A/N: After re-watching some episodes and then having my dad wake up my sister and I this morning to go fishing, I got the inspiration to write a story 'bout Robert taking his son and son's friend fishing. I mean, we see a picture of the three of them fishing in a couple episodes; in "Sons of the Fathers", Sean picks the photo up off of Robert's desk at the center. And in "Trouble Squared", the same picture is in Virgil's wallet when he offers to help the center with money issues. It's the latter that intrigues me; it's normal for a father to want to have a picture of his son and a good memory with him (and for the show's episode, implies how much Richie prefers the Hawkins's family to his own), but it's kind of funny that Virgil would have a copy in his wallet. If you look at it with slash goggles on (as I tend to do), you'd think: 'does he have the picture in there because he wants a picture of Richie with him but doesn't want to be obvious about it?' And with this thought in mind, this minor-slash or simply friend-fluff oneshot was born. ;D
That a long enough author's note for ya? ;3
P.S. For some reason, I listened to the August Rush soundtrack while writing this. XD
P.S.S. I have no idea what their newspaper is called, so I just said it was the Dakota Times. :'D
Mornings suck. Specifically Sunday mornings. And no, it's not because of church, I swear. I like church. Church isn't the reason why I'm getting up at four forty-five, when the sun has barely risen. Sunday mornings suck because it's my dad's finishing mornings. And fishing, of all things, is the reason for me getting up so early. Uhg.
But this time I dragged Richie into it, so it shouldn't be so bad. I'll actually have someone to talk to this way. Normally my dad and I talk, sure, but not much. Lately we haven't been having much to say to each other. He says that it's a teenager-in-high-school thing. I jus tell him that it's an age-difference thing. Teenagers can't talk to adults because our minds are zoned in on sex, fads and fandoms, and in my case, superhero business. And we can't talk about these things to our parents, now, can we?
"C'mon you two, the fish are begging to be caught and fried up," begins my father as he bursts into my bedroom.
Richie snorts into awareness from his face-in-pillow position on my floor. "Whooza whatzit?" he mumbles tiredly, and I smile despite myself.
I force myself to sit up in bed. "We're up, Pops," I yawn. "We'll be dressed and ready in, like, ten minutes. 'Kay?"
The older man shrugs. "Better keep that promise. We left yesterday."
I never got that phrase. Is it supposed to mean that someone wants something done straight away? Whatever. We'll be ready soon-ish, and that'll have to be good enough for my dad.
Richie, I note, is snoring again. He went back to sleep.
I climb out of my cozy-warm bed sheets and clamber down to kneel beside the blond. "Dude. Hey. Get up. You want to go fishing, don't you?" I say as I touch his spiny back and shake lightly.
He groans and rolls over onto his back. "One more hour," he grumbles, not even awake.
I laugh. "Rich, my dad won't give us another hour. The time is now, bro. Get up." I sit down and add one last poke to his forehead. It's oily from sleep, and there's a fresh pimple forming in his hairline. "Seriously, wake up, Richie."
He sighs and opens his eyes. His hands fly to his face to rub the sand from his lashes. "Wha' time izzit?" he slurs through a yawn, his hands dropping to the sleeping bag. He unzips it and kicks it off. "Is the sun up yet?"
"Hardly," I grunt as I stand up. My back cracks, and it feels better. I glance at the clock, remembering that he asked what time it is. "It's four fifty."
"Too early to be awake," he mumbles as he sits up. I offer a hand and pull him to his feet. He stumbles forward and crashes into me, his hands fumbling to grab onto my white tank top for stability. Heart flares up in my cheeks, and I don't know why. "Whoops," he says. "Sorry."
"'S okay," I murmur as Richie lets go and turns to raise his hands over his head. His shoulders pop, and then the middle of his back.
"Man, I hate sleeping on the floor. Next time, I'm gonna steal your bed. You can have the floor."
"It's my house! You're gonna deny me my own bed?" I tease as we both head to the bathroom.
"I can, and will," Richie replies. He shoves a hand forward to stop me from entering. "I call dibs o the bathroom." And he shuts the door in my face.
"Hey, no fair!" I complain, but really don't mind. It was, like, three in the morning last night when I last went pee, so I can afford to venture downstairs. I just wanted to splash some cold water on my face to get the grime off and to wake myself up a little more.
As I head down the stairs, the toilet flushes and there pipes moan as Richie turns the faucet on the sink. I hobble down the steps, not feeling much like sliding down the banister. I'm too uncoordinated this early in the morning.
"Hiya, Pops," I greet as I walk into the kitchen. He's wide awake, sipping on coffee, and checking out the headlines in the Dakota Times. "Which fishin' spot are we gonna take Richie to?"
"The one where you always catch the biggest bass," my dad informs me. I reach for a cereal bowl, but he stops me. "We're going to pick up some breakfast food from the diner after we fish, so don't eat anything yet. Just have a glass or milk."
"Okay," I shrug. It doesn't matter to me. Besides, if we're going to the diner, I don't want to spoil my appetite; they have some slammin' pancakes and French toast. It's like heaven in your mouth. Richie and I always order one plate of each and then split them. He gets the pancakes with strawberries and I get the chocolate-chip sprinkled French toast. I let Richie get first dibs on the French toast before we swap since I end up slathering mine with peanut butter and drown them in syrup while he merely dusts the top with powdered sugar.
Richie walks in, and heads for the bowls right away like I did. I stop him and tell him about the diner plan, and he grins. "Are we gonna order the usual, bro?"
"You bet," I reply. "Except I'm kind of in the mood for bacon, too. We should get a side order of that."
"I'll just give you mine; I'm trying to watch my cholesterol," he dad says over the grey newsprint. "I'm going to get Eggs Benedict and it comes with an optional side of hash browns or sausage or bacon. I could order the bacon for you two."
"Sweet!" I cheer. I tap Richie on the shoulder. "Let's go get dressed, then. The sooner we're done fishing, the sooner we can eat!"
"I'm all for that," the blond returns with a smile of his own. We turn the corner and head back up the stairs.
Once we're in my room, we hurry and change into our oldest pairs of pants and shirts, because fishing can get messy. I reach into my closet and pull out a hat with fake lures on it, plopping the hideous thing on Richie's head.
"What the hell is this?" he laughs as he yanks it off his head and stares at it.
"My grandpa bought me that when I was seven," I answer. "It's it adorable?" I gush sarcastically.
"More dorky than adorable," he snorts, agreeing with my sarcasm.
"Then by all means, wear it," I jest, "Since 'dorky' matches your entire person."
He whacks me on the head with the hat. "Thanks, V. That makes me feel so good about myself."
I rub a spot where one of the lures struck pretty hard. "Come on, let's quit dallyin'. My Pops is waiting."
"Can I use that awesome new black fishing rod?" Richie asks as he tows behind me. I head out the front door after peeking in the kitchen to find my father absent. "Or does your dad get to use that one?"
"He gets to, but you can take my sister's red rod. She never uses it, but it's an older version of that new black one," I explain. The air outside hits our faces, brisk and chilly, especially for a morning in early June. My dad's already in the car, apparently all packed up. I go around to the passenger's side and climb in the back seat. Richie hops in beside me.
"Buckle up, boys. We've got quite the ways to go," my dad says warmly. He starts the car, and soon we're on the road out of the city.
"How far, exactly?" Richie wants to know.
"A good few miles out of Dakota. There's less city life and pollution at a little pond Virgil and I found when he was younger. Plenty of bluegill and bass to catch over there," my dad answers as he touches one of the radio dials. Music filters in through the speakers, sounding like Rhythm and Blues. I bop my head slowly as I close my eyes and lace my hands behind my head. So tired…
"Need more sleep, huh?" Richie says, a smile in his voice. It's like he reads my mind sometimes.
"I'm surprised that you don't. It was diff'cult getting your ass outta bed," I return with a grin, eyes still closed.
"Language, Virgil," my dad threatens from the front seat.
I peek one eye open to find him gazing at me through the rearview mirror. "Sorry, Pops, but it slips out sometimes." Psh, as if 'ass' is such a bad word. It's not! It's a term for a donkey, for crying out loud. And a body part, like I was referring.
"Well, at least try not to let it slip in front of me. I hear enough cursing at the Center every day, I don't need to hear it coming from my own son's mouth."
"Sorry, sir," I reply shortly, my tone sincere. But Richie can see my eyes rolling.
For the rest of the car ride, I decide not to talk. Instead I close my eyes again, and when I open them, my lips are parted and a bit dry and my head is resting on something warm. I blink, and force myself up. The car is pulling into a weedy, rocky parking space in front of some thick shrubbery, and once I'm straightened again I realize that I had conked out completely, and that my head must've lolled to the side to rest on Richie's shoulder. I can't believe he didn't shake me off.
It's then that I notice that he's asleep, too, his head facing the other way, leaning against the car window. I smile again in that weird way, and don't understand why it's so amusing.
I unbuckle myself and reach over to undo Richie's. The clicking and retracting belt startle him. "Are we there?" he bursts out.
"Yes, so you two better get out and help me carry everything," my dad says from up front. He opens the driver-side door. "Virgil, you grab the tackle boxes. Richie, you get the poles. I'll take the bait and lawn chairs." The trunk pops open behind us. I peer over my shoulder out the back window and see the ajar lid.
"Sure thing," I shrug as I climb out of my door. Richie does the same, and meets me at the trunk.
The air smells misty, and pond scummy. There's the light stench of dead fish behind it. I can hear crickets. Ah, the wilderness… so beautifully gross. Because the sun rising over the lush tree tops is lovely, and the soft lighting touching the wildflowers is appealing, but the smell reminds me of what's to come, and what's coming is downright dirty. There will be mud everywhere, and brownish water that'll splash up when you reel in a fish. But I guess it's all worth it in the end, because there are bass and bluegill and catfish and bullhead and even carp in this pond. It's a lot bigger than what my dad makes it out to be.
"So, where's the water?" Richie jokes as he tosses the fishing poles over his left shoulder. "Can't go fishing without water."
"It's through this brush," my father answers. "Follow me, and watch where you step. Don't want to get ticks or spiders on you; those bites will hurt. Can't help the mosquitoes, though."
I follow my dad, and Richie walks behind me. We weave around branches of trees and bushes, and step around fallen logs and poison ivy. Finally we reach a grassy clearing with cattails and those wheat-looking sprigs that farmers and cowboys stick in their mouths. In the center of all of this, there's a thin shoreline and a nearly perfect circle of freshwater.
"Here we are, boys," my dad grins. "Find a spot and we'll get started."
Richie and I walk over to the same spot, our minds syncing by sending the message that reads, this section owns all. It's right next to a big boulder and the small river that feeds into the pond (hence why I said, 'nearly perfect circle'). There's less trees in this place, and more light from the sunrise. The water is stiller, despite being next to the tiny river. Must be a deep pool right here, which is ideal, because fish love to hide near the bottom or in shade.
My dad sets two of the three chairs down. "I'll be a few feet away. Don't want to cross lines. Plus, I have the feeling you two won't want to include me in your conversations, anyhow," he says.
I wink. "Thanks, Pops." I take the chairs and pry them open while my dad places one of the containers of bait on the boulder.
"Can I have my pole?" my dad asks, and Richie snaps out of whatever daze he was in.
"Uh, yeah! 'Course! Here." He separates the black pole from the red and blue ones, and goes to hand it to my dad. But he stops short and winces. "Uh-oh… While I was carrying it, I think the hook got loose and attached to my earring!"
I can't help it. I burst out laughing. My dad does the same. I turn away from the chairs and pace over to the poor blond. "It is hooked on your earring, Rich. How come this isn't a shock?" I tease as I lean in and slip the jagged hook out of the black hoop. As soon as it's out and my dad's walking away, Richie reaches up to touch his earlobe.
"I'm not bleeding, am I?"
I slap his back. "You're fine, Rich. Now help me put my pole together. It's the longest, so we had to take it apart before shoving it into the trunk."
"Sure, V," he complies as he follows me to my chair. I stick the base of the blue pole between my legs to steady it as I fumble with the extension. "It looks like it has to lock in a certain way…" he reasons. I stare at the pole, confused. It's been so long since I last fished, and when I did, I had a different pole; a dark forest green one. But the pole snapped from a too-big fish, and we had to buy a new one. I have yet to use it, though; it's an adult-sized one, and much fancier than my old one. "Here, let me do it," Richie says once I give up. He yanks it out of my lap and jams the top piece in. It makes a low clicking noise, and then snaps together. "There." He hands it back to me.
"Thanks, bro," I grin. I dig around in the bait container for a juicy nightcrawler. They lure the fish best, 'cause they squirm the most and last longer, even if they're nipped to shreds. I find one, a really long, fat one, and stab it repeatedly as I wind it up on my hook. Sharon would fine this utterly disgusting. But it's nothing to me; it's simply what has to be done.
Beside me, Richie brushes the dirt off of a smaller worm and stabs it once through the hook, then stands to cast.
I frown. "Hold up, Rich," I say. "You didn't put that on right. If you leave it like that, your worm will be stolen by the first fish that comes for a nibble!"
He rolls his eyes behind his glasses' frames. "Then show me how to do it, O Master of Fishing."
I grin. "As you wish, O Humble Fisherman's Apprentice." I grab the swinging hook to adjust the writhing worm. Poor things are such lesser beings that we purposely torture them before sacrificing them for our own food and entertainment needs. It's almost sad, except it isn't because worms hardly even have a brain, despite having, what, five hearts? "See? You have to secure it, or else it'll just fall off," I teach Richie as my fingers make fast work of making adjustments. I release the hook and watching the worm squirm less.
"Yeah, I get it now," Richie says. He clicks the button on his rod and shifts the pole behind his left shoulder before casting it out, the button popping back up as the line arcs into the open space above the water. It plops into the surface, bobber dipping in and springing back up to float on the surface while the worm waits in the water below.
"Nice cast," I congratulate. "But now watch a real pro at work." I throw my pole back, click the button, and throw it forward. But I end up forgetting to let go of the button until it's too late, and by then my hook and worm are shooting directly into the water… about four feet ahead of me. My face falls from prideful to irritated in two milliseconds flat.
Richie roars with laughter. "Oh yeah, you're a real pro alright," he remarks with a smirk on his pale lips.
Grumbling to myself, I recast the line, and this time he soars as far as Richie's, but drifts to rest a good foot behind his, making it shorter. But I guess it's the catch that counts; I bet I can really impress him wit the good luck I get with reeling in the big 'uns.
Wait, impress him? Is that what I'm doing? That's… competitive. Among other, more embarrassing things. Should quit while I'm ahead…
Richie's line tugs a couple times, then stills. Then jerks forward harder before going still again. "Hey! They're biting!"
"Nah, they're teasing," I conclude as I watch his line. "Try lifting up on the rod a little, see if there's any weight at the end."
He does. A frown forms. "I don't feel a thing."
"Exactly. So wait until they start dragging it away; then you can reel 'em in, 'cause they'll be stuck then," I instruct.
Richie gives me a thumbs-up. "Got cha."
We sit around in our chairs for a while, soaking up the peaceful humming of crickets as the sun crawls higher into the sky, turning everything less pink and more yellow. Our lines tug now and then, but not often enough. I sigh as I recline in my lawn chair. "Wish I had my music."
"Or my GameBoy Advanced SP," Richie sighs with me. He rotates himself to prop an elbow on the arm of his chair and rest his chin in his hand. "Ya think we'll catch anything decent?"
"Here's hopin'," I say at length. "I sure wouldn't mind scarfin' down some fried fish fillets for lunch when we get back from church."
"Who's gonna gut the fish?"
"Pops will. I don't know how to do it as well as he does," I shrug. I wince. "I just hope that Sharon doesn't insist on trying to fry the fish herself. 'Cause then all we'll have is a pile of burnt ashes."
"Or worse, we might have something still squirming on our plates, covered in cornmeal mush," Richie jokes, and I laugh.
"Yeah, that'd definitely be worse."
Suddenly, my pole tugs, and I jerk into attention. The line begins to drag, pulling hard at the line and shifting it to the far left. Grinning, I yank upwards and begin reeling with sparked fury. Something flaps around in the water, splashing and resisting.
"Ooh, it's a big one!" I cheer excitedly. From over yonder, my old man congratulates me. But I ignore him, my focus solely set on the fish on my line.
"Whoa! That's it, V! Reel that sucker in!" Richies cheering, his own pole forgotten.
But it's not a wise thing to do, because without warning, his pole get's sucked off the chair and starts to get pulled into the water. He yelps and dives after it, and while I laugh at himself and from my own growing excitement, I pull my fish out of the water and wrestle it to the muddy ground in front of my chair. Richie goes sloshing through the chilly water, coming out half soaked and mud splattered as he holds up his pole, a proud grin plastered on his face at the giant catfish wriggling below his bobber.
My own fish, I realize as I take out it's hook and measure it, is a largemouth bass. It's beefy enough to either be pregnant or mega-delicious, and long enough to keep. Richie's is the same.
My dad walks over, a low whistle coming form his lips. "Two catches at once? And both keepers, too? Hmm, maybe I should take you boys fishing more often; we would be eating like kings every night!" And he chuckles as he helps me loop the fish by the mouths onto some blue rope, and stab a stake into the ground. The rope secures the two stringed fish to the stake, but also keeps them alive in the water. It's better than killing them and stuffing them into a cooler, or tossing them alive into a bucket of water.
After our first catch, Richie and I get less chatty and more determined. My dad doesn't catch a thing for a while, and soon has a fishing buddy as well when an elderly man of about sixty comes down from the hill and stands near him.
I dig around in the box of worms for another, since my current one is nothing more than a bite due to all the nibbles I've been getting. Richie reaches into the box as well, not looking with his eyes like I am, and accidentally bumps my fingers. I yank my hand back, a small tingling feeling running up my arm. Richie just glances at me, smiles, and pulls out a fat night crawler. Shaking my head at myself, I find my own worm and recast my line.
Nine fish caught, two released, and five lost during reeling later, Richie and I are tired and ready to head home for a shower (not at the same time, of 'course!) and a nap. We don't even want to go to church any more, even though we know that we have to.
My father shrugs. "Alright then, boys, let's pack up and go home. Eleven fish is enough to feed an army, anyway. We did good, if I do say so myself. Especially you two; seven of those came from you two alone."
I smirk triumphantly as I gather up what I'm going to take back, and my dad collects the strung fish from the water. "It's all in the skills, Pops. And Richie and I have mad fishing skills, fo sho."
"Got that right," the blond grins as he hikes ahead of me. "But I clearly have more. I caught five keepers, and Virg only got two."
"So?" I grumble in irritation. "I caught a ton others!"
"But they weren't all keepers," Richie cackles. "So I own you in the fishing department, bro."
I snort. "Ch'yeah right. You can't even own me in basketball."
"But I'm getting better at it!" he snaps back, and behind us, I can hear my dad chuckling in amusement.
He is getting better, namely as he's getting taller and a bit more coordinated, but Richie still isn't a basketball star. Not that I am, either, but I can make more baskets than he can, as little as I make to begin with. "Better ain't good enough to own me, Rich," I retort with a grin.
Pouting, Richie stops talking and merely paces ahead even further. I frown, not liking the silence. My father's laughter dies in the background.
Jogging to keep up with him as we come out of the brush and locate the car, I nudge Richie's side with my elbow. "Hey, don't get so worked up, man. I was just teasing."
He surprised me by flashing a smile. "I know. And I was just messing with you by making you think I was angry."
"Wha–?" I sputter as I drop one of the tackle boxes in front of the car's trunk. "Why, you sneaky little…"
My father shows up, and I stop myself for a bad word slips out. Not that I mean anything by it; insults like 'bastard' are meant playfully between Richie and I.
After loading the stuff in the car, the three of us pile inside. My dad steps out for a minute to talk to the older man who joined him. Alone with Richie, an idea pops into my head. "Didn't you bring your camera, Rich?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah. Guess we forgot to take pictures of the fish. But we can do that when we get back before we gut 'em, I guess." He takes out the camera, which he left under his seat.
"But what about taking a picture of us?" I say. I take the camera from him, smiling warmly. I hop out of the car, and Richie follows me. I grab a couple poles from the trunk and walk up to my dad and the older man. "Pops, we never got a picture of anything!" I look to the elderly man. "Sorry to ask, sir, but do you mind taking a picture of the three of us?"
We probably don't look too good. Richie has dried mud splattered on his face in teeny dirty smudges, and I'm still wet from my most recent catch. But it'll be worth it when I have a picture of this to look back on. Especially since it's my first time fishing with Richie by my side.
"I don't mind, young man," the older guy nods. He smiles, showing too-white dentures, and takes Richie's camera. I turn it on for him, and show him what to push. "Make a pose, now," he says. "On the count of cheese. One, two… cheese!"
I laugh, and Richie smiles sheepishly, and my dad seems to glow with inner joviality. The camera flashes.
Back in the car on the way home, I look at it's digital thumbnail on Richie's camera screen. "Nice one. I'm gonna put it on my computer and print it out later today. Want a copy, Richie?"
He seems to fidget. "Nah, that's okay. I like keep the memory fresh in my head, y'know?"
I don't know, or understand why he seems so nervous all of a sudden, but I brush it off. "Yeah, okay."
"I call the shower first," my dad chimes in from the driver's seat. "Then you two can fight over it while I get ready for church."
"Sure thing, Pops," I agree. I turn to blond beside me. "Rock, paper, scissors?"
He holds out his fist. "Best two outta three."
He ends up getting the bathing privileges first.