phone.

“dicky! i was just going to call. i saw something on the news about a storm and was wondering if you were bundled up,” mama says before he can even greet her. he takes a breath as the last of the dizziness fades away.

“not dicky anymore, mama,” bitty says. 

“oh,” she says. she’s frowning, he can tell. “alright. everything okay, baby?”

“yeah, mama. everything is good. is daddy around? i’ve got,” he says, and in the kitchen the microwave beeps in time with the closet light stuttering back on, “i’ve got something to tell you.”

holster:

“tommy?” holster says before he can stop himself, and the man in front of him turns and stares. still, after all these years, unmistakeable. a slight twist to his lips from a cleft palate long since fixed by surgery, and a scar on his chin from -- “tommy bennett?”

“big adam,” tommy bennett says. no one’s called holster that in years. he’d almost forgotten.

almost.

the pepsi fridge he’s standing next to hums and the door to the bodega tinkles but they just stare at each other. 

“i haven’t seen you since, since -- well, how are you,” holster says. tommy is still half a foot shorter than holster is, but he’s standing straight and his shoulders are square.

“what do you want,” tommy says. which is, well, fair.

“nothing,” holster says. “nothing. or, well -- ”

“i just want some sprite, man,” tommy says. he gestures to the fridge holster is blocking with all his bulk. 

“oh. i’m sorry,” holster says. “like, not just about the sprite. about the, the, the, you know. the everything. i’m sorry.” his hands move to point to his own chin but he drops them halfway through the motion. “i’m sorry.”

tommy stares. “okay.”

“okay. really though, i’m --”

“sorry, i get it. can i...?”

“yeah. yeah,” holster says. he moves away from the glass, leaving a space in the condensation the shape of his hand. “i hope. i hope you’re doing well,” he says. 

he gets no answer.

when he opens the door to the car, stomach twisting in nausea, ransom just raises an eyebrow at his empty hands.

“the fuck took you so long? and you didn’t even get any snacks,” ransom says. 

holster turns on this car. “i’ll tell you later,” he says. “i think we’ve got chips at the haus, anyway.”

“alright, bro,” ransom says. “whatever you want.”

the neon lights of the store illuminate the rearview mirrors when holster looks back and the snow starts to fall.

shitty:

the envelope is addressed to mr. bishop knight in unfamiliar handwriting and the return address is one shitty’s had memorized since the month after he turned 12, though his mother hasn’t even looked at it once. he knows what it contains without even opening it: a birthday card and a signature. once there would have been thirty bucks too, but that stopped when he turned eighteen.

“hello-o-o,” lardo says from her bed. “coffee?”

“oh. right.” shitty’s still dressed from his solo trip to annie’s, so he sets the coffee tray down with the envelope on his desk and slowly unwinds his scarf, lovingly knitted by alicia zimmermann as a christmas gift. he unbuttons his jacket slowly, ignoring lardo’s impatient huffs.  

“you got snow in your hair,” lardo says, rolling her eyes. “it looks like dandruff.”

“hm?” shitty carefully strips himself of his shirt and pants and brings over the cups to the bed. it’s warmer in here, with lardo, than outside. “oh, yeah. it’s messy out there."

“what’s that,” lardo says, gesturing to the desk with the hand that’s holding her cappuccino. 

“christmas-slash-birthday card,” shitty says. “from my father.”

“oh. a little late for that.” then, slowly, “you gonna open it?”

shitty can’t help but lean into lardo’s side, and lardo lifts the arm not holding the coffee and wraps him up. takes him in. 

“no,” shitty says, and closes his eyes, smiling, “not this year.”

jack:

la route de la patinoire jusqu’à la maison n’est pas longue, mais avec la neige devenant de plus en plus épaisse, et bittle seul chez lui dans la noirceur, elle semble interminable. les tempêtes lui ont toujours fait sentir impuissant, mais – bref, ils ne sont pas uniques dans la catégorie.

son père lui a souvent dit qu’ils ont tous deux un « esprit cartésien », et c’est peut-être vrai, mais ce n’est que dernièrement qu’il le prend vraiment à cœur. étape par étape, sa thérapeute et ses parents lui répètent. donc, voilà : prends une droite après le stationnement ; continue lentement pour trois kilomètres ; attention à la glace ; maintenant, arrête à l’intersection ; compte un, deux, trois ; avance ; une gauche, et ensuite une droite ; un autre arrêt pour la vieille qui veut traverser le chemin ; quatre kilomètres, puis l’immeuble droit devant.

rends-toi au stationnement souterrain et trouve l’espace qui vous a été désigné. éteint le moteur. prends ton sac du siège à côté et va à l’ascenseur. fais-le vite, quand même – il ne faut surtout pas oublier qui t’attends. et puis cinquième étage, deuxième porte à la droite. ouvre-là.

– jack ? bittle dit. oh, i’m glad you’re home.

sa voix, douce et familière, provient du salon. le salon qui a de la lumière, donc la coupure n’aurait pas duré longtemps, jack suppose.

– me too, jack répond. roads are getting pretty bad.

bittle apparait dans sa vision, avec sa couverture la plus chaude autour de ses épaules et un grand sourire peinturé sur son beau visage. il tend une main vers jack, qui la prend fermement. voilà une chose qui ne lui a jamais fait sentir comme s’il ne pouvait rien faire.

un nouveau plan, alors. étape un : prend la main de celui que tu aimes. étape deux : respire, respire, respire…

dex:

nursey stops him at the door, which is just as well, probably, because he's been staring at it for five minutes, trying to decide if he’s going to go this week. like he does every week.

“where the fuck are you going like that?” nursey asks. he crosses his arms and dex can’t even meet his eyes. he’s been having trouble meeting them for a while, now. “it’s a storm out there. you don’t even -- fuck, dex, you don’t even have gloves on.”

“i’m fine, nurse,” dex says down at his shoes. 

nursey exhales, then shakes his head. “it’s not like i haven’t noticed you go out this time every sunday, you know.”

“i -- oh. um. i didn’t think you would.” dex bites his lip hard, then looks at the door. he hasn’t told nursey where he goes. or anyone at all. 

“fine. if you’re not going to take care of yourself...”

when dex looks up, nursey is pulling his jacket off a hook on the wall and stuffing his arms into it, then pulls out a pair of gloves from the pockets. 

“what are you doing?” dex asks. he feels panicked, suddenly, and reaches out to stop nursey’s hands. nursey just catches his and holds them tight.

“it’s non-denominational, isn’t it?” nursey asks. he brings dex’s knuckles to his lips and kisses them with a gentleness dex will never possess. 

fuck. 

“um.”

“i was waiting for you to tell me,” nursey says. “i figured you’d do it on your own time, or whatever.”

“oh.” 

he’s never really been one for words, anyway.

“dex,” nursey says. “can i come with you?”

dex looks back at the door, then at nursey, with a smile tentative and soft against dex’s hand.

he opens the door.

[bluegrasshole]

How ridiculous and dramatic can Holster be? Let’s find out.

As far back as he can remember, people have told Adam Birkholtz that he is too dramatic. It’s usually said in an exasperated tone, by his parents and schoolteachers and coaches -- that Birkholtz boy is quite the character, or Adam, do you have to be so loud? they say, and then sigh. Sometimes it’s said with amusement, often when he first meets new teammates or people at parties -- is he always like this? And someone -- ok, usually Jack or Dex -- nods and rolls their eyes and says you have no idea. Point is, people say it all the time, even though it’s definitely not true. And now he’ll never, ever get the chance to prove them wrong, because on March 28th, 2016, Holster’s going to die.