Title: Boys of Summer
Author: GatorGrrrl
Rating: K to T (G to R)
Warnings: a reinterpretation of canon, maybe?
Pairings: none
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. No profit being made, no offense intended.

Author's Note: It's been a while since I've seen the episode, "Foam Finger," so if some of the canon is a little off, I apologize. Also, this will be more explicitly Drake/Josh in later chapters.

Foam Finger

Drake

Drake pokes gingerly at the skin around his left eye as he looks at himself in the mirror, sucking air sharply between his teeth when the tip of his right index finger presses a little too hard against the darkening bruise.

Stupid kid with his stupid sucker punch.

And Drake did not thump him, thank you very much.

He pokes at his eye a couple more times before finally deciding that a black eye isn't the worst thing that could've happened. It kinda makes him look tough. Which is a good thing, since being short totally sucks and he can use all the help he can get in keeping Bobby Molina off his back. He's lost track of exactly how much of his allowance he's already lost to that kid.

"Drake! Dinner!" his mom calls from downstairs and Drake rolls his eyes, then winces. He isn't really hungry; all he really wants to do is go to his room and turn on the TV and craft his "How I Got a Black Eye" story. 'Cause telling everyone he got in a fight over a foam finger at a Padres games is just not good enough. No way. It has to be something better than that, something that makes him look cooler. Something that will make Bobby Molina think twice next time before grabbing the waistband of Drake's underwear and giving it a good yank.

"Now, Drake!" his mom calls in her annoyed voice.

Sighing, Drake pulls open the bathroom door and trudges downstairs, keeping his head ducked so his mom won't see just how dark his eye is getting. He slides into his regular chair at the dinner table and swings his feet between the chair legs, studying his placemat like it has a secret message written on it.

A plate of spaghetti is set in front of him and he sees his mom sit down in her chair at the end of the table. He stares at his food so intently he could swear he sees it actually move, then picks up his fork and twirls a few noodles half-heartedly around the tines.

"How's your eye?" his mom asks.

"Fine," he mumbles and puts the fork in his mouth, chewing slowly.

"Let me see," she says.

Drake doesn't raise his head, just prods his spaghetti thoroughly with his fork like he's looking for a prize.

"Drake."

Reluctantly, he looks up, blinking at his mom and the startled look in her eyes. She reaches out and grabs his chin in her fingers, turning his head left and right, her lips pressed tightly together. Drake wants to run away but he can't.

"What am I going to do with you?" she asks, but she doesn't sound mad and is that a little bit of a smile?

"Let me stay home tomorrow?" he asks hopefully. His mom is sending him to the YMCA for the summer since she has to work and tomorrow is Monday, which means basketball day. Which means two things: getting picked last 'cause nobody wants the short kid and possibly getting stuffed into the garbage can again by Bobby in front of all the other kids.

His mom smiles at him and brushes her thumb across his cheek before dropping her hand. "You know I can't do that, Drake," she says. "I have to work and you can't stay home by yourself."

"Why not?" Drake asks. "I'll stay in my room all day, I promise. And I know how to dial 9-1-1. Besides, Mrs. Campbell is right next door."

"Mrs. Campbell is in a wheelchair," his mom says, shaking her head. "And you're only eight years old."

Drake smirks and slumps into his chair, poking around in his spaghetti again. "Fine," he says.

It seems like forever before dinner is over and he's done with all his chores. He had to clear the table, load the dishwasher, and take the garbage out before he could go back upstairs, and then he has to gather up all his dirty clothes and carry them back downstairs to the laundry room where his mom is waiting.

"Am I done being punished now?" he asks, feeling grumpy. His eye is starting to hurt and he just wants to put on his pajamas and watch TV in his room.

Smiling down at him, his mom says, "Those were just your regular chores, Drake. Not your punishment."

Uh-oh. That does not sound good. "What do you mean?" he asks.

"I mean," she says, sorting his dirty clothes into two piles, "I'm very disappointed in the way you acted today and–"

"He started it!" Drake protests.

"–I want you to write a letter to that boy apologizing for fighting with him."

"That's not fair! He hit me first," Drake says, pointing to his face. "In case you haven't noticed."

His mom just looks at him. "It doesn't matter who hit who first," she says. "You need to learn to apologize for your actions, Drake. I spoke with the boy's father and got his address. So when you're finished with your letter, we'll mail it to him."

"But–"

"No buts, Drake."

Normally that would make him laugh, but now he just looks up into his mom's face and sighs. "Fine," he grumbles, then turns on his heel and stomps back upstairs.

One hour and about fifty balled up pieces of paper later, Drake is finished.

"Dear Josh, Im sory I got in a fite with you at the baseball game. You gave me a black eye but its OK. The fome finger looks cool in my room. I wish you had one. Yours truly, Drake Parker."

His mom gives him a funny look when he shows it to her, but she folds it up and puts it inside the envelope anyway.

Josh

Josh grins as he flexes his right fist over and over. His hand hurts a little, but in a good way, and he can't wait to show Craig and Eric his swollen knuckles tomorrow at science camp. Of course, he's gonna leave out the part about the foam finger; that just doesn't sound tough enough. He's also gonna make the kid older and much, much bigger than he really is. He won't really be lying, just…storytelling.

Craig and Eric are gonna be so jealous.

There's a knock on his door and Josh presses his palm flat against his bed, hiding it from view beneath his leg. "Come in," he says.

The door opens and his dad pokes his head around it. "Hey, big guy," he says, smiling. "Can I talk to you?"

"Okay," Josh says, making sure he isn't smiling anymore. His dad's wearing his "this is serious" look and Josh knows he isn't supposed to feel so happy about punching another boy.

His dad sits down on the edge of his bed and clears his throat. "I want to talk to you about what happened today, son."

"I'm sorry, Dad," Josh says, suddenly feeling guilty. The way his dad is looking at him makes him feel bad.

"Your mother and I have tried to teach you that fighting is not the answer," his dad says.

Dang it. Now he feels like he's going to cry. He feels like that whenever he thinks about his mom. It hasn't even been a year since she died and sometimes he misses her so much it hurts. "I know," Josh mutters, looking down at his dark blue bed spread as he blinks away tears.

He hears his dad sigh, then feels his dad's big warm hand on the back of his neck. "I'm not mad, son," his dad says, answering Josh's unasked question. "I'm just worried about you."

Josh looks up at him. He pulls his hand out from its hiding place and rubs it. "I'm okay, Dad," he says, trying to sound reassuring. "It hardly hurts at all."

His dad smiles a little and takes his hand, brushing his thumb lightly over Josh's knuckles. He looks away for a moment, then back at Josh, and Josh can see that his dad is sad.

"Your mom was so smart, Josh," his dad says and Josh feels his throat get tight. "She always knew the right thing to do. The right thing to say in moments like these." He sighs and holds Josh's gaze without blinking. "I really miss her." His voice is so soft, Josh has to concentrate on listening.

"Me, too, Dad."

His dad nods, then smiles a little. "I'm sorry I yelled at you earlier."

Josh shrugs and pulls his hand from his dad's grasp. "It's okay," he says. "I know I'm not supposed to get in fights." A smile breaks out across his face before he can stop it. "But I popped him pretty good." He punches his left palm with his right fist, then winces a little.

His dad's smile widens and Josh can see him struggling to maintain his stern face. "His mother told me you gave him a black eye," his dad says.

"Really?" Josh asks, grinning, then clears his throat and forces his smile into submission. "I-I mean, wow. I hope he's okay."

His dad shakes his head. "I told his mother you would write a letter of apology to him."

"What? Why? He started it." Josh feels his face getting red.

"Josh."

"He thumped me in the back of the head! He should apologize to me. And give me the foam finger."

"Joshua."

Uh-oh. The use of his full name is never a good sign. He sighs. "Fine."

Josh thinks about what he'll say for a long time. His first draft says, "Dear Drake, I really liked punching you and I hope the foam finger makes you break out in hives."

But he knows his dad will be reading it, so he finally settles on, "Dear Drake, I'm sorry I hit you. I hope your eye gets better soon. Have fun with the foam finger. Sincerely, Josh Nichols."

When he shows it to his dad, he smiles and says, "I'm proud of you, son."

That makes Josh feel good, but he still wishes he could send the other one.

Reviews are always appreciated. Thank you.