running like a diesel train

For all the jokes made at his expense, Freddy was more than capable of loading chains on his tires and bulldozing his way through snow-laden streets. 

(Or so he claimed: either way, this car was a rental from the airport and the roads had been cleared.)

“Fucking Manitoba,” he said bleakly, squinting out into the dark as he took a turn a little too sharply. “Fucking Canada.”

He thought wistfully of his brother’s cabin and its central heating and its goddamn beds where he could be horizontal for the first time in what felt like fucking centuries--and it was, of course, in the outskirts on the other fucking side of the city.

“Fucking Winnipeg,” he muttered, drumming his fingertips against the steering wheel as he stared up at the traffic light’s angry red eye.

It’d been a while since he’d graced his older brother with his presence for the holiday season--too long to really excuse with any degree of dignity, but running a nation--being a nation was never an easy task. They understood that. Understood each other. So the final warning signs that Freddy had let his absence stretch too long was an unfamiliar pang in his back, one that usually meant Matthew was overextending himself (too) and Freddy had to go step in to be the voice of reason. The stolen vacation time was never a bad trade-off. 

Then again, love was a much more vicious motivator.

He spent the rest of the drive thinking very pointedly of nothing, taking the route by rote muscle memory until he was pulling down a lane lined with familiar night silhouettes of rangy firs. He idled in front of the driveway, glancing up at his brother’s cabin contemplatively before pulling the rental forward and backing in at just the right angle to make Matthew’s next commute really fucking difficult. 

Freddy-1, Mattie-nil point.

He turned the car off and rested his forehead on the wheel, letting his eyes drift shut in fatigue for a brief moment.

The exhaustion was seeping in bone-deep, like he’d always been promised it would, like he always swore he’d never let happen. 

So he sighed and opened the car door, his traveling duffel slung over one shoulder. No--no matter how much they aged, he was never going to let them get that old. That resolution firmly in place, he whistled a few jaunty bars as he took the steps up to the front door two at a time, his stolen-without-necessarily-express-permission house key already in hand.

The foyer was dark as he forced the door open with a shove of his hip. 

“Matt?” Freddy called out absently, letting the bag drop to the floor. “Your stupid door’s sticking again--”

He glance sideways to catch sight of a pair of acid-green eyes watching him calmly from the darkened den and did not (did not!) scream like a little bitch.

“Goddamn fucking bear, Jesus fucking Christ, I swear to God you almost gave me a heart attack---what the fuck are you doing, you fat ass, you know you can’t be on the couch--chesterfield, couch, sofa, whatever, beat it.”

The polar bear (Freddy was also pointedly not examining how weird his daily life was that running into his older brother’s miniature polar bear or whatever the fuck it was was a normal occasion) leveled Freddy with a look that could only be labeled as “unimpressed”, but lumbered off the sofa obediently enough before disappearing...somewhere else.