Chapter Text
I was sitting there thinking 'bout her pretty face,
Kicking myself for not catching her name,
I threw my hat and thought, "You fool. That could've been love."
-Good Directions, Billy Currington
Adolin
"Fuck!"
He lets off the gas, hurriedly shoving his coffee into the cup holder next to the gear shift—fucking, stupid thing with its stupid, too-tight grabbers—before snatching a napkin from the veritable pile the Starbucks barista passed over to him with the straw he won't use because his preferred drink is served in a new-and-improved strawless cup. Honestly, what's the point of going eco-friendly if they're not all on the same page about it? Who needs this many napkins?
He does, apparently.
Splitting his attention between the road and his lap he dabs at the pale brown coffee stains on his favorite pair of Cucinellis. They're a soft, mid-gray color, so if he's lucky it won't show when it dries, but he'll need to find a dry cleaner as soon as he gets into town. If a town this small has a dry cleaner.
"Fucking potholes," he mutters, tossing the used napkins onto the floor of the passenger seat. Now his car smells like coffee. Damn it.
He fumbles around for the air filter button—why is it never in the same place?—and finds it deep within the touch screen settings menu. Yes, of course. Right where it should be. Nowhere near the other air conditioning controls. Very intuitive.
Fucking Lexus. He can't wait until this lease is up. Honestly, each day he gets closer to just dumping it back at the dealership and eating the lease-break fee. He hates it, but a year ago he had an early mid-life crisis and drove away with the shiniest, flashiest car on the lot, and now he's stuck with it.
He looks up just in time to avoid another massive pothole—"Shit!"—and almost swerves into oncoming traffic. A tractor trailer helpfully blares his horn to let Adolin know he's on the wrong side of the road.
"Fuck off," Adolin shouts as he jerks the car back into his lane. "Pave your damn roads, asshole."
Because the truck driver is the one to blame for the pockmarked asphalt, he's sure.
It's another twenty harrowing minutes of nearly blowing out his low-profile tires before he's pulling off the four-lane highway at the bottom of a hill and onto a two-lane stretch of road. Houses start to pop up on either side, with cracked shutters and well-water stains on the walls, beat up trucks in dead-grass front yards, one or two with windows boarded up.
More well-kept homes begin to appear closer together on wide plots of land cleared of trees, many with a stable or farmhouse on the property, horses and cows grazing in the oversized yards. Then a four-way intersection, stop signs on all sides, and a six-pump gas station—a Flyer—with a real life General Store and three whole parking spaces out front.
Google maps seems to think he's up a mountain somewhere in Tennessee, which is insane because he's at least fifty miles from Tennessee, so he pulls into the gas station to fill up and try another location app. He's moderately sure he's in the right area, he remembers seeing Hearthstone on the road sign, but he hasn't seen any sign of civilization besides the couple of houses and this gas station, and certainly not an actual town.
Maybe he missed a turn closer to highway?
He climbs out of the Lexus and pushes his Ray-Bans up into his hair, squints back down the way he came as if he'll be able to see anything at all besides the empty road and dense foliage.
"You lost?"
Adolin barely turns, intending to tell the person he's got it under control but thanks anyway, but then he catches sight of the man walking toward him from the cliché market store and gives him his undivided attention.
Hello, handsome.
The man is tall, with shoulder-length dark hair falling in waves around his tanned face. His nose is strong, his eyebrows thick and heavy, irises a deep brown, darker than the sweet coffee in Adolin's recyclable Starbucks cup. He has an athletic build, more lithe, lean muscle than Adolin, who tends to bulk up when he's actively working out. The man's cheekbones, his jaw, his chin, are all perfectly straight and sharp enough to cut if Adolin were brave enough to reach out and touch, but something in the man's eyes warns him to keep his distance.
Adolin has no intention of heeding that warning.
"Hi," he says, flashing his most charming smile.
The man doesn't smile back, but he doesn't necessarily look angry, either. Just… flat. Adolin would say emotionless, except what the man's facial muscles lack is made up for in spades in those dark eyes, currently sparking with a mixture of curiosity and mild irritation and wan resignation.
Adolin's just another city-slicker who's managed to get himself lost in the country, and now this poor, hassled, stunning specimen of a human being has to go to the effort of helping him find his way back to civilization.
"Yes, I might be," Adolin says. "Lost," he clarifies. "Do you have a map?"
The man's eyebrows lift. His luscious brown eyes flick down to the smartphone in Adolin's palm. "What, your fancy phone not working?"
"My fancy phone is being decidedly un-fancy at the moment… It thinks I'm in Tennessee."
He turns the phone around to show Tall, Dark, and Handsome the map he has pulled up. The man leans in to look, then his mouth quirks at the corner as he straightens again. Adolin's mouth goes dry.
"Hm. Funny. Technology sure can be a bitch and a blessing. There's some maps inside." And then he turns and walks back to the small building, expecting Adolin to follow.
Adolin follows.
The inside of the store is much like one would expect from a corner gas station in the middle of nowhere; there's an aisle for snacks, one for various car items like windshield wiper fluid and air fresheners, and one for random health and travel products. The back wall has four glass-door coolers filled with beverages from beer to energy drinks to bottled water.
The tall man leans over the teller's counter, one foot lifting off the ground slightly as he stretches far enough to peer into an open door Adolin presumes is the employee break room.
"Lopen! You got a customer!"
There's several thunks and a crash, the ear-splitting sound of a chair screeching back on linoleum, and then a man with one arm and a wide grin bursts out from the break room.
"Apologies, sir!" The man called Lopen says, lifting his single hand in a crisp salute. It's actually quite good, Adolin thinks, amused.
"Knock it off," the other man says, settling back on his feet fully. He looks over at Adolin, then nods at the cashier. "This is Lopen. He'll have what you need. It was nice to meet you." Then, to Lopen, he says, "I'll see you later."
And before Adolin can open his mouth and tell him to stay, ask his name, say anything at all, he's gone, the tiny silver bell over the door tinkling as the door swings closed, slamming the last inch.
"Greetings, gancho. What can the Lopen do for you?"
First order of business: get the tall man's name.
Lopen, the one-armed gas station attendant, tells him. He won't disclose a last name, and Adolin doesn't push, because yeah that might be going a little too far—he doesn't want to come off as a creep. Just an interested party.
But he does get a first name, and Adolin's grateful because now he has a name for the face he suddenly can't stop seeing in his head.
Kaladin.
He also learns that he did not, in fact, take a wrong turn off the highway, and that he's already within the city limits of Hearthstone, and that the main part of the town is just down the road.
He fills up his tank—well, Lopen fills up his tank, because he all but demands to be allowed the honor to gas up such a gorgeous girl, does she have a name?
No, and gorgeous she may be but she's a pain in the ass and if Lopen wants her he can have her. Well, he can buy out the lease, at least.
Lopen settles for naming rights, and dubs her Chow-Chow, after his favorite food. ("Chouta," he tells Adolin after Adolin expresses his concern about the man eating dog food. A family recipe passed down for generations, apparently.)
Adolin's directed to his hotel, which, thankfully, is a Holiday Inn. A small one, but he doesn't know if he could have dealt with a roadside motel for however long he's going to have to stay here. "As long as it takes," his father told him, and that was the end of it.
The woman working the front desk is nice. Petite, with large eyes and a perky countenance, her white-blonde hair run through with bold, eye-catching blue streaks. Adolin doesn't want to presume, but she seems like she's not from around here; her accent is much more northeastern. Her gold name tag simply says 'Syl'.
He parks around the side of the building and it takes him two trips to get all of his bags up to the third-story studio suite. Somehow he managed to squeeze two large suitcases, several full-length garment bags, a shoe tote, and a small duffel dedicated entirely to toiletries into his two-door coupe.
The room is clean—doesn't smell like smoke, thank god. He hates the smell of cigarette smoke, especially weeks old smoke that's sunk into the carpet and drapes. The view out his window is of Broad Street, the same one he came in on. It passes all the way through the town and is obviously the main drag, with a hardware store, a grocery, a used car dealership, a train station, and a few different restaurants, none of them chains.
In fact, he didn't see a single chain except for the McDonald's and the Dunkin' when he first entered the town proper, situated right across the street from one another.
He has no idea why his father picked this small town of all places; it's going to be a hard sell.
That's not exactly true though. He understands the logistics of it. Hearthstone is conveniently located at the midpoint between two major cities, there's lots of land available for cheap, and it's relatively close to main highways but far enough away that there's a sense of seclusion and room to expand if they decide they want to in the future.
Well, he may not be thrilled about being here in Small Town, USA, but he can't say he's disappointed that he'll get the chance to see Tall, Dark, and Handsome again.
Kaladin.
He rolls the name around in his mouth, likes the way it feels on his tongue when he says it out loud. Wonders if he'll like the way the man feels on his tongue just as much. Wonders what he'll taste like.
He unpacks—no way he's living out of a suitcase for the foreseeable future—, showers, and climbs into the surprisingly comfortable king sized bed. Turns out the light, and falls asleep to nebulous visions of rich brown eyes and satiny dark hair and an alluring, clandestine smile.
Kaladin
His keyring jingles obnoxiously as he unlocks his door one-handed, the other balancing two takeout boxes and a precariously stacked styrofoam cup of sweet tea. He doesn't even like sweet tea, can only drink two sips before he wants to gag at the overwhelming sugariness of it, but Teft's wife Marta always insists, so he always takes it.
The deadbolt slides grittily, the handle lock twists, and Kaladin shoves his shoulder against the door to force it open, the door fat with summer humidity and sticking in its frame.
The food goes straight into the fridge—he'll eat later—and the tea straight down the stainless metal sink. He's not in the mood to try to choke it down tonight. (Sorry Marta.)
From the small storage pantry he grabs a couple tins of wet cat food. Pops off the tops, then scrapes the pungent mush out with a dented metal spoon into two large ceramic dishes he left in the strainer earlier to dry. No dishwasher, but he doesn't mind washing. It's easy manual labor, passes the time and gives him something to do with his hands when his mind is working overtime.
He drops the spoon into the sink and fills a third bowl with water, then balances the filled dishes in his hands and exits the tiny kitchen into the living area. The beige carpet is stained from the previous tenant—trying to get those out keeps falling further down his ever-lengthening to-do list—and the furniture is sparse and mismatched, all hand-me-downs from his friends, who were kind enough to help out when he showed up Hearthstone ten months ago and refused to move back into his parents' house.
He arranges the dishes carefully on one long forearm and wrist—working at a restaurant has some perks, however small—and the heavy sliding door scrapes in the track as he pulls it open. He reaches back around the frame to flick on the switch for the patio light, then steps out onto paving stones washed of their natural color.
The patio is small, like everything else in the apartment, but it's private, surrounded by a worn red-painted fence with a narrow gate that he leaves open a crack for the cats to get in. Not all of them can climb—there's an older one who moves slower than the rest, Kaladin has dubbed him Gray for his age and coloring—and a skinny black one with a gimpy back leg and big yellow eyes that he calls Toothless, despite the fact that, as far as he knows, she has a full set of sharp kitty teeth.
He sends the requisite cat-calling noises out into the night—pss pss pss—then sets the dishes down by the fence with a quiet clatter, lowering himself into the single metal chair to wait.
He fishes his pack of menthols out of his pocket, then a lighter. Taps a cigarette out and sticks it into his mouth as he tosses the pack onto the chair's matching wrought iron table. It takes three tries before he gets a flame—the fluid is running low—lights up and sucks in a deep breath.
Cool, minty smoke snakes down his throat and into his lungs and he sighs, tossing the lighter next to the pack and leaning back in his chair, legs stretched out in front of him. They reach over halfway across the patio, and he snorts in sardonic amusement.
Crickets chirp and cicadas sing, the wind rustles the leaves of the oaks and pines and beeches. Kaladin's eyes slip closed as he listens and smokes, only reopening them when he hears a soft little mrow from the direction of the gate.
A mangy-looking calico slinks inside, meowing again as it eyes him and ambles closer.
"Hey Chippy," Kaladin says with a smile. "Where you been? I thought you didn't love me anymore."
The cat rubs lovingly up against his leg and Kaladin reaches down to give him a couple good scratches between his ears before he wanders over to the offering of food.
Coming in right behind him is his sister, Selene, darker in both fur and temperament. She doesn't bother saying hello, just heads straight for the free food.
"You're welcome," Kaladin tells her, though he's not offended. He's sure she's had a hard life.
Two more of his regulars show up—Kitty (his first, and it's too late now to change her name, she's used to it) and Baby Blue (named for the wide blue eyes set in his dirty white face). And then, to his mild surprise, a new feline face pokes around the gate, wary and cautious.
Kaladin doesn't change position, just keeps smoking his cigarette while the cat—probably still a kitten, its face looks very young—works up the courage to join the others feasting on Kaladin's nightly offering.
The new cat eventually slips inside the patio enclosure, staying close to the fence, and attempts to slot in next to Selene at her bowl. She hisses, hair standing on end, and the new cat backs off, then bravely tries the other bowl. Chippy and Baby Blue make room for him, while Kitty abandons the food to wander closer to Kaladin, hopping up onto the metal table to inspect the discarded pack of cigarettes.
She bumps her head up against his free hand and demands pets, so he indulges her, smiling slightly as he watches the newest member of their crew eat.
Selene leaves first, like usual; she can't be bothered with humans or other cats or anything besides the food he provides. Baby Blue dips out after, but Kitty hangs around for a bit and so does Chippy, the latter twining around his legs and meowing in a plea for more attention. The new cat laps up some water, then hops up onto the table, curious.
Kaladin gently nudges Baby Blue away, who jumps off to sniff at a weed growing between two pavers. He holds his hand out and, after pacing back and forth a few times, getting nearer with each pass, the new cat drags his fluffy side against Kaladin's knuckles. As if saying, Alright, I suppose you can pet me.
"Hello, sweet boy," Kaladin murmurs as the cat suddenly turns around and dips its head, shoving his face between Kaladin's lax fingers. He chuckles. "Needy, aren't you?"
He's small, which probably makes him look younger than he actually is, with a striped orange coat, and relatively clean. Kaladin wonders if he's not a stray but an outdoor cat—he thinks that might be the case with more than one of his nightly visitors, but he doesn't have the heart to exclude them. None of them look overfed, so he doesn't feel too guilty about the food, and every animal deserves love. He does make sure the skinnier ones get a little more than the others to eat when he can, though.
"What are we going to call you?" He asks the cat, who is now letting him scratch beneath his lighter-colored chin. "Garfield? No, you're right, it's too cliché. Creamsicle?" The young cat makes a disgruntled sound as it drags its face against his fingers so hard it pulls his lips back, teeth scraping Kaladin's skin.
"Alright, alright. How about…" The cat chirrups happily as he runs a hand down its back. "Churro. Because of your little chirps. And kind of your color, I guess."
Another happy sound, this time with added purring, and the name settles.
Eventually his cigarette burns down and Churro is the only one left. Kaladin stubs the butt into the stone ash tray in the center of the table and stands.
"Time for me to turn in. Same time tomorrow?"
Churro meows sadly and Kaladin gives him another gentle stroke before shooing him out the open gate.
He picks up the now empty dishes and brings them inside, diligently washing them and the spoon before setting them in the drying rack.
He readies himself for sleep even though it's only just now nine o'clock, then plops down on the three-person sofa in the living room and picks up the library book from the coffee table. He's slowly making his way through the list of literary classics he never got the chance to read in high school, since he was too busy with all of his science- and health-based electives to bother with advanced literature, and most of his free time outside of school was spent forty-five minutes away at the community college doing dual enrollment.
He's got the time for it now, though.
He gets through just over a chapter when his phone vibrates.
Shifting, he pulls it out of his pocket and flips it open. A flashing bell informs him it's time to take his meds.
He flips it closed again with a snap and drops it to the cushion next to him.
It's not even three pages before the mini screen on the front of the phone lights up again, displaying his brother's name in block letters as the brick scoots across the couch.
Sighing, he picks it up, flips it open and presses the button with the little green telephone icon, putting it up to his ear.
"Hi Tien."
"Are you coming over tomorrow night?" His brother asks without preamble.
"Wasn't planning on it."
He stretches to grab the bookmark off the table and slides it back in between the pages of his book, setting it down on his lap in resignation.
"Kaladin. Please?"
"He doesn't want me there, T," Kaladin answers with a sigh.
"You know that's not true."
"It is, and I really don't feel like arguing about it again."
"Then just come. For me. And for mom and Oroden. We all miss you."
"I can come over some other time," Kaladin reasons. Some other time when his father isn't there, he doesn't say. He doesn't need to say it; Tien can hear it just fine. He ignores it anyway.
"Please, Kal? Just try. He's been better lately."
"By better you mean not bitching about me every other breath?"
"Yeah, basically."
Kaladin snorts. "Glad we're making progress."
"So you'll come?"
Kaladin blows out a heavy breath, runs a hand through his unwashed hair. He desperately needs a shower but he hates sleeping with wet hair.
"Fine," he gives in, against his better judgement. "Yes. I'll come."
A relieved sigh on the other side of the line. "Thank you. Mom said dinner's at seven. I'll see you then?"
He closes his eyes, already knowing he's going to regret his decision. "See you then."
"Cool. See you tomorrow, Kal. Bye!"
"Bye," he mutters, waiting for the call to disconnect before he flips the phone closed and leans back on the couch, rubbing his hands tiredly over his face.
Damn it. He is not looking forward to this.
He was right to think it would be a disaster.
Purely because he knows his father will smell it on him and disapprove, Kaladin foregoes his pre-stressful-situation cigarette. It sets him on edge before he even gets there, which is less than ideal, but it's better than the slight crinkle of the nose and the disappointed side comments on how Kaladin should know better than to voluntarily poison his own body.
He considers the little orange pill bottle in his medicine cabinet. Nixes that, too. He hates the way they make him feel, like he's under water and struggling to move or hear or keep his eyes open, and unfortunately he can't afford to be in less than prime mental condition around his father. It's awful that this is way it is now, because it didn't use to be before.
Before he came home. Before he left. Before everything.
It starts off fine enough. His mom greets him at the door, arms wide open, and wraps him in a hug so tight it's as if she's trying to make up for lost time. He's been home for over nine months now but doesn't visit anywhere close to as often as she thinks he should. Tien agrees, and Oroden too.
The only one who hasn't expressed a desire to see his oldest son more often is his father.
"It's so good to see you honey," his mother says into his ear, arms tight around his neck as she pulls him down to her level. She's tall, taller than his father, a solid six feet, but Kaladin easily dwarfs the lot of them at six-foot-six. She says he got it from her father, but he never met the man so he'll just have to take her word for it.
She pats his cheek after they part and he follows her into the expansive, open kitchen, where his father stands over a steaming pot on the stove.
"Hello, son. Your brothers are in the backyard," Lirin Sehara says with a nod and an automatic smile.
"Hey dad," Kaladin says, then crosses to pull the sliding glass door open—it goes much easier than his own, gliding silently in the track—and steps outside.
The backyard is large and picturesque, with a paved area extending off the house large enough for a covered grilling station, an outdoor dining table that seats six, and a stacked stone fire pit with Adirondack chairs set around it in a loose circle. A paved pathway weaves through perfectly crisp grass to the play fort that's been here since back when Kaladin was a kid and a much newer swing set, where Tien pushes Oroden, the younger boy laughing delightedly on every upswing.
Tien sees him first, grinning and waving with one hand while he gives Oroden another hard shove with the other.
"Kal!"
"Hey, T," Kaladin says, his smile relaxing into something real for the first time in hours. Oroden finally sees him and shouts his name, waving enthusiastically. This causes him to wobble dangerously, and his eyes go wide with terror as he snatches the plastic-covered chain again before laughing joyously at his near-brush with death.
"Oroden, I told you to hold on with both hands!" Tien chastises.
Oroden ignores him, attention fully on impressing Kaladin now.
"Kal, look how high I'm going!"
"Yeah, bud, I see. That's really high! You're almost flying!" Kaladin grins as Oroden squeals excitedly in agreement.
When he reaches them, he ducks down to hug Tien.
"Thanks for coming," Tien says as he straightens. They miss Oroden's next two backswings and the impatient youngster demands, "Tien! Push me!"
Kaladin smiles as Tien replies, exasperated, "Alright, alright, cool your jets."
They take turns pushing Oroden until their mother slides the door open to tell them dinner's ready ten minutes later, and when the swing loses enough momentum that Oroden won't shatter every bone in his body doing stupid tricks he jumps off when it's at its zenith, sticking the landing perfectly in the cushy grass and raising his hands in triumph like an Olympic athlete landing a vault run.
Tien rolls his eyes and Kaladin gives Oroden a thumbs up.
The littlest Sehara runs off to the house, using his whole body to pull the heavy sliding door open before hopping inside, not bothering to close it behind him. The two older brothers take their time, Kaladin walking in the grass as Tien rolls on the path next to him.
"New chair?" Kaladin asks, nodding down at the sleek black and silver wheelchair Tien is seated in. The control panel looks shiny and high tech, the joystick sleek. He was due for an upgrade.
"Yup," Tien says, looking smug. "This baby could probably beat your shitty truck in a drag race any day of the week. If your truck would even start."
"Ha, ha," Kaladin says flatly. "My truck starts just fine."
"You're such a liar. I've heard the way the engine cranks for like ten seconds before it turns over."
"But it does turn over, and that's what matters," Kaladin reasons.
Tien laughs as Kaladin pulls the sliding door open wider to allow Tien's chair to drive up the ramp and through. He follows, closing it gently behind them, and they make their way to the formal dining room.
Their parents and Oroden are already seated, so as soon as he and Tien arrive pots of spaghetti and homemade meat sauce and baskets of garlic bread are passed around to take. Kaladin fills everyone's water glasses from a pitcher dripping condensation, and his mother pops open a bottle of Cabernet. She pours healthy glasses for herself, Lirin, and Tien, but when she extends her arm to Kaladin's wine glass he places his hand over top of it, shaking his head.
"None for me, thank you," he says quietly.
She smiles but, as usual, doesn't ask questions, placing the bottle in the middle of the table and sitting easily back in her seat.
Though they're not a particularly religious family his parents have said grace before supper for as long as he can remember, and tonight is no exception. It's just part and parcel of being from a small American town, and whether he believes or not he doesn't feel it's worth fighting over, so Kaladin places his hand in Tien's to his left, then reaches across the table to hold his mother's in his right.
His father recites their standard blessing, and a chorus of "amen"s echo around the table before everyone proceeds to dig into the meal.
"So, Kal, how's the diner?" His mother asks, voice light. "I heard they added some new items to the menu. Was that Song or Rock's idea?"
"Actually it was Cord," Kaladin corrects with a smile. "She's been around a lot lately, learning the ropes. Rock keeps saying he wants to retire."
Hesina laughs. "The day that man retires is when he's already six feet under. He loves that diner too much to let anyone take over, even his own children."
Kaladin snorts. "You're not wrong."
"So you're working there full time now?" His father asks without looking up from his food. Kaladin watches him cut his spaghetti neatly with a fork and knife, slice by slice, until the pasta is all in little bite-sized pieces.
"Not quite," he finally answers, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "I'm there as often as they need me. Still picking up odd jobs around town, and working pretty regularly down at Teft's."
"Glad your education is serving you so well," his father comments idly, scooping a bite onto his fork and placing it in his mouth with impeccable manners. He looks up at Kaladin as he chews, one eyebrow raised in challenge.
"Lirin," his mother hisses.
"I'm just glad to see that all the time and effort we put into setting our son up for success in life has paid off."
"Dad—" Tien tries.
"No, it's alright Tien," Kaladin says quietly, setting his utensils down next to his untouched plate and scooting his chair back.
"Kaladin—" His mother starts.
"It's fine," he says, standing. He claps Tien on the shoulder then leans over to ruffle Oroden's hair, whose eyes are wide and heartbreakingly sad. He looks away, chest tight.
"Kaladin, honey," his mother tries again as he rounds the table, but he just leans down to kiss her cheek.
"It was good to see you," he says, then he turns on his heel and leaves the room. He makes sure to close the front door gently, forces himself to think of nothing as he strides down the perfectly manicured front walk.
The door to his rusted old pickup squeals as he swings it open, and he hauls himself up into the seat, slams it closed, and breathes.
With shaking hands he opens the glove compartment and pulls out his pack of cigarettes. Shakes one out and lights it, inhaling deeply. Lets his head fall back onto the headrest as he exhales.
He turns the key in the ignition. It only takes five seconds for the engine to rev to life this time, and as he pulls away from the curb his phone vibrates in his pocket.
There's no traffic, so he checks it at the stop sign at the entrance to his family's neighborhood, truck idling.
One message, from Tien.
Tien: I'm sorry