IT IS CHIVALRIC TO KISS ONE'S BROS

3. When Tommy starts asking if he can go with his dad on the day-long fishing trips he takes on the weekends, if he can help his dad fix the old Cutlass in the driveway, if he can bring his dad another beer, if his dad needs a hand cleaning out the garage.... his dad doesn't seem to find it suspicious. He just says it's about time Tommy stopped being such a pussy and started acting like a man. For the better part of a year, Tommy is his dad's shadow. He follows him around and does everything he's asked and laughs at his dad's mean jokes and tries not to see how sad his mom gets when Tommy chooses to spend time with his dad instead of with her, but he can't help it, because his dad never lets her take the car anywhere by herself or go for walks with her friends without him, and sometimes he holds her too tightly and leaves bruises and never says sorry, and now Tommy is making her feel even lonelier. She'll understand when he surprises her with her beloved coat. Except no matter how much time he spends with his dad, who he hates more and more with every passing hour, he can't find it. He looks in the Cutlass, in the gear box on his dad's little motorboat, in every nook and cranny in the garage, in his dad's closet, in the basement.... it's nowhere to be found. Maybe his dad sold it—maybe that's how he was able to afford the boat—or maybe he burned it. Tommy suddenly understands why his mother had been so hopeless, because it's like it just got up and flew away, leaving his mother behind. But he refuses to give up. He just needs to go straight to the source.

4. Tommy plies his dad with at least four beers a day, because his dad gets talkative after four. When his dad hits that point, he doesn't get mad when Tommy asks about his mom. It takes another few months—almost a year to the day since he found the photo—before four isn't enough and his dad's hands shake if he doesn't have at least five, and he's handing his dad a sixth when he finally works up the nerve to ask how his dad met his mom. Practically puddled on his work bench, his dad rumbles a laugh and says that he saw her in the woods behind their house, bathing in the same creek where Tommy used to catch frogs and fireflies before his dad said only pansies did that, and thought she was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. He mumbles a word that Tommy doesn't understand—a hag-something—and snorts another laugh, muttering, "'s right under her nose. She'll n'ver find it." Tommy stares at his dad, who can barely keep his eyes open and keeps bobbing his head like he can't hold it up, and then quietly asks where the coat is.

5. It's nighttime when he shakes his mom's arm to wake her up and presses a finger to his lips, beckoning her to get out of bed and come with him. It takes a few minutes for her to slip out from under his dad's heavy arm without waking him. He takes her hand in his and they sneak downstairs; they don't put their shoes on until they get to the bottom step of the basement stairs, and then they sneak out the door that leads to the backyard. He uses his dad's Rayovac to light their way. She doesn't ask where they're going. Maybe she's just as afraid of making a sound as he is, even though they're far enough away that they could throw a party and his dad wouldn't so much as stir. She lets him pull her through the tree line at the edge of the yard and into the woods; together, they climb over fallen trees and tromp through mud puddles and jump every time a raccoon shrieks. He doesn't know how long they walk in silence, hand in hand, but finally the beam of light hits the creek. He pulls her over to the big tree by the edge, where lightning had cracked a hollow in it long before Tommy was born, and then lets go of her hand so he can crawl inside. The dead wood scratches him and he accidentally gets a spider web in his mouth, but it's all worth it when he squirms back out with his arms full of soft, soft fabric that glows like the moon. She's holding the flashlight, so he gets to see the shock and relief and joy on her face when she sees what he's holding, and it's worth every single horrible second he's spent over the last year with his dad. It was all for this. He did it. Panting, he grins at her, wiggling in pleasure when she wraps him in her arms and holds him and cries.

The bits of sky they can see through the canopy is starting to pink up, and finally his mom lets him go so she can take the coat from his arms. It looks like a sky full of stars reflected in the surface of a lake when she slips into it, rippling like water, and she is lit up almost from within, beautiful and terrifying and unfamiliar.

"M-Mom?" He's never been afraid of her, and he isn't now, but when she cups his face in her hand, his heart pounds the way it does when their neighbor's rottweiler barks and growls through the fence when Tommy walks by, or when his dad yells.

Her hair falls out of the scrunchy and falls in waves around her face and down her back, and then floats up. Not just her hair. She's floating up. Away.

She smiles, like in the photo. His eyes fill with tears.

"If you ever choose to give it to someone, please be sure," his mother says, and her voice echoes through the trees and flows in the creek and rides the wind. "Otherwise, you can never come home to me."

He watches her rise up and up, until she slips through the fiery pink lines between the treetops, and disappears.

When his father wakes up and starts tearing apart the house, howling for his wife, Tommy's in bed, hiding under the covers and sobbing into a leather coat that's as soft as clouds and warm as his own blood.

6. Bonus!

By the time Buck walks the four blocks from where he parked to Maccheroni Republic, he's glad he decided to wear a jacket. It's unseasonably cold for November and the jacket had been a gift. It would be more insulting if he didn't wear it. At least that's what he keeps telling himself when the guilt threatens to sweep his legs out from under him.

He swallows the sour taste in his mouth and enters the restaurant where his date is waiting for him. Her name is Melody. According to her Hinge profile, she's a florist who recently moved to Santa Monica and is looking to make a connection. Buck doesn't know shit about flowers, but he knows about wanting to establish something special with someone. The dates he's been on lately have been one disappointment after another, but maybe Melody will break the losing streak. Maybe she'll have all the answers.

Thank god she looks just like her profile picture. He spots her right away: riotous curls, large eyes, and a dazzling smile... that disappears the moment he approaches the table.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Buck says. "I had to park on the other side of the world. Hopefully you haven't been w—uh, is everything—?"

Because Melody is staring balefully at his chest as she gathers her purse and phone.

"Whoa, hey, I-I didn't think I was that late," Buck appeals.

The glare that Melody levels on him would fell a lesser man, but Athena has trained him up well over the years. He's able to withstand it with only a small wince.

"You're a real piece of shit, you know that?" Melody snaps. She's practically shaking with rage. The people around them are starting to stare. "Going on a date wearing someone else's—god, you asshole."

Blinking, he glances down at himself. "Wait, do you—are you talking about the jacket? I'm not sure what the big deal is, or how you even clocked it, but, uh, my ex gave it to me. I can... take it off? I was gonna take it off."

At that, she pauses, squinting at him with an insulting amount of distrust, even for an internet stranger. "Your ex? Then why do you still have it?"

Buck ducks his head and stares at the zipper pull on his chest, shrugging. "H-He didn't want it back."

After the breakup, the jacket had taken up a permanent spot in his Jeep, then the truck, which had a setting he couldn't turn off that registered any added pressure to the backseat and reminded him to check anytime he turned off the car. It was supposed to keep frazzled parents from forgetting their kids in the car on hot days, but all it did was serve as a painful reminder that he still had a piece of Tommy.

He'd caught up with Tommy after Bobby's memorial service and haltingly offered to give it back. That kind of buttery, almost liquid leather? It had to have cost a fortune. It didn't seem right to keep it.

"It was a gift," Tommy had said softly.

"A-Are you sure?" It took every drop of willpower not to throw himself into Tommy's arms and beg him to hold him for a minute, because the jacket was nice but it didn't smell like Tommy anymore and it was a poor substitute for his hugs.

But Tommy had mustered up a smile that made Buck's stomach hurt to look at, and said, "I'm sure, Evan. It's yours."

Melody stares at him for a long moment, then blows out a breath and takes her seat again. She gestures for Buck to do the same, which he does, although he feels a little bit like he's about to be put through a deposition.

"Let me make something perfectly clear: this isn't a date. I'm not dating someone who has one of those," Melody says, gesturing to his jacket.

"Is it, like, Gucci or something?" Buck runs a nervous hand down the length of one soft, soft sleeve. "There isn't a tag. I think he cut it out."

She shakes her head, then sighs. "Okay, so, I'm not an expert by any stretch of the imagination. I recognize it because... my uncle married a woman who has one. Except hers looks like one of those robe coats from the '20s. You know: big sleeves, fur collar, dragged on the ground. She gave it to him."

Buck waits for her to continue, but that seems to be the end of her thought.

"Oh, uh, that... was, uh, nice of her?"

Melody rolls her eyes, then leans forward like she's thinking about reaching across the table and shoving whatever she's trying to say down his throat. "The coat's—special. I don't know how to explain it. My uncle says it's... it could give my uncle, like, an insane amount of power over her, but he's a pretty good guy so he doesn't ever use it. It's the ultimate gesture of trust. It's like my aunt gave her soul to him."

His eyes are as wide as the bread plates on the table. He can feel his brows kiss the edge of his hairline. His fingers are buried in the jacket's cuffs.

"I-I don't... what is it? You recognized it, like, right away."

She shrugs. "I've read some—I guess, myths? In the stories, they're made of feathers, sometimes silk. My aunt and uncle ended up having my cousin Katie, and she has one, too. Hers is wool, though. Pink houndstooth, with a skirt that kinda flares out. I think it's different every time? Like, it adapts to the owner and their circumstances, that sort of thing."

Buck looks down at the camel-colored leather and thinks of how easily Tommy took it off his own body and draped it over Buck's one chilly night. How Tommy smiled and murmured, "it suits you."

"So, the fact that he gave this to me—" He can't get the rest of the words out. They're blocked by a lump in his throat that feels like it's growing by the second. His eyes burn.

For the first time that night, Melody smiles. "He must've really loved you."

+

When Buck pulls into the driveway, he's shaking so hard he can barely get his hand around the shift lever to throw the truck into park. There are no lights on in the house.

Exhaling, he opens the door and spills out into the night, which feels even colder than it did earlier. The jacket isn't doing anything to block the chill. Or maybe he's just sweating and his body can't compensate.

He starts heading up the walkway toward the porch, then stops. Something in him pulses hard, and he turns his head in the direction of where the path splits to head to the backyard. There's no cogent reason to check there first, but his heart starts pounding like he's just ran a marathon.

Buck approaches the gate and peers over the top of the door. The yard is wide open and dark; the flood light is off and all he has to help him is starlight. But there, in the grass, is a swathe of even darker darkness. A silhouette.

Swallowing hard, he gently unlatches the door and walks through, shutting it behind him. His hand trembles on the metal lock.

It's the ultimate gesture of trust.

Closing his stinging eyes, Buck takes a moment to breathe. Another pulse, deep in his chest, spurs his feet into motion. He walks slowly over the grass to the shadow lying in the middle of the yard. It isn't until he's less than a foot away that he can actually make out more than a fuzzy outline.

Even in faint starlight, Tommy looks incredible. Almost otherworldly. He's staring up at the sky like he's trying to work out a puzzle, but after a moment, he turns his head and looks at Buck. He smiles the way he always does and Buck's belly cramps.

Wordlessly, Tommy lifts an arm, his wrist thick and strong, inviting him down.

Choking on a sob, Buck clambers down onto the grass and tucks himself against Tommy's side. Tommy's arm wraps around him, warmer than anything else in the whole world.

Buck settles his cheek on Tommy's shoulder and whispers, "Did you know what it meant? When you gave it to me?"

"Yes."

"Then why give it to me?"

"Because I was sure," Tommy murmurs. "I still am."

Dragging in another shaky breath, Buck closes his eyes. "I'm sure too."

The arm around him tightens and there's a brief, warm pressure against his hair. After a moment, he hears the grass shift under Tommy's head as he turns to gaze back up at the sky. Buck doesn't know what he's looking for, but he hopes he finds it, whatever it is. Maybe he's not looking for anything in particular.