#pre-relationship

Salvatore Deluca was a 118 alum who had been transferred to the 122 after a bit of mouthing off and insubordination. With a few houses (including 122) out of commission in the wake of the tsunami and the 118 down a firefighter, Sal was back, filling in Buck’s spot. 

Eddie hadn’t liked him at first, mainly out of loyalty to Buck. Sal seemed to fit right in, though, like he’d never left - goofing around with Chim and Hen and the rest of the crew like he owned the place. It hadn’t taken long for Eddie to warm up to him too. He was charming in his way, brutally honest, brusque at times. But he was a great firefighter and a good guy. 

Sal had rounded them up after a couple shifts to go out for drinks. Chim and Hen never stayed long - Hen needed to get home to her family and Chim usually had plans with Maddie. If Chris was taken care of, Eddie would stay a little longer and they’d hang out, just the two of them. They’d shoot pool or play darts or just talk. 

Eddie really liked being around the guy. And sometimes, when he wasn’t paying attention and his mental guard wasn’t up, other thoughts would slip in. Thoughts of what Sal’s lips might taste like or how his cock might fit in Eddie’s hand or mouth or…other places. He tried to push thoughts like that down. He wasn’t in an emotional place where he felt like he could grapple with all of that.

When the moment came, when he got his one phone call, Sal had been the one he’d called. Even if he could have called Buck, he still would have called Sal.

Neither of them said anything, though Sal reached over and gave his shoulder a squeeze as they walked out the side door and exited the building. 

“Thanks for coming to bail me out,” Eddie said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Yeah, I was surprised to get your call. I didn’t realize we reached the bail each other out of jail phase of our friendship,” Sal teased with an easy grin.

“Well, there’s no way I was gonna call my abuela or the 118, and I’m not even allowed to talk to Buck, so…” Eddie shrugged as they strolled toward wherever Sal had parked.

Sal stopped and put a hand on Eddie’s arm, stopping him too. “Look, I don’t mind the bailing, but I’m a little concerned about the jailing part.”

“I dunno, I guess I just snapped,” Eddie said, the familiar tension and frustration wrapping itself back around his neck and shoulders. He hadn’t realized how oddly relaxed he’d been in jail. A few hours with no responsibilities had been like some sort of vacation. 

“You punched a handicapped guy,” Sal laughed.

“He wasn’t handicapped. He had a bad…he had a bad knee. There’s a difference,” Eddie clarified. “It won’t happen again. Lesson learned.”

“Hope so,” Sal said, then started walking again. “I also hope this guy doesn’t have a lawyer.”

Eddie sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. There was no way he could afford to go to court. 

“You’re gonna be fine,” Sal bumped his shoulder into Eddie’s. “You said Chris is at a sleepover?”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you come over to my place. You can shower the prison stink off of ya and maybe we can have a few beers, order a pizza?”

Eddie agreed, because he really couldn’t come up with a reason not to. 

It turned out Sal’s place wasn’t far, so they walked. It felt good to be outside and the walk helped clear his head a bit.

“Enjoying the fresh air as a free man? Didn’t get enough yard time in the slammer?”

“Shut up.”

Eddie had never been to Sal’s place before. It was nice and lived in. There was a little bit of art on the walls, family photos and potted plants on his shelves and window sills. There was an orange cat curled up in a sunny spot on the couch that didn’t even budge when they came in.

Sal slid his shoes off and disappeared down a hallway, then came back with a couple towels and some clothes. He bade Eddie over with a nod of his head and set the stack of items on the bathroom counter. 

“Water takes a bit to get hot but don’t give up, alright?” Sal advised. “You got any weird pizza preferences I need to know about or can I just go for it?” 

“Anything but pineapple.”

Sal made a disgusted face. “Obviously.”

Eddie turned the water on before he stripped out of his clothes. He showered efficiently, dried himself off, then slipped the clothes on - some basketball shorts and a tee shirt from an LAFD charity 5k. When he emerged, Sal greeted him with a cold beer and a spot beside him on the couch. Sal’s cat had moved onto the floor, trying to soak up the last sliver of sun.

Sal put on a baseball game and they drank and shot the shit, scarfing down a few slices when the pizza came. Sal was an easy guy to talk to, and an easy guy to be around. He kept the beers coming until Eddie felt loose and fuzzy.

The baseball game ended and Sal didn’t turn the TV off, just muted the sound. He turned to look at Eddie, elbow against the back of the couch. “So, you wanna talk about it?”

“About what?” Eddie dodged poorly.

Sal gave him a look.

“Like I said, I just…snapped. The guy was accusing me of parking in the handicapped spot without a reason right after I dropped Christopher off.”

Sal nodded. “And what do you care what some jackass stranger thinks?”

Eddie scrubbed a hand over his face. “I guess I’m just tired of people thinking I don’t know what I’m doing, questioning every damn decision I make.”

“What people?”

“My parents,” Eddie said, looking down at his beer, feeling the radiant heat of Sal’s eyes fixed on him. “They think I’m just a big screw-up you know?”

“I don’t know,” Sal said.

“I mean, I could say it started with knocking up my high school girlfriend, but…” Eddie laughed bitterly. “But no, there’s a story my dad loves to tell about me messing up his brand new truck trying to drive my mom to the hospital when she was in labor.”

“How old were you?”

“Ten,” Eddie said, finishing off his beer. He glanced at Sal long enough to see his frown then looked away. “Anyway, I’ve just made mistake after mistake when all I try to do is the right thing, you know? Like, I married Shannon, enlisted so I could provide for my family…but then I was gone too much and Shannon was dealing with Chris and his health problems on her own. My parents were circling her like god damn vultures, looking for any excuse to get their hands on Chris.”

“Jesus, Eddie…”

Eddie leaned forward and set his empty bottle on the coffee table with a soft thud. “And then Shannon left. That was on me. After that, I couldn’t stay in El Paso with my parents looking at me like everything I did was wrong. Then Shannon passed and again, my parents were there to remind me what a big mistake I’d made with her. They acted like I couldn’t take care of my son on my own.”

Sal’s hand pressed into Eddie’s back, rubbing in a circle between his shoulderblades like he was trying to comfort him. That’s when Eddie realized he was crying, tears running down his cheeks.

“And then today with that guy I just…” Eddie balled up his fists angrily. “I didn’t think and I need to be smarter than that. I can’t screw up. I gotta be there for Chris. I’m all he’s got. God knows that kid deserves a hell of a lot better than me but...”

“Eddie,” Sal interrupted gently. “You’re a good father.”

Eddie shook his head and wiped his face. “I feel like all I do is mess things up.”

“You’re so much more than the mistakes you’ve made,” Sal said, his hand travelling up to the back of Eddie’s neck. “You love that kid more than anything. You give him everything you’ve got and he fucking adores you.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asked weakly. “I don’t make a habit of lying, do I?” Sal asked, squeezing Eddie’s neck with his calloused hand before he let go. “Everyone makes mistakes. It’s what you do after that matters more. You do better, right? So maybe don’t go punching anymore handicapped guys in the face.”

Eddie let out a wet laugh. “He wasn’t handicapped.”

“Okay, then, just don’t be punching guys in the face. Unless they really fucking deserve it. But you’ve got a kid and I ain’t got shit to lose so why don’t you call me up and let me do the punching next time alright? Then it can be your turn to bail me out.”

“Copy that,” Eddie said.

Sal shook his head with what looked like a fond smile. “You’re such a dork.”

Eddie laughed again, swiping his eyes with the back of his hand one more time.

“Anyway, why don’t you crash here tonight,” Sal said. “I don’t like the idea of you being home alone all drunk and sad and pathetic.” “Pathetic?” Eddie scoffed.

“If the shoe fits,” Sal grinned, then winked. 

Sal reached for the remote, probably to unmute the game, but Eddie caught his wrist and held it. It should have been scarier than it was, but the alcohol was probably helping. Eddie looked at Sal, holding his gaze.

“Thank you,” Eddie said, brushing his thumb over the inside of Sal’s wrist. “For bailing me out and bringing me here and…for everything.”

Sal smiled, all of the teasing and bravado gone, leaving nothing but a soft sincerity. He reached out and touched Eddie’s cheek for a second, then let his hand drop to his own lap. “Any time.”

Eddie wished he were a braver man, but even with the alcohol numbing parts of his brain he just couldn’t take the leap. Too afraid it might be a mistake.

So Eddie let go of Sal’s wrist and it was as if Sal knew. A flash of disappointment in his eyes, then understanding. His lips curved into a patient smile, like he was telling Eddie he could wait for him to be ready. Then Sal picked up the remote and unmuted the TV just as another baseball game started.

Especially the ones who slip in mid-way into the semester and run up, requesting an extension. Someone has passed or an unforeseen accident has occurred, and Nanami Kento cannot tell you the sudden decrease of both once he shifted his 8am course to 4pm.

He almost achieved world peace.

Though currently, you stand before him, requesting an extension on an assignment that should be child’s play. You’re an adult, older than the rest of the recently emancipated crowd that warms the seats of his lecture hall.

He’d notice you right away, the corporate attire heavy on your frame, still a polished look near the end of the day. The work badge always being rolled into the lanyard and stuffed into the first left pocket, not the right—never the right.

He’s noticed where you choose to be seated too, the third front row, four seats in. No one sits on either side of you, a chair for your bag, a chair for your water, and a laptop ready to take in his next presentation. You were mostly diligent the first three weeks of school, then disappeared; his eyes couldn’t help but long for another soul who understands exactly why low rise jeans should be abolished.

  And now, suddenly, here you are.

  “I wouldn’t ask, another week, I haven’t fallen in love with any of my first drafts for this assignment.” A common appeal to his teaching sensibility, that you have been working it’s simply the written words that are the issue. Not ethic or procrastination.

As a writer he can attest to this conundrum, though he’s gotten a reputation. No extensions, regardless of the reason, any student will simply need to take the lower grade and do their best on the final.

However, his eyes see yours and the words easily saunter over to your side of the desk, “So, what happened?”

  You make a face, somewhat unprepared, quickly though, soothing away the shock as you readjust your office blouse that wants to bunch up today of all days, “As you know I work, that’s not an excuse. However, I was abroad on a client site inspection— I had my laptop hence the few first drafts, I wrote them on the plane but nothing…” a sigh, “…it all feels like a cop out.”

He can’t have that, the theme for this particular assignment is serious business and often students surprise him with their responses. “A cop out for, first love?”

A soft nod, your mouth opens and closes, editing and re-writing your thoughts in real time. Nanami finds it fascinating, as you prepare to speak again, “It’s super open ended, which normally appreciated but given… well, work, I haven’t had an inspiration ping.”

An inspiration what? His eyebrows raise slightly, you wonder if that’s a smile or a smirk on his lips. Is he amused or is he…. well he’s always been handsome but ignore that. He’s your Professor in this capacity! Not a colleague to review creative writing with, not someone to sit in a bougie coffee shop and count up the use of commas, not someone— “Ping?”

You lean into the most uncomfortable wooden chair known to humans and narrow your eyes, “A ping. It was mentioned in the ‘what’s your writing process’ reflective work.”

“Reflection journals are for you, I can’t say I read each one that is submitted in the portal. There would be…. too many of them.” Huh, a mandatory daily assignment that the dear Professor doesn’t even read but gives you automatic points for? Noted. “Tell me about it.”

  “Considering I already have, Professor, what is your writing process?” He leans back himself, an arm dangling on his office chair as he considers the question, “It starts all the same for us, doesn’t it? A bubbling up of a scene or sentence, the chase to make pen to paper before it gets washed away in the sink.”

Bath metaphors, interesting. “So you understand then, why I need more time?”

The worn wood of the desk creeks under the pressure of his elbows, the roll of his chair is slow, almost deliberate; Nanami is not a fan of the carpet getting caught in the wheels and embarrassing himself, especially in front of you. “Tell me about it, inspiration ping?”

An inhale to brace yourself as you start, “I wanted to get back into writing after being away for so long… and the way I forced myself into it was, simply—once the inspiration pings—a song or a scene or a object—to go! Start writing and let it all map itself. Without a draft or an outline, as I know those are important now to really hone in on a narrative but…” he notes the way your eyes fall from him, roam the many big serious books on writing that outline his office walls, the rows of filing cabinets and the window where the sun has set, shoot—you need to move your car out of the timed park zone soon.

  “But…?”

“It hasn’t happened for this. A ping.” You shrug, “Usually it does and I can whip out a couple hundred words, let them settle and use it for the proper way to write an outline and then the narrative.”

He’s frowning, why is he frowning? It’s not like you’re cheating, you make a first pre-draft of what would be a solid piece of work—“That’s wrong.”

You click your tongue, looking at him annoyed, “How exactly? It’s still my original idea and words being used to draft—“

“No, forgive me. What I wanted to correct is ‘the proper way to write’ — doesn’t exist.” He leans back now he’s not so sure if you really did submit a reflection journal, he would’ve remembered something like inspiration ping. It’s so direct, simple, succinct.

You look at him with furrowed brows, “You said to provide a logical structure—“

“That was for the kids who haven’t written an essay by hand ever.” He holds his hands up, “Not saying you aren’t young but we’re not, kids are we?”

“We?” your arms cross over another, he swallows hard, for a creative writing professor he finds himself fumbling his own argumentative structuring, “You listen to James Brown.”

Oh now he’s on thinner ice.

“What I mean is, from everything I’ve read, you already have an established writers voice, a point of view for each assignment. It's effectively illustrated and adapted to meet every requirement, you don’t need the ABC’s of creative writing, you’re already writing creatively. If your process works for you, then keep it.”

  “Well it’s not working, right now, hence the extension request.” He nods, right, you’re not a friend saddled with writers block or lack of confidence, you’re his student struggling with an assignment. “Show me the drafts.”

You scoff, “You don’t believe I did them?”

From this little interaction, he knows it’s better he not speak and let you act, what he expects is a laptop with a document full of started and stopped ideas but instead is a journal, the surprise on his face is evident. “You’re not the first to recommend an actual writing journal, Professor.”

“And you aren’t a new student to creative writing, when did you start yours?” You hand the diligently cared for journal over, with all it’s stickies and tabs, “That’s almost as bad as asking how old I am.”

“You started that young?” But there’s a smile to his tone, which leads a smile to yours, “Maybe. I always liked making new things up.”

“To be a writer, you have to know how to lie.” He’s enjoying this, god when was the last time his eyes have read cursive like this? It’s almost textbook how your r’s look and how every t is crossed. You even write the letter g the proper way and—

“OR know how to use the truth.” You smile at him, “It’s a delicate balance between the truth, a lie and something else.”

“Something else.” he parrots, not sure what he’s seeking in your eyes but he drops his back down, the writing alone has him captivated and when he reads the first few words he’s hooked. The sound of pages being flipped over fills his tiny office, is he aware he’s licked his thumb and with great scrutiny cards his thumb over the edges of each page? Is he that hungry for your next sentence?

One idea ends, another beings, each hold him hostage, glued to the edge of his seat and then he flips a final page and empty narrow ruled margin laughs at him. He looks at you, mouth hanging open, a big of a shrug to his shoulders, “You could take one of these ideas and…?”

“Polish it off or wait for a new one to ping me and polish that off.” He flips back through over your writing before slowly closing the journal and handing it back, “Any one of those would be excellent to explore, what feels off about them?”

You scrunch your face at him, shit it’s cute, “You need a bit of truth with the lie, right?”

He nods. He nods and then he let’s his brain process, the assignment is about first love, your writings are dreamy, airy, whimsical, how anyone’s first love should be but —the truth—what’s the truth needed here? “An extension?”

“An extension if—you turn it into me, not the TA. I want to read it myself.”

“So not only do you not read the reflection entries, you don’t read out weekly assignments?” There’s two hundred students in one lecture hall, and with his four TA’s that leaves about 80 papers for one human to consume and grade, maybe direct feedback is asking for too much. Damn, maybe larger universities aren’t everything their made out to be.

“I read what I can, I do.” You want to believe him, “But as you know,” he gestures around the office, “work.”

  ____

  The thing about you, and your writing is that it's a bit too honest. For all the big talk about dancing with the truth and lies, you… really can't submit work you're not proud of. And this stupid assignment, even though it's only 30 points and in the grand scheme of all assignments, missing it won't hurt—(you have an excel spreadsheet to verify this)—even then! This is a prompt you want to complete. First Love. It's so open ended and there's so many types of love to write about, and you did. Granted, you didn't really annotate 'draft one - my love for flowers' 'draft two - my love for bakeries,' 'draft three - the love of crunchy texture' — all of those seemed to captivate Professor Nanami…and yet, none of them were actually about romantic love. You've wondered if that's what Professor Nanami wants to read and was basing all his comments on, that if he found out you wrote about your favorite dutch bread sandwich, would it make your entire essay a whole bunch of bologna? You feel like a fraud. But you can't necessarily create a truth that doesn't exist, maybe if you stretch your writing a bit, maybe jog your memories, perhaps you got close to romantic love, once, but…. ugh! Writing is hard! Can you reset your brain and get a new inspiration ping? Why is everything you love edible? You're not gonna do it. You won't submit the paper. Claim work got busy again and he won't even notice. ____

Only he emails — no subject line, no hello or sign offs, simply 'Extension granted.' Every. Single. Week. ____

  The semester ends, you pass with flying colors but are called to his office anyways, not that you have to go he can't rescind a grade that's already been posted but…. since it's not totally in the student handbook you go to meet him anyways. Sitting across from him, in much cooler weather, that sweater of his, the bronzed version of the frames that sit delicately across his nose.

Does he swap out his frames for autumn? "I've never had a student miss an extension request." He's at the fancy kettle, making himself a cup of tea, you had denied his offer to make you one. And god, does he have to be nice? Just, lie to him! Get ready to shrug, just like you practice in the mirror, say the sentence about being caught up in work, he'll believe you, he has to. When the cup of tea you previously rejected ends up in front of you, like a sad balloon you deflate. "I couldn't do it." "No ping?" "No ping."

He nods, swivels a bit in his chair, looks out towards the window, "No ping." He says softer, quieter. "Well, how do you usually get a ping?" You narrow your eyes at him, but it's not a joke, it doesn't feel ill intended either, so now you do shrug, "Anything, a song or show or bagel." He raises his eyebrows, "A bagel?" You close your eyes, sipping the too warm tea, "Sorry, I missed lunch, work's… work's been hectic." He leans back in his chair, swiveling to the side, "The best bagel I ever had was in at an airport." Okay… what are you supposed to do with this information. "Every time I hear the word bagel, I think back to getting off a terrible six hour flight and biting into the too tough bread with slightly warm cream cheese." "That doesn't sound like the best?" He shakes his head, a soft chuckle to himself, "Technically true. It was probably a bit stale too, however, it's the first real meal after days of not eating well. It felt like coming alive again, something I could taste." You get that, thinking to your own favorite dutch bread sandwich. "Food is amazing like that." "It is." He takes a sip of his tea, "So why not submit one of your drafts?" Oh, you don't like this man, how dare he, the heat rushes to your face, "You… no, how did you know they were… about food?" Now a shock on his face, he smiles, "I didn't, I wouldn't have." He pauses, "Are any of the places local?" "Professor!" He raises his hands as his shoulders move up and down, this is simply not done, he's supposed to be a professional, you're paying so much money to learn from him, despite all of this, you smile anyways. "Even if they were local, what I love and what you love wouldn't be the same."