hiraeth

by ididntdothatt

Less than a week left until Thanksgiving break. Just a bit more school to endure until devouring a 15-pound turkey over at Jim's with his wife and children, including—that's right—Huck Finn; discreetly exchanging knowing gazes across the table and giggling beneath the soft murmur of saying grace before meal and eating until they're stuffed. Modern AU where simple life things ensue

"Tom!"

He jolts awake suddenly, his heart rising to his throat, his soft snoring coming to an abrupt halt with a sharp intake of breath. Then, there is silence. He does not yet dare peel his eyes open, in the small hopes that maybe he was simply hearing things, and he still has an hour or two left to himself to sleep. He sluggishly flips over onto his other side and pretends he has heard nothing at all. Ignorance is bliss, as they say, and presently, Tom cannot agree more.

There's another long pause, and he feels his chest well up with cautious optimism. He wraps the sheets and blankets tighter around himself and buries his head beneath, breath gradually slowing again to an even pace. His eyes flutter faintly, and he feels himself being dragged beneath the heavy haze of sleep again fairly quickly.

Then, the tranquility of the moment is torn to shreds with the same effect a bomb being tossed into his room might have:

"To-o-om!" Even louder and shriller this time.

What was the point of Aunt Polly telling him to set his own alarm if he was going to wake to the sound of her voice shrieking his name from the bottom of the stairs, regardless? And before the time she had suggested he rise, no less.

He shifts around his weight in bed, uselessly, as if it is an easy task to shrug away the noise, when he knows all too well that if he isn't up in ten minutes or less, she will be up, up here and in his room and dragging him out of bed by the ear. A muffled groan rises from his throat, and he turns this way and that, curling up into a ball and gathering the blankets closer to himself. He releases a small shudder; it's the middle of November, and the nights are getting colder and longer. He gives a sidelong glance to the window across the room. They're very faint, but they're there; the thin sluices of sunlight that dance through the shroud of the curtains and against his skin, providing the smallest bit of warmth through the damp frost of early morning that lies in wait outside.

Less than a week left until Thanksgiving break. Just a bit more school to endure until devouring a 15-pound turkey over at Jim's with his wife and children, including—that's right—Huck Finn; discreetly exchanging knowing gazes across the table and giggling beneath the soft murmur of saying grace before meal, and trying at least five different kinds of pies within an hour. When the pleasant thought comes to mind, he decides he can muster up enough willpower to push himself through the slow torture just a bit longer.

He slowly scrambles out of bed, leaves his room without bothering to change from his pajamas, and finally comes down the stairs. Aunt Polly waits below, leaning against the doorway and wiping her hands upon her favorite checkered apron, the one with small frills decorating the hem and neckline. Its vibrant maroon color has faded from years of use, but she isn't bothered by it. She looks up when she hears his approaching footsteps and appears shocked to see him up so soon. As if she hadn't been the one to wake him in the first place.

"Well, you're up earlier than I thought you'd be," she remarks, tone a bit dry, but a gentle smile slowly finds its way onto her lips. She peers at him over her glasses and studies him intently like he's an insect in a jar. "You look like you stayed up all night long…hm?"

He makes a noncommittal noise, shrugging, and attempts to quickly skirt around her and into the kitchen, but she grabs his wrist, and he lingers in the doorway with her. Her grasp isn't tight, but it is deliberate. He knows he won't be able to pass until he offers something up.

"Thomas... "

"I just woke up, Aunt Polly. I'm going to look tired." His reply is swift, effortless. He turns and faces her then, hoping she will find him more convincing once he looks her in the eye. He'd always been decent at lying, hadn't he? The only problem was that she had grown decent, herself, at seeing through his string of fibs every time. She didn't necessarily have to know he'd snuck out the night prior, or that he'd hung around friends who were just as blamelessly out and about as he was—that is to say, not at all. So, he metaphorically claps his hands free of the dirt and seemingly stands spotless before her. "You don't need to get all worked up."

"...Mmhmm. I'm sure there's not a thing to get worked up over, is there, Bubba?" There it is, that baby name of his leaving her mouth, and totally on purpose, too, he's aware. It is difficult to stand beneath the weight of its sweetness, but he refuses to crack, still.

"No. No, there isn't." His voice is slightly hushed, perfectly smoothed over and varnished clean of any reason for suspicion. He smiles in spite of himself, and it's a good smile, maybe a bit groggy now, but still rehearsed down to a T. It's a winning smile, is what it is.

The thing is that, no matter how good an act he puts on, it is clear to anyone that she still knows he is avoiding the truth. However, maybe because it's too early for pecking at him and she's too tired for it, she releases his wrist and shoos him into the kitchen with only a small amount of grumbling after he has hurriedly pressed his lips to her cheek, thus successfully defusing any last shred of mom rage there may be left in her. "Go on in there and get your coffee."

"Don't need to tell me twice."

She takes her glasses from the bridge of her nose and uses her sweater to clean their frames, not bothering to look up as she warns, "I only brewed a few cups. You leave enough for Sid."

"Yes'm." He salutes her and smothers down a small scoff.

After he's fixed the coffee and wrapped his slender fingers around the mug, drawn it to his lips to take a small sip, he realizes his head has begun to ache. Badly. This is what he gets for not getting a decent amount of sleep, he supposes. Blanching, he reaches over for the cabinet and fingers around all the vitamins and pill bottles until he finds the painkillers. Jackpot.

That's also when Tom hears Sid come hopping down the stairs. He sounds too... happy, like there's too much of a spring in his step, considering how early it is. Tom isn't sure why, but it bothers him. Usually it's his job to act excessively animated and energetic, regardless of what ungodly hour of the day it is. He peers over as his brother enters the kitchen hastily, already dressed for the day and "washed up," as Aunt Polly would say. He's even added a bit of a garish flair to the outfit by wearing his good striped tie, something he only dons when he's dragged along to service. Seems as though he'd passed the booth without having to pay the toll, unlike him.

Tom creases a brow with vague interest and finds one-armed leverage against the counter, aimlessly fiddling with the bottle. The pills inside rattle quietly. "Aren't you all dapper...Is something important happening today at school that I don't know about?"

"Nope," Sid replies, flattening a crease in his sweater as soon as it catches his attention. He looks a bit flustered about his choice of clothing having been noted upon, but still holds himself up proudly, keeps an even tone as he continues, "I just try to look nice for people...Why, is that alright with you?"

"Mmhmm…" Tom laughs and takes another sip of his coffee. "...Nerd."

"Oh, whatever," Sid breathes out, and brushes past his brother to pour himself a cup too. "Gimme that." He snatches the pot from his hands, less than gently, and scowls as he watches Tom's shoulders shake with quiet laughter.

Tom retreats then to the table and plops down into a chair at the very moment Aunt Polly comes sailing through the kitchen and back to the pan she'd laid out earlier to make breakfast with. As she turns the stove on and places the strips of bacon onto the pan to fry, Tom waits for the sound of its sizzling first, and then the scent to gradually fill the room. Despite his headache, things seem to be generally pleasurable at the moment. He leans his head against the back of his chair and absently drums a finger against the lacquered surface of the table, mind drifting about to nowhere in particular.

Once Sid joins him, Tom can't help but notice his initial high spirits, or what Tom may have mistaken them to be, have since been extinguished, and he now sits with his head cradled in his hands, eyes half-lidded and glassy.

"Were you up all night, Sidney?" Tom inquires playfully, satisfied, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. If Aunt Polly will not interrogate him, Tom surely will. "You look exhausted."

"Yeah, well, I couldn't get any of my homework done," Sid hisses through gritted teeth, "not with you blasting your music all night long."

God, this migraine is a bad one. Tom finally pushes the painkiller behind his tongue and washes it down with another swig of coffee, wincing all the while. The pulse of the ache takes out all the play in him, and leaves him with nothing but fight. He replies, if not a bit cattily, "Yeah, well, you could've done it at the library if it was that big of a deal." He realizes he is no one to talk when it comes to criticizing someone over constantly pouring over books, but he finds himself doing this nonetheless, and adds as a last jab, "It's not like you don't spend your entire weekend there anyway."

"I should be able to finish my homework in my own damn home! That's why it's called homework, stupid!" Sid snaps, forgetting Aunt Polly nearby flipping bacon over the stove top. The mouthwatering scent wafts over the pair, and maybe on a day when both were feeling less agitated, this could've soothed their moods and created a somewhat delicate atmosphere. To say the least, it's not doing much today.

"Sidney!" She quickly throws a chastening glare over her shoulder. There it is, the dreaded use of his full name. It's a weapon she wields carefully and brings out only when she needs to.

"...Sorry." He bites the inside of his cheek, face burning beet red as the corner of Tom's lip curls up into a crowing smile and he savors this small victory.

Once their dishes are placed in front of them, they are instantly urged by their aunt to polish them clean, and brush their teeth, and comb their hair, and do whatever else it is they need to do before heading off to school.

"I'm leaving in a half hour," Tom warns Sid as he shovels more fried egg into his mouth. He scrapes up the remnants of runny yolk and then sucks on his fork. "Be ready by then unless you wanna take your bike there."

Sid merely scoffs in reply. "It's freezing, Aunt Polly wouldn't let you."

"Yeah, because getting in trouble has stopped me before. Right. I'm feeling mean this morning, Siddy."

Sid lets out a defeated huff after a moment of hesitation, and it seems that's that. "I can tell."

Once Tom plunks his dish in the sink, washes it, and then climbs upstairs, the thought strikes him that he hasn't seen Peter all morning. He knows what he will do next, then. He pokes his head into his brother's room first, then his aunt's, and then even his own, to see if maybe the old thing had snuck in while he was eating, but stumbles upon no cat. Finally, he strolls into the hallway and turns the knob of the bathroom door.

"Peter? Peter, you around here? Oh…!"

When Tom enters to search there, of all places, he finally finds the house cat perched upon the sink, eyes appearing glazed and indifferent, tail swaying about languidly. Instinctively, he reaches out a hand for Peter to sniff first, and then duck beneath so that he may be pet down along his back. His fur, once yellow, has gone sandy with age, and is a bit matted in some places, not quite as soft as it used to be when he was a kitten. At the sound of his contented purring, Tom invites him into his arms with a tsk-tsk, and, after Peter releases a guttural mewl and leaps forward, he gathers him close to his chest and sighs heavily.

"You've gotten so fat, butterball," Tom bemoans fondly, idly scratching behind Peter's ear and pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head. His socked feet pad down the hallway and into his room; he nudges the door shut behind him with his knee, the cat still held close to his chest all the while. He sits on his bed for a minute or two, motionless, save for his hand as it strokes Peter lightly.

Just a couple more days until a short lived freedom and Thanksgiving. Just a couple more days.

This is the only consolation he has spurring him to finish getting ready for the school day ahead of him.

"We always listen to your music, Tom," Sid groans miserably, and reaches to switch the radio station, quite boldly, actually, considering the fact that his brother takes his privileges as "hand me down owner" of the vehicle very seriously.

Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately for him, Sid had made it just in time to leave.

Not unsurprisingly, Tom quickly knocks Sid's hand away from the knob, gaze still glued to the road as he bristles, "Hands off!"

Anticipating what will no doubt say next, Sid is eager to join Tom in sneering harmony and launch simultaneously into his brief but all-too-familiar spiel, "My car, my rules."

Tom glowers at Sid from the corner of his eye. Sid had anticipated that, too, and is unfazed.

There is a small beat of silence before Tom wearily releases a gush of air, his eyes breaking away from the road. "...Did you want to stop anywhere before we get there?" He idly drums his fingers against the steering wheel and purses his lips.

Sid shakes his head. "No. That's okay."

"Alright."

The silence stretches on just a bit more after that, into an unforeseeable future, until Tom breaks it, yet again:

"…I saw you ogling that girl the other day," he laughs absently beneath his breath.

"I wasn't ogling!" Sid is hasty to jump on the defensive. "I'm not like you, Tom. I don't ogle."

Tom doesn't even bother denying this, but instead breaks off into another much more straightforward tangent, maybe a bit less jokingly, "You like her?"

Sid is quiet at first, and this is most certainly enough of an answer for Tom, but he still replies, if not a bit sheepishly, "She's not 'that girl,' and her name is Lisette." Curly blond hair that falls against her shoulders and bounces at the slightest gesture, bubblegum pink eyeshadow and perfectly manicured nails and blindingly white smile. Always gets the leads in school musicals and plays. Fairly new to St. Petersburg, but sprouting up rather quickly into highschool stardom. Who doesn't like Lisette?

"Oh, I know her name," Tom says through peals of laughter that make Sid's cheeks turn pink. "Huck likes her, too, though...has for a while, actually. He'd never say it out loud, because he's too shy about that kind of stuff, but I'd say he called dibs. Sorry." Funny how he says sorry, but doesn't sound very sorry, not at all, not about putting words in Huck's mouth or asking Sid if he liked a girl only to shoo him away from her, when she has not, in fact, been "called dibs" on. Tom's own sly brand of push and pull, tugging bait along a string; of acting for his best friend in a way that Huck, Sid is certain, would be uncomfortable with. Sid begins to suspect he'd offered treating him before just to soften the blow.

"...Yeah, okay."

The rest of the drive to school is spent in silence, the sound of the radio serving more as background noise or a sour afterthought to the short lived conversation than music.

"Grace wanted me to help her with the turkey this year...Tom, I can't cook to save my life. But she looked so excited I couldn't tell her no."

"You know who you should be learning to cook a turkey with? Me."

Huck looks up from the small clay pot he's brushing with shaky strokes and grimaces. Tom can tell he's focused intently, and giving this project all he's got, which is…maybe not a whole lot. But Tom will say, his determination is admirable. It's a good thing their art teacher grades mainly on effort rather than skill. It's just like any other cutesy project assigned for them to finish before holiday break. They're halfway through junior year, but no matter how old they get, they're sent away each November with any turkey- or pilgrim-themed craft the teacher can think of.

Huck shakes his head and presses his lips together, eyes flitting distractedly from his work—a slab of dried clay that's supposed to be a festive turkey mug, but instead takes on more of the appearance of a poor, misshapen mutant than anything else—and back to Tom again. "Even if I wanted to make it with you, I couldn't. We're going to be cleaning the house all day before you guys come, and I bet your Aunt Polly will be asking for your help every ten seconds in the kitchen."

"Yeah, well…" Tom trails off in defeat and finds that he can't argue with this, because it's true. Every year, without fail, his aunt goes absolutely screwy planning the dishes, and demands perfection down to the nitty-gritty details. While she scolds Tom and Sid if they dare leave her side for a moment, lest she need their help, she also slaps their hands away if they try to actually help and contribute to the gigantic culinary mess. In the end, their lingering presence turns to be a waste for nothing but torturing them with the temptation to sneak a bite, which will also, undoubtedly, lead to more trouble. Nothing but a load of trouble, the preparation for the holidays is. He won't say it isn't worth it, though.

"Still," Tom simpers, leaning forward, arms crossed and elbows planted on the table, "you know I could just sneak from the house and come over early, if I really needed to."

"I...I don't want to cook, but I do want to spend time with Grace." Huck's eyes soften when he looks at Tom, as if pleading to make him understand, if only a bit. He's entirely helpless when Tom nags enough, and both of them know it. "I mean, she's...I don't know, she's my family. She's like my mom. Don't you like to be around your aunt?" He wets his lips a bit nervously, as if he knows he may be asking the wrong question, but can't stop himself from pressing on, "She's kind of like your mom, isn't she?"

Ah, there it is.

Huck had been adopted this year by Jim and his wife, Grace, after spending four years with them as a foster child. Tom supposes it makes sense that he'd want to spend the holidays this year especially nestled in close to them, no matter how unpleasant the activities may be, or how strenuous the chores. And fixing a nice Thanksgiving meal isn't the most unbearable task to endure. Tom's not sure he wants to admit it out loud, though.

His mouth opens, and then shuts again when no words spill out, as they usually do. He studies his own prettily decorated mug, then, and is satisfied to at least find that it resembles what he had meant it to. He plucks up his paintbrush and, ostensibly absorbed in the task at hand, adds another coat of glaze, but not because he has been instructed to by the teacher. It's because he wishes he had responded sooner and not seemed so dumbfounded by the question. Finally, he sighs, trying to sound as painfully exasperated as possible, "That's different, Huck. And a stupid thing to ask..."

Wasn't it obvious that he felt Aunt Polly was like a mother to him? Maybe it shouldn't have been.

Huck simply shrugs, seeming unbothered by the sudden and unprovoked show of meanness. "Doesn't seem that stupid to me."

"I know."

After they are told to tidy up their tables and wash up towards the end of the class, Huck trails behind Tom as he collects both of their brushes and brings them to the sink. He lowers them beneath the faucet and twists the knob, rinsing them under the cold water's flow.

"Just don't mess the bird up, then," Tom exhales with hesitant resignation. As if he really has a choice in the matter. "That's the best part…"

"Grace's a really good cook," Huck beams, knowing all too well himself and feeling reassured, if he'd reserved any doubts regarding his skill or lack thereof—and Tom knows he does—that she could pull through for the both of them. "She won't let me mess it up."

The two of them finish cleaning up just in time, and retreat to the coatroom to hang up their dirtied aprons in comfortable silence. That is, until it is broken when Tom gets a good look at Huck's face beneath the dim glow of the light overhead.

"...Huck?"

"What?"

"You've got clay all over your face."

The bell rings, and they arrive to their next classes late because they had lingered behind, Huck reassuring Tom he could handle it on his own and that Tom should hurry on out, Tom dabbing a sopping paper towel over Huck's face, his gestures punctuated by a small admonishment every now and then.

"How did you even get this here?"

"I was working really hard. I didn't notice."

The teacher doesn't even write them a slip. The jerk.

Only a few more days until the celebration, and Aunt Polly sends Tom out to the grocery store with a lengthy shopping list and the strict order not to waste the money she'd hastily stuffed in his hand on anything frivolous, because it was just enough for what they needed. Nothing more, nothing less.

Once he's trudged out towards the station wagon, hopped inside and bundled his scarf a bit tighter around his neck, he sends a quick text to Huck.

"im going out shopping, come with meeee"

Perhaps he intentionally makes the errand sound a bit less than what it is, an errand and not an impromptu field trip to the mall. But he isn't necessarily lying, either. It's not as though Huck will not tag along wherever people will have him, anyway.

It takes Huck a bit longer to reply than the next person, as usual, but he does reply eventually. By the time Tom receives the text, it's been five minutes, he's grown a bit impatient, perched his feet up on the dashboard, and is ready to pull out of the driveway.

"okay come by whenever"

When Tom arrives at the house and Huck comes ambling out the door, he notices Jim drawing back the sheer curtains from the window and giving him a friendly, soft smile. The gentle stream of light from inside shrouds about his face, and Tom swears he can see his laugh lines from inside the car. He ducks beneath the little pine tree hanging from his rearview mirror, so that he may wave to him and he may wave back. Then Jim disappears again, retreating back to whatever business he had been attending to inside, probably spending time with Lizzy, and Huck makes himself comfortable in the passenger seat.

Tom quickly retrieves the shopping list from his pocket and holds it up. Anyone would guess from the sight of him that he was proud, almost, despite his initial protests, to be entrusted with a list so long and demanding. "Aunt Polly always wants her dishes to be a surprise, but I...kind of wanted help. I'll make it up to you, Hucky, honest."

"You don't have to make anything up," Huck offers in turn, and Tom swears, he can't begin to understand how he manages to stay so laid back all the time. Of course he wouldn't.

"I'll take you out for ice cream after."

"It's November," Huck laughs quietly. "Not too cold for ice cream?"

Tom barks out an incredulous scoff. "No! What kind of a question is that?"

It's late at night, and the hustle and bustle of midday has died down since then. The grocery store appears to be nearly empty, and so wide and vast when Tom and Huck enter that they feel as though they've happened upon priceless sanctuary, blessedly all theirs. Tom is relieved then that he'd asked Huck to come along. If he were here all by himself, the immensity would have made him feel small and lonely, and there's just no time to feel lonely when there's work to be done, is there?

Naturally, they grab a cart, and Huck leaps into the basket, and Tom steers it down the vacant aisles, searching for what he needs. Their unperturbed pace is only broken whenever Tom feels the sudden urge to race no one in particular. The store clerk gives him a funny look when he raises a leg behind him all the way past the shelves lined with canned goods, and he simply returns the favor before going on his way. Every now and then, either of them will hum along to the Christmas jingles that play faintly over the intercom, squinting eyes scanning out the labels printed on the various different cans.

"You need cranberry sauce," Huck murmurs, reading the list carefully. He absently swings his legs dangling outside the basket. "Grab it, I think there's some over there."

"Alright, got it."

"Did you get the bread?"

"Yep."

"Alright, uh...It says you need string bea—"

"Me and Becky got into a fight the other day.

"...Really?"

"Guess what she said."

"Hm?"

"She said I'm book smart and people stupid."

"…Oh."

They carry on like this, reading from the extensive list and grabbing what they need and complaining about what has sucked lately in life—or more drifting in and out of the conversation, on Huck's part. Most of the time, he simply listens, but Tom doesn't mind. He ends up having to call Aunt Polly twice because he just can't understand her "chicken scratch" writing, as he puts it, but would never actually say directly to her, and maybe he's feeling a little gratified because Huck also is unable to decipher her cursive. The real reason is because he refuses to wear his reading glasses outside of the house, and he'd lost his contacts over a week ago.

It doesn't take much longer for the list to be entirely checked off, and soon enough, they're racing outside with their cart towards the station wagon, one of the sole vehicles sitting in the broad sweep of parking lot spaces.

"My kingdom…!" Tom yells, charging the cart at full speed, and Huck effortlessly finishes the battle cry: "...For a horse!" Tom nearly slips on a patch of ice, but he doesn't care because he's so pleased that they miraculously manage to get all the groceries in the trunk of the car without any of the paper bags ripping. They even get ice cream, just as Tom had promised; chocolate for Huck and butter pecan for Tom. He feels so happy and strangely pleasant that he doesn't even mind that when he arrives home, Aunt Polly is quick to thank him for running her errand and then scold him when she spies the cone in his hand.

He simply steals up behind her, presses a kiss to her cheek, and hurries up the stairs and to his bed for the night.

Despite the past few days of insufferably freezing weather, the temperature seems to be bearable enough on Thanksgiving day. Tom had hoped it would snow—that's always how the pristine Thanksgivings play out in his books—but he supposes he'll take sunshine over rain and roads consequently riddled with frozen patches of ice.

Tom thumbs the doorbell and waits patiently, dangerously balancing a bowl of potato salad secured with plastic wrap in in the crook of one arm and a small box of plastic silverware in his other hand. Sid skirts up to the doorstep carrying a ridiculous amount of tupperware and nods impatiently towards the buzzer.

"Well?" he prods, snippy.

"I already rung it, doofus. Just wait."

When the door opens, Lizzy stands at first, beaming a toothy, gap-toothed grin, before shuffling back so they may enter.

Tom looks expectantly over at Lizzy and sheepishly gestures towards his full hands, smiling back at her and walking towards the kitchen with an even pace. "How are ya, girly?" he says instead, purposely not greeting her too verbosely and knowing she can read lips well enough to understand this, at least.

"Good," she signs to him, and quickly takes the large bowl from his hands. He releases a sigh of relief and places the rest on the counter, thanking her with a hasty nod and a smile flitting to his lips. "Where's your aunt?" She looks around, puzzled, as if just now noticing that she had not followed in after Tom and Sid's entrance.

"Oh!" he exclaims, and begins to sprint back towards the front door, as if he's just noticed, too. But Lizzie is eager to help still, and assures him it's alright before excitedly rushing out to meet her and offer assistance.

He wipes his hands over his good trousers, happy to free of the heavy load, and afterwards when he wanders into the dining room, he happens upon Grace and Huck hovering proudly over a gigantic, steaming bird, set carefully on a pristine white china plate.

"It looks really good," Huck mutters below his breath, sounding a bit faint. The smile on his face is diffident, a bit uncertain but still tentatively optimistic, and he wrings his hands just a bit before jamming them in his pockets. "I just don't know how it'll taste."

Grace shakes her head. "No, baby, you stop worrying. It'll be really good. You'll see."

Tom raps his knuckles against the doorway, as if apologetic to interrupt the sentimental scene by announcing his arrival. And he actually sort of is, because Huck looks genuinely pleased with his and Grace's hard work. It'd be nice to see them sing their praises just a bit longer. Seems making a turkey turned out much more successful this round than it did in pottery class about a week ago. Good. That's where it counts, anyway.

"Tom!" Grace gushes, and is quick to come around the table and encircle him in an embrace so tight only a mother could achieve. She gives him a gentle squeeze after drawing away and pats his shoulder. "It's so nice to see you. Where's your Aunt Polly and your brother?"

"Slowpokes," Tom simply replies, and Huck throws him a knowing look from behind her shoulder. "Um, they're actually in the other room by now. Probably. If you want to say hello."

She gives him one last slight squeeze before deciding she'll do just that, and leaves the pair alone in the dining room.

Tom draws closer to the dish sitting by the edge of the table with conspiratorial glee, as if the scent wafting throughout the room is beckoning him closer. He really wants to sneak a taste, but promptly decides against it, worried that Aunt Polly may burst in any second now. "God, I'm starving. How on earth did you manage without me, Hucky?"

Huck laughs bashfully and glances down again, brows raised, as if pondering the way it looked just perfectly golden brown, or the way the steam rose up and curled pleasantly around them, or the way the tiny chopped vegetables decorated the dish so adorably. "I told you. Grace helped."

It ends up tasting just as good as it looks and smells, just as Huck had hoped. Thank God, Tom wants to say, but doesn't.

"Can you pass the gravy?" He asks politely the second after they've finished praying over their meals.

"Let's talk about what we're thankful for this year," Aunt Polly says, the gravy boat remaining far from him, and Tom wants to groan aloud.

"Can't we skip the grade school ritua—ow! Quit it!" Tom shouts at Sid, who'd maybe kicked him in the shin beneath the table not-so-discreetly.

"Well?" Sid presses. He rests his head in his hand and stares on expectantly. "What are you thankful for, Tom?" The way he drawls out his name admittedly makes Tom want to punch his lights out, but he supposes that wouldn't be good dining etiquette, especially during the holidays.

"...Food," Tom hisses, not answering dishonestly, in the very least. "And I'll be thankful for gravy when I get it, too. If I ever get it." He does not uncross his arms until the boat finally reaches him, and he absolutely drenches his turkey and mashed potatoes in sauce.

"And what are you thankful for this year, Huck?"

"The Macy Day Parade. I think the floats are cool," comes out as his immediate reply, as if he needs not a moment's rumination.

Tom stifles laughter and raises a hand to his mouth so his aunt won't see him grinning like an idiot. He sniffs and chuckles quietly in assent, "They are cool, Huck."

And so, no one asks anyone else what they are grateful for, but everyone does spend the entirety of their meals chattering warmly amongst each other, and that seems to be just as well. Every now and then, Huck will drift to the kiddie table to share dessert with Lizzy, and while Tom supposes that's all fine and dandy to act in the Thanksgiving spirit, he stays glued in his seat, proud to have graduated from the table himself three years prior.

Aunt Polly is worried about overstaying their visit, but, just as is expected of their hospitality, Jim and Grace insist that the three of them stay just a bit longer, and they do. While the adults lounge around in the dining room, nipping their wine and snacking on pie, the children sprawl about the living room, feeling so full they could burst.

The TV is on, and all Tom has the energy to do now is listen to the exaggerated childlike voices yell out to him from the speakers:

"We've got another holiday to worry about. It seems Thanksgiving Day is upon us."

"I haven't even finished eating all of my Halloween candy!"

This draws a quiet sort of smile from him, and after a moment or two of thinking, he glances over to Huck, who sits cross legged on the rug, head canted upwards and leaning against the foot of the couch, resting near Tom's socked feet.

"...Huck?"

"Yeah?" Huck's voice sounds a bit drowsy, a bit bone-weary around the edges.

"Can I take home leftovers?"

This gives Huck slight pause. But only for so long, before he understands, and Tom can barely see the smallest of smiles begin to bloom steadily on his face. If he weren't staring so intently, he's sure he would have missed it.

"Yeah, you can."

"Good."