Chapter Text
Snow floats down outside, piling up in heavy flakes on the windowsill. Wayne looks across the expanse of the field and tries not to wish for spring. This week’s been a bitter cold snap in late March. Not unusual, and often it’s the last hurrah of winter, but it’s enough to remind Wayne of how long the season is. He loves sledding and ice fishing and shooting the shit in the shack with his buddies, but damn if he doesn’t find himself a little more tired every year, every night of crawling under his cold sheets alone.
The front door of the farmhouse opens with a creak, followed by the sound of Darry kicking the snow off his boots. Two taps for the left foot, three for the right. Wayne sips his Irish coffee and watches the grey day turn whiter by the minute. Katy comes down the stairs in a sweater and jeans as Darry walks into the kitchen, toque in his hand.
“Well get this guy a fucking Puppers,” Katy mutters.
Darry makes an affronted noise. “Good morning to you too.”
“Darry, how’re ya now?” Wayne asks.
“Good’n you?”
“Not s’bad,” Wayne answers at the same time Katy mutters, “Tell that to your face.”
Darry takes his usual seat and rests his elbows on the table. Katy fixes her own coffee and sits across from Wayne. She lifts her brows at him, and he frowns back. She rolls her eyes and turns to Darry.
“So what’s the scoop? I can smell the poopy pants on you from here.”
Katy’s always been good at picking up on people’s moods. Wayne pays attention, but it takes him longer. And, he figures, if someone wants to talk about how they are, they will—it’s not his business if they don’t make it his business. That said, Darry’s face does look a little droopy. Shadows sit below his eyes and he’s frowning as he stares down at the grease stains on his hands, clasped loose on the placemat.
There’s a long pause before Darry answers, in a flat voice, “Dicky Thomson is retiring. He’s gonna sell the dairy.”
“Well, fuck,” Katy says.
“What the hell does he think he’s doing that for?” Wayne demands. “That dairy’s been a staple in the community for pertnear five decades.”
Darry nods and shrugs. “Well, yeah, I guess that’s what fer. He’s no spring chicken, and he figures it ain’t worth keeping it up when profits have been down for the past few years. Too big an operation to run the way he is, and no sense keeping all that land and machinery if it ain’t bein’ used.”
“Running it?” Katy scoffs. “You’ve been the one keeping that place on its feet for at least the last five years. Fuck.”
“Thanks, Katy Kat.”
“She’s right, Darry, and it’s not right that you’re gonna be out of work without hardly a handshake. When is Thomson aiming to sell?”
“Says it’s going on the market Monday. A lady was around last week taking pictures, and I didn’t think much of it. Makes sense now. And pertnear all the cows are dryin’ off—we cut breedin’ in half last year so most aren’t even calving now.”
“He must think it’ll go quick, then,” Katy muses. “Gotta be a hard sell, though, an operation that size. Nobody in Letterkenny’s on the market for another farm.”
“Not in this economy,” Wayne says.
The door creaks again and the three of them sit in dejected silence while Dan makes his way inside with a greeting. He pours a mug of coffee, and Katy calls, “Bring one for Darry, too, and grab the Gus N’ Bru.”
“Sure things, Miss Katy. But whats kind of morning calls for the hard stuff so earlys on a work day?”
“Darry’s ‘bout to be unemployed,” Katy says.
Dan pauses in his motions, then resumes his quest for another mug. “Goods enough.”
Darry relays the broad strokes to Dan and they all take a commiserating swig from the bottle. Wayne’s been up for a couple hours already and the extra shot sends him past the threshold of buzzed, but with his best pal’s news and the way they’re swiftly being snowed in, he’s not too worried about it for now. The burn of the whisky warms his stomach and settles the frustrated roiling that started up when Darry sat down and opened his mouth.
Not that it’s Darry’s fault—Wayne doesn’t like change, and he’s fit to spit on his buddy’s behalf, given that Darry’s spent most of his life on the Thomson farm and works harder than any hand there. Harder than Dicky himself sometimes.
Wayne lets the alcohol do some work before asking, “What d’you think you’re gonna do, then, Darry?”
“Not a good goddamn clue, good buddy. Dicky Thomson broke the news after milking this morning. The other hands are gonna be lookin’ for work too, and everyone else has already hired for the season.”
“New owners could keeps yous on,” Dan says, ever the optimist.
“Could do.” Darry sounds far from convinced.
“Never too late to drive truck,” Wayne puts in. Nobody agrees this time.
They fall quiet again, apart from Dan’s impolite slurps of coffee. Wayne cuts his eyes to Darry’s slumped shoulders, the defeated expression marring his pal’s normally cheery features. Katy catches Wayne’s gaze from across the table and gives him an urgent look. He squints at her, uncomprehending, until she rolls her eyes again.
Dan and Darry take off not much later. Darry doesn’t even polish off a yogurt cup, which sends a flicker of genuine concern through Wayne, but he pushes it aside.
Katy stops in front of him at the top of the stairs as he’s coming down with his fingers working at the top button of his flannel.
“Are you gonna do something about this?” she demands, hands on her hips.
Wayne hums. “Seems like you got somethin’ you want me t’do.”
Katy tosses a hand up. “Your best friend is gonna be out of a job! When a friend asks for help, you help him.”
“Darry’s a grown man and he hasn’t asked for my help. It ain’t my place to interfere.”
“Wayne. You know he won’t take what isn’t offered.”
“I got chorin’ to do, Katy.” Wayne makes to move past her and down the stairs, but she stops him with a hand on his arm. He pauses.
“Big brother, we’re all he’s got if he doesn’t have that farm, and you know it.”
She lets him go. Wayne trudges down the steps and out the door, where he’s battered by icy wind. He shovels his way out to the barn and climbs up to the loft. Sits on the hay for a long time. Hunkers down to think while silence falls around him. When he moves again it’s because he’s hungry and every part of him is numb other than his ass.
Coming down he slips on the bottom rung of the ladder and introduces his hip to the hard, frozen ground. Wayne pushes briskly to his feet and winces at the twinge in his hamstring. He’s sick of these reminders that he’s not twenty anymore.
Wayne mutes the Battle of Alberta when second intermission starts. Normally Darry’d have enough of his own commentary to put the analyst panel to shame, but he’s slouched into the other end of the couch with a beer in his hand and his chin tucked to his chest. His legs are stretched out, feet sharing the same ottoman that Wayne has his heels propped onto.
“Darry?”
Darry looks over slow as cold molasses. “Good buddy?”
“I’ve been thinkin’, is the thing.”
“‘Kay.”
“Could use some extra hands around the farm this year, if you can spare the time.”
Darry’s face scrunches up. The living room is dark, the TV casting a sickly light across his confused expression. “You offerin’ me a job, Wayne?”
“More hands make less work is all I’m saying.”
Darry gives Wayne a serious look. Wayne snaps his gaze away and watches stats after forty flash across the screen. It’s not as though Darry’s never pitched in around the farm. Far from it—he and Dan spend pertnear every Sunday wading through the fields to collect rocks, and if Wayne needs more hands during the harvest, Darry’s never been one to slack. They don’t have an official arrangement. Just friends helping friends. Wayne’ll take a shot of twenty-two to the eye before managing a payroll. But he makes sure Katy puts a wad of cash in Darry’s stocking every year, tucked safe beneath the Terry’s Chocolate Orange and the socks and the scratch tickets, and they never talk about it. At most, Darry gives Wayne an extra-sunny smile when he comes into the kitchen with a new pair of work gloves after the holidays, something he’d never treat himself to otherwise.
“I ain’t lookin’ to be a charity case,” Darry says.
“Good, ‘cause there’s no way I’d think of you as one.” Wayne puts his empty beer bottle aside and crosses his arms. “But, doyouwannaknowwhat—I am offering you a job, if’n it’ll help.”
“Well,” Darry drawls, “s’long as you don’t think that it won’t make things weird.”
Wayne snaps his head back towards Darry. “Weird? Weird how?”
“Because we’re best friends and whatnot.” Darry twirls his beer between his palms and looks away at the TV. “Could get a bit weird if we bring money into it, is all I figured.”
“Okay, Darry. Darry, okay. If almost thirty years of watching you huck snot rockets and snort schnif and rub your nipples on unsuspecting folks and occasionally bein’ sweet on the same girls and bein’ seen in public with you all the time with your barn clothes on, how do you explain a little money’s gonna bring the whole ship down?” Wayne glares. He’s not even going to bring up the horrible weeks those few years ago when Darry was hanging out with degens. Wayne can’t stand degens from upcountry. If that didn’t break them, he figures near nothing can.
Darry giggles and he gives Wayne a bright, gummy grin, looking more like himself than he has in two days. “When do you want me to start, super chief?”
“Well don’t go leavin’ Dicky Thomson in the lurch,” Wayne says. “Sort it out with him and let me know.”
“That’s a Texas-sized ten-four,” Darry says. He taps his socked toes against Wayne’s before standing. “Get you another beer?”
“I’d have a beer.”
The Flames win in overtime on home ice, and Darry’s excited whoops of victory are the cherry on top of a damn good night, right up until Katy storms down the stairs to give him a charley horse for celebrating loud enough to wake the dead.
Two weeks later, Darry’s late for his first day.
Wayne’s in his porch chair having a dart. Katy leans on the railing with her coffee cradled in both hands. “Where the fuck is he?” she wonders.
Wayne blows smoke and looks around the yard, where the snow’s mostly given way to the brown of mud and dead grass. “Well it’s not as if he should’ve put his van in the rhubarb. Roads are clear.”
Katy sighs and turns to go inside when the crunch of gravel catches their attention. Wayne stands to glare at Darry as he shuffles up the laneway, curls flattened to his head with the heavy mist in the air.
“Darry, what’s the fuss—”
“Where the fuck were you?” Katy calls out. “Dan’s already gone again and you didn’t answer your phone.”
Darry pulls his phone out of his jumper pocket and glances down at the screen. “Dead,” he says, then trips coming up the porch stairs. He catches himself on the handrail. “Sorry, Katy. Wayne. My van wouldn’t start.”
“That old thing finally kicked the bucket, eh?” Wayne says.
“Fucking finally is right,” Katy adds. “Pretty sure half the parents in town have their kids trained to hide when they see that creeper cart coming down the street.”
“She always performed,” Darry says, hanging his head.
“Right up until she didn’t,” Wayne says, then stubs out his dart and stands. “Time for chorin’.”
“No time for brefakst first?” Darry asks.
“Attaboy,” Katy says.
“Already ate, but you were late, and we didn’t save you a plate. Pitter patter.” Wayne tromps down the steps and strides toward the barn. Darry’s boots scuff the ground as he follows with heavy steps.
The next few days pass easy enough. Chorin’ for the day, Puppers in the aft and evening, mostly inside the house since it’s still turtleneck weather outside for another little while, at least. Darry does his work well and Dan helps out where he normally would, and Wayne’s overall pleased with the adjustment to the status quo.
Pleased, that is, with everything other than the fact that Darry’s late every day of his first week.
Wayne brings it up when they’re working under the hood of the riding mower. It’s an ancient model and gives Wayne trouble every spring, and Darry tends to have a better hand than him when it comes to these things so they’re trying to get ahead of it. Wayne wipes his arm over his chin and sits back on his heels.
“Now, Darry, I got something to talk to you about and I don’t want you to go making it a whole…thing.”
“Is it a ‘between us girls’ kind of thing?”
“Mmmmmmno.”
Darry cranks on his wrench before sitting back on the dirt floor of the barn. “What’s up, big shoots?”
“Well, I—look, it’s—well, we know the old boss is always a dick until you meet the new one, and I’m not tryin’ to be the new boss, do you hear?”
Darry nods, lifting a shoulder. “Sure, I read you.”
“But Darry, you’ve been late for work every day. I don’t wanna have to ask you to sort yourself out.”
“Loud and clear, Wayne. I’m on it.” Darry spins the wrench between his fingers and sighs. “This carburetor’s rusted worse than the Tin Man in a monsoon.”
“Oh, bother,” Wayne says, relieved it was that easy, and they get back to work.
The next day’s Sunday, and Darry seems a little lighter when he, Dan, and Wayne are sat out on the porch with beers and darts, soaking in the meagre afternoon April sun. They picked a few buckets of stones and called it a day when the mud started working its way past the top of their boots. Wayne’s got no time for cold, wet feet, and anyways, his back was aching. They’ve been in it to win it since about two o’clock so he has a little more time for Darry’s stupid would-you-rathers, and it’s an all around good day.
Wayne sits up in bed on Monday morning confident that his best pal and newest farmhand is going to show on time for the day’s chorin’. That confidence lasts through brushing his teeth, buttoning up his flannel—sans turtleneck, since it’s calling for plus twelve Degrassi Junior Highs—and drinking his coffee. It’s after his final, bitter sip that Wayne sets his mug down on the wood of the tabletop and looks at the clock.
Darry’s late.
Katy comes downstairs as Wayne’s putting his boots on. He stops with one leg crossed over his knee and shakes his head to forestall her commentary.
“Something’s gotta be done,” she says anyway.
Wayne grumbles and goes outside to have a dart and wait.
Darry comes running down the laneway, flapping like a mad goose across the putting green, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He skids to a stop at the bottom of the steps.
“Sorry, I’m sorry!” he pants. “Fuck a duck.”
Wayne squints past Darry and focuses on the slow drag of smoke into his chest. The door slams behind him and Katy leans on the railing.
“That’s as fast as you can run?” she asks in a bored tone.
“Well he’s not a Menno-napper, Katy. Fuck, can they run.”
Darry spits into the gravel. “Can’t get the van goin’ again,” he says. “Garage gave me a quote’n said I’d be better off pushing ‘er into the pond and calling insurance.”
“If you had insurance, they’d probably be right,” Katy says. “So what’s the plan?”
“Buy a bike?” Darry says dubiously. “Or learn how to run.”
“Oh, Darry, I think the darts’ve probably done a real number on your lung capacity.” Wayne flicks his own butt into the old coffee tin. “You’re just gonna have to get up real early.”
Darry’s single-wide is in the trailer park in the northeast part of town, across the tracks and close to Dicky Thomson’s dairy. It’s less than a fifteen minute drive from Wayne’s farm down the country blocks, if you don’t mind putting a vehicle’s suspension through its paces, or a hell of a long walk when you’ve got a flat or a dead battery. Silver lining is that it’s warming up now—Darry could use the exercise, at least until he gets another vehicle.
“If the distance is the issue, why don’t you just move into the spare bedroom?” Katy says, hand on her hip. “You’re here all the time anyway, and god knows why you’d be attached to that hellhole of a trailer.”
“It’s not that bad,” Darry says, offended.
“It is that bad, bud,” Wayne says. He turns to Katy. “A word.”
She ignores him. “We’ll take the truck after chores and get your crap.”
Wayne gets up and clasps her shoulder. “Katy. We need to talk.”
She gives him a shit-eating smile and turns back to Darry. “Are the terms acceptable?”
Darry shifts on his feet, hands in his jumper pockets, and sends Wayne a wary look. “Soft yes. S’long as it’s okay with Wayne,” he adds quickly.
“You’ve both had too much sugar cereal,” Wayne gripes.
Katy claps her hands, satisfied. “He’s okay with it. Alright, boys, get to work.”
Wayne stomps down to stand in front of Darry. “I’ve got work in the barn.”
“And I’ll go hammer on the back fence,” Darry says.
They give each other a nod and head off in different directions. Wayne skips lunch and works until his body says no more, then hops into the truck to wait for Darry and Katy to join him. Darry slides onto the middle of the bench. When Wayne puts an arm across his shoulder to reverse out of the laneway, Darry smells different—mud and orchard grass, instead of cow.
At the trailer Katy lets Darry out to pack a few bags, declaring that they’ll come again on the weekend for whatever else he wants. When Darry heads inside she climbs back into the truck and gives Wayne a sharp look.
“Who pissed in your puffed wheat?”
“You’re ten-ply,” is all Wayne says. He looks through the windshield at the rows of trailers, the broken windows covered in plywood and the trash decorating what passes for yards. Darry’s rundown yellow-beige trailer isn’t as poorly kept as some of the others, but Wayne knows it’s really only a place to sleep. A blanket on the wall and a lamp on the side table do not a home make. Darry avoids spending time there as much as possible. Only reason he’s been there so long is because it was his mom’s first, and he feels obligated. That, and where the fuck else would he go?
“C’mon, big brother. He needs a leg up to the saddle right now. He’s your best buddy and he practically lives with us anyway. What’s the fuss?”
Wayne crosses his arms and sets his jaw.
Katy sighs. “You know, change isn’t always a bad thing.”
“Practically isn’t actually, and it’s called the comfort zone for a fuckin’ reason, Katy,” Wayne snaps, but Darry’s coming out with a duffle and a backpack, and Katy makes room for him in the cab without another word.
Darry settles into his seat with a wiggle, his thigh pressed against Wayne’s. “Thanks, good buddies,” he says, grinning.
“Let’s order a pizza to celebrate,” Katy says. “Wayne, call Dan and Bonnie. I’ll text Reilly and Jonesy. We’ll make a night of it.”
“Wanna get hammered?” Darry asks.
Wayne rips his phone out of his pocket and stabs at the screen. “Oh, I’d get fuckin’ hammered.”
Darry giggles and reaches over to pluck an eyelash from Wayne’s cheek. He does it while Wayne’s on a video call with Bonnie McMurray, who’s at her brother’s place, and Mrs. McMurray shows up in the frame to suggest they all roll down to MoD3an’s for a cocksucking G and T, and Katy leans over to enthusiastically agree, so that’s how Wayne finds himself on a bar stool across from Gail as the others shake pizza grease out of their pores on the dancefloor.
“Another, please and thanks, Gail,” he says.
Gail leans in close, her hips rolling. She pours the shot neatly. “What kind of tip are you gonna give me for that one, Wayne?”
Wayne spins on the seat and looks across the room. “Quiet night,” he comments.
“It’s a Monday,” Gail says, with a tone of what the fuck would you expect? “Who shit in your Shreddies, anyway?” She nods to the sparse crowd. The McMurrays are hip-bumping and Katy’s dancing with Darry and Dan and Bonnie, the hockey players are jumping around the centre of the floor, and a couple other folks shuffle on the perimeter. “Seems like there’s something to be happy ‘bout.“
“Darry’s moving into the farmhouse,” Wayne admits. “He’s working with us now.”
“No shit,” Gail says, surprised. “Yous made it official, eh?”
Wayne downs his shot, taps the glass twice, and slides off his stool. “I’d hang a piss.”
“Congrats, Wayne,” Gail calls. “Give me a shout if yous ever wanna add a bun to your sausage party.”
Wayne pretends not to hear her.
They make a few more runs to the trailer, but Darry doesn’t own much he seems to care about keeping with him in the farmhouse, and it’s not as though Wayne and Katy haven’t been sharing everything else with Darry and Dan for years. It’s a bit weird for the first few nights, when Wayne walks up the stairs to bed after a couple hours of television and Darry’s on his heels. Weird to lie in bed and hear the floorboards groan as Darry leaves the bathroom, and listen to the creak of the old bedframe in the spare room—Darry’s room—as he tosses and turns before finally settling.
It does mean that Darry’s not late anymore.
It’s been a week since the move and Wayne’s letting his guard down, getting used to having Darry in his and Katy’s orbit full-time, getting comfortable with the new normal—comfortable enough to forget their negotiated shower schedule. Wayne’s dead tired, with a twinge in his shoulder from working in the loft that he can’t seem to roll out. It’s late, and he’d been reading in bed with the shower running on the other side of the wall before he dozed off. He’s not sure how long it’s been, but he’s ready to rock one and hit the sack for real.
He’s rubbing his eyes when he gets to the bathroom door, and doesn’t register the crack of light at the bottom. Wayne pushes the door open and steps inside. He freezes.
“Oh, fuck,” he swears.
“Wayne!” Darry snatches a towel to cover himself up. “Knock, much!”
Wayne takes a second too long to tear his eyes away from the freckles on Darry’s inner thigh, but he looks up at the light above the mirror. “Fuck. You’re naked as a jaybird.”
“I just got out of the shower, captain obvious—that’s when people’ll tend to be in their birthday suits.”
Darry shuffles around a bit, presumably getting the towel over his junk, but still Wayne’s feet are rooted to the spot. “Sorry, there, Dar, but I gotta piss s’goddamn bad.”
“Well, fuck, you coulda just said. Get after it.”
Wayne risks a glance back at Darry, who’s got his boxers on and is rubbing the towel over his chest and shoulders. His hair’s wet and dripping onto his collarbones, the curls dark and stretched out to stick to his cheeks and on his forehead.
Wayne pisses while Darry dresses in his sleep clothes, and after he washes his hands he leans on the counter while Darry brushes his teeth. It puts them overly close together, their hips near touching in the small, humid space, but Wayne can’t be fucked to move. He notes the hair Darry’s left in the shower and the places the tub needs to be re-caulked.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Darry mumbles around his toothbrush.
“Spit, then talk, you fuckin’ dink,” Wayne says. Darry does, and rinses with a cupped handful of water. “Just thinkin’ of the chores list.”
“Now, I’ve never claimed to be no psychopanelist—”
“Mmm, not quite.”
“—but that can’t be healthy, Wayne. There’s gotta be more to life than chorin’.”
“Okay, Darry. Name two things you’ve got beside chorin’ that make your psyche a bundle of unicorn kisses and butterfly farts.”
Darry makes an annoyed face, and turns to lean against the counter beside Wayne. Their shoulders brush as he crosses his arms over his worn grey Hip t-shirt. “I got you’n Katy, and I’ve been gettin’ back into datin’.”
“I ain’t seen you with a sweetie.”
“Well, not a sweetie official-like, but last week I went fer a dart and Natalie Larocque gave me a squeezer out behind MoD3an’s.”
“Oh, fuck bud, you got me there. Dumpster glovers. A real Casanova.”
“Fuck off, Wayne. Alls I’m sayin’ is maybe you can take a break every once in a while. I’d be fine to watch things on the farm for a bit if you ever need a day off.”
Wayne’s first instinct is to rib Darry for being so fucking soft, but the offer’s made with such sincerity that Wayne just mumbles a “Thanks, Dar,” before slipping into the hall and back into bed.
Wayne’s seen pertnear everything god has when it comes to Darry over the years, and the same is true in reverse, but they’re older now and haven’t gone skinny-dipping or otherwise stripped around each other in a long time. Wayne closes his eyes and tries to stop the images from playing on loop on the back of his eyelids. The pale flash of Darry’s hip, the tops of his thighs, the alcohol-born softness of his lower belly that days of hard work can’t quite diminish. The dark blond dusting of hair on his legs and the pink flush creeping up his chest.
It’s not polite to kiss and tell, but—Jesus fuck has it been a long time since Wayne’s gotten laid.