Disclaimer: I think the only thing I can really own in this story without being in danger of getting sued is the food.
A/N: This is probably set somewhere between books 2 and 5.
Fathers and Sons (and Best Friends)
Jake's POV:
It would seem suspicious if he didn't come over for dinner at least once in a while, so there we were, the four of us plus Marco, having a nice and normal dinner on a nice and normal Friday night.
"I'm sorry Peter couldn't make it," my dad said, removing a chunk of roast from in between his molars with a toothpick.
"Yeah, they put dad on the nightshift," Marco replied. 'Nightshift' came out as more of a gurgle than a word because his mouth was stuffed with mashed potatoes. Mom was too busy scribbling in a composition book to comment on their bad manners.
Tom and I were used to dad's tooth picking, but Tom, or more accurately his Yeerk, grimaced and gagged at Marco's mouthful of food. I didn't mind though because those potatoes were homemade instead out-of-the-box, and the last time Marco had eaten anything homemade was during the days after the funeral, when neighbors had overloaded his fridge with "sorry for your loss" salads and sympathy casserole.
"That's too bad…hey; I'm surprised you're not busy. No 'hot' dates tonight, eh?" Marco grinned, shook his head, and readied another forkful.
I carefully chewed my string beans and tried not to picture Mr. Pete sitting on his couch, in his robe, dull-eyed and scratching at his beard with his head cocked slightly to the left—which is exactly how we'd left him forty-five minutes ago.
While I sat trying not to stare too hard at my brother's forehead, I realized I was glad that Marco was Marco. If he wasn't, he would have choked and sputtered and stumbled over a response to my father's comment. If he wasn't, I would have had to find the words to explain how I could call him lucky, and even now, still be jealous of his relationship with his dad. If he wasn't, he would've broken down into tears that one time last year when I'd accidentally told him to ask his mom if he could come over.
Marco was Marco, so, letting him blow the rest of my birthday money at the arcade the day after she died, was just as good as awkwardly consoling him.