Title: A Small Life
Author: GatorGrrrl
Rating: T+
Warnings: Bad words, angst
Disclaimer: I do not own Drake & Josh. I just like bending them to my will.
Author's Note: Okay, so this is not going to be just a one-shot, after all. The idea just wouldn't leave me alone. I hope you like it!
Chapter 1: Free Fall
Drake squints through his Armani knock-offs into the open guitar case at his feet. The mid-afternoon sun shines dully off a small collection of coins and an even smaller collection of small-denomination bills. He sighs heavily and glances up and down the block. There's been a lot of foot traffic, but most of it has passed him as if he's invisible.
His stomach growls, but he ignores it, focusing instead on the knot tightening at the base of his neck. It's gotten gradually worse since he's been standing there and he reaches up and massages the spot with his right hand.
"Remember, I get half."
Drake looks to his left and sees Lou Forelli looking back at him, a sly grin on his lips. Lou owns the diner Drake is currently leaning against.
"Fine," Drake says, nudging the guitar case with his toe. "Half of nothing is still nothing."
Lou looks down into the case, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "That's it?" he asks.
"Like I said…" Drake says, shrugging.
"Have you played –" Lou begins.
"Yes," Drake says, cutting him off.
"How about –"
"Yes, Lou. I've played them all. Some of them twice." He sighs again, pulling the guitar over his head and leaning it against the wall beside him. He rubs his neck again irritably. "Got any fuckin' aspirin?"
Lou looks at him in that way Drake knows means there's something he wants to say. But he stays silent. Instead, he presses his lips into a thin line and puffs them out. After a second he says, "Sure. Be right back."
Kneeling, Drake gathers up the bills in his case into a neat stack, trying not to count them as he does so. He's been at it for two hours and the paltry sum is disheartening.
He hears the door open behind him and Lou's voice saying, "Here you go. Two aspirin."
Drake stands, folding the bills and stuffing them into the pocket of his jeans as he turns around. "Lou," he says, shaking his head.
"What?" the older man asks, half-grinning as he holds a plate with a cheeseburger and fries in one hand and a glass of iced tea in the other. "I brought you some aspirin, liked you asked. They're right there," he says, pointing to the spot next to the fries where two small white tablets are nestled.
Drake meets his eyes. "Thanks," he finally says, scooping the pills off the plate and popping them into his mouth, ignoring the glass of tea Lou holds out to him as he swallows the pills dry.
Lou grimaces. "How can you do that?"
Drake doesn't say anything, just looks at Lou with one eyebrow raised. It's a look that says, I've had a lot of practice.
Shaking his head, Lou holds the plate out to him. "Take it," he says.
"I don't need charity, Lou." It's the same conversation they've had a thousand times before.
"Charity," Lou says. "Who said anything about charity?"
"Lou," Drake says, reaching into his pocket. "How much?"
But Lou's shaking his head. "It's on the house. Really. Tommy made it by accident." He pushes the plate towards Drake. "Take it," he insists.
Drake hesitates for a moment, then takes the plate. Picking up a fry, he takes a bite as his stomach growls again. He knows Lou heard it by the very slight smile that draws up the corners of the man's mouth. "How do you accidentally make a cheeseburger?" Drake asks.
Lou grins. "You know Tommy. Great cook. Dumb as a stump."
Drake smiles and eats another fry. He knows the man is lying; nothing about the plate of food he's holding is accidental. But he's grateful nonetheless. "Well," he says. "Tell Tommy I said thanks."
"Tell him yourself. He's sittin' at the counter takin' a break." He motions through the glass.
Drake looks through the glass and sees a younger version of Lou looking back at him. Tommy. The cook waves at him. Drake nods in return.
"I'll bet Joanie accidentally made an extra chocolate milkshake, too," Lou says, smiling, when Drake turns his gaze back to him.
Drake rolls his eyes. "You really need to find some better help," he says.
Lou laughs. "What can I say? They're family." He walks to the door and pulls it open. "Go on," he says. "Take a load off. Get out of this heat for a while."
When Drake opens his mouth, Lou cuts him off. "I'll get your guitar. Don't worry about it. Here." He holds out the sweating glass of iced tea.
"Thanks," Drake says, wrapping his fingers around the glass and stepping into the air conditioning without argument.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Tommy Forelli is sitting on the stool next to Drake's, strumming his fingers gently over the strings of Drake's guitar. The diner's been closed for nearly an hour, ever since the last of the lunch customers paid their bills and left.
Drake's staring into the bottom of his milkshake glass, listening to the sounds of clinking glassware and jangling cookware emanating from the kitchen. His neck still feels tight and he rubs the knot again, closing his eyes.
Tommy starts singing softly under his breath and after a few bars, Drake recognizes the song. He snaps his head up and stares intently at the younger man beside him, irritation suffusing his skin. He reaches for his guitar and snatches it away by the neck.
Tommy looks at him wide-eyed, his mouth hanging slightly open. "What did you do that for?"
"Never play that fuckin' song on my guitar ever again," Drake says between his teeth. He knows it's unfair to be angry at Tommy, but he can't help it.
After a moment, the confusion on Tommy's face turns to wry amusement and a slow grin arcs across his mouth. "Not a big Harmonics fan, huh?"
Drake clenches his jaw at the name. "Their lead singer is a backstabbing cocksucker," he says. He's referring to Devon Boothe, his former friend and bandmate, who quit the band for greener pastures not long after their second album tanked.
"Yeah?" Tommy says and Drake can see the questions burning behind his eyes. But the one he asks is, "What'd he do, fuck your girlfriend?" He laughs, but the sound dies quickly when Drake doesn't laugh in return.
"More like fucked me over," Drake says, debating how much he should share. The Forellis know little about his past other than he used to be famous once upon a very long time.
"What happened?" Tommy asks him, leaning in and lowering his voice.
Drake sighs, then readjusts the guitar across his lap. "Listen," he says, then proceeds to play the song Tommy had been playing, his fingers moving effortlessly over the strings. When he's finished, he looks at Tommy and waits for him to say something.
"But…" Tommy says, his eyes moving from Drake's face to his hands then back to his face. "You just said…"
"I know what I said, Tommy," Drake says. "But I'm allowed to play it. It's my song. I wrote it."
"But…"
"Devon Boothe used to play in my band a long time ago," Drake explains. "When he quit, he took more than his guitar with him."
Tommy's eyes slowly widen as realization sets in. "Shit," he says under his breath, shaking his head.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Lou walks him out through the back door and Drake waits for the older man to lock up.
"You know," Lou says, turning the key in the deadbolt. Drake can hear the note of apprehension in the man's voice and braces himself against it. "I was just thinking…"
"No," Drake says, cutting him off. "Whatever it is…no."
Lou turns to him, a knowing smile on his lips. "You don't even know what I was going to say."
Drake hooks his thumbs under the strap of his guitar case, which is slung crosswise over his chest. "Yes, I do," he says. He tilts his head slightly. "What is it this time? Wedding? Birthday party? Bar mitzvah?"
Lou grins and his nearly black eyes twinkle mischievously. "Stag party," he says.
Drake just stares back at him. He doesn't like the sound of this.
"For my nephew," Lou continues. "He and his partner, Jeff, are having their commitment ceremony next Saturday."
"Commitment ceremony," Drake repeats.
Drake didn't think it was possible, but the man's grin actually widens, nearly swallowing his face. "Yeah. I told Carmine about you. He's my nephew. He thinks you'd be perfect."
"That's great," Drake says. I used to fill stadiums, he thinks.
"They'll pay you 500 dollars," Lou says. "But I'll bet you could get more if you took your shirt off," he adds, laughing.
Five hundred bucks. That's more money than Drake's seen in a while. But he shakes his head. "Lou," he says and feels his throat tighten. "I appreciate it. But you know I can't. I just can't."
Lou frowns and his eyes take on a serious look. "Look, kid. Every week I watch you stand outside my place and play your heart out for pennies. And, I don't know, for some reason, you find that less demeaning than taking an honest-to-goodness paying job. I don't understand it, but I respect it." He reaches out and rests his hand on Drake's left shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. "You've got principles. I get it. But, son," he says, holding Drake's gaze, "principles don't pay the rent."
Drake knows the man's right, but he can't seem to let go of the image in his head of Adam Sandler in The Wedding Singer. Every time Lou offers him a job, he pictures himself sporting a mullet and crooning cheesy 80s power ballads in front of a room full of tipsy spinsters in pink taffeta.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Drake spends the eighteen dollars and forty-six cents he earned in front of Lou's diner on beer, cigarettes, and junk food from the convenience store two blocks from his apartment. When he reaches his building, he has to step over Mr. Clifton, who's passed out on the steps. Drake used to wake him and help him back up to his apartment on the third floor, but Mrs. Clifton always just turned around and threw him out again.
The elevator is still broken, so Drake heads directly for the stairwell, bracing himself for the strong odor of urine mixed with marijuana he knows will be clinging to the air. He tries not to breathe too deeply as he climbs five flights, and he's out of breath by the time he reaches his floor.
He digs in his pocket for his keys as he heads to his door, then stops in his tracks when he looks up. "Shit," he says, irritated, then closes the distance to his door in four angry steps.
NOTICE OF EVICTION. The words stare back at him from a yellow sheet of paper taped to his door. It's the third one he's gotten this month. Like they have to keep reminding him he's broke.
He tears the paper off and slides the key into the lock. But it doesn't turn. He jiggles it. It doesn't budge. He pulls the key out, checking to see he's got the correct one, but even as he does it, he knows the truth.
They've changed the locks.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
"You can't just lock me out," Drake is saying to the super, a balding man with a beer gut who wields what little power he has with authority.
The man, Arlo Roache, stares back at Drake impassively over the disorderly expanse of his desk. "Your rent is three weeks late."
"I'll have it next week," Drake says, the words leaving his mouth automatically.
"That's what you said last week," Arlo says. "And the week before that." He holds his hands open in front of him. "Do you detect a pattern here?"
Drake bites back his immediate response and squeezes his fingers closed around the crumpled eviction notice he still holds in his hand. "Look," he says, fighting to stay calm, "I'll have it next week. I swear. I've got a couple gigs lined up." He doesn't, really. He's just stalling.
A malicious gleam shines in Arlo's eyes as he studies Drake closely for a long moment. "I know who you are, you know," he finally says.
Drake just stares at him as he feels his hands begin to tremble. "I'm nobody," he says softly.
Arlo gives him a knowing smile. "Exactly."
Drake doesn't say a word.
"By the way," Arlo says after a long moment, "someone called here for you." He digs through a pile of papers on his desk until he finds the one he's looking for, then tosses it in Drake's direction. It flutters to the floor, landing face-down at Drake's feet.
As Drake bends to pick it up, he hears Arlo say from above him, "Said he tried your phone, but it was disconnected. Big surprise."
Drake picks up the piece of paper and turns it over, his eyes scanning the message. The handwriting is mostly illegible, but he can barely make out the word 'Josh' at the top. "My brother," he says, standing. "What did he want?"
"How the fuck should I know?" Arlo says. "Do I look like a goddamn answering service?"
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Drake finally breaks down and calls Josh collect, but it doesn't take him long to wish he hadn't. He's leaning against the wall at the end of a bank of payphones, a half-burned cigarette dangling from his lips. The fingers of his left hand are wrapped so tightly around the phone pressed against his ear they feel cold.
"Drake," Josh is saying across the line, "are you listening to me?"
It takes Drake a moment to respond, but he finally does. "Yeah," he says, plucking the cigarette from his mouth and dropping it to the pavement, crushing it beneath the toe of his boot as he blows out the smoke. "I'm listening."
"You need to come home," Josh says.
"Yeah."
"How soon can you get here?"
"I don't know. A few hours, maybe."
"I'm gonna book you a flight."
"No," Drake says quickly. "I can do it. I'm not completely helpless, you know."
"I know," Josh says. "I'm sorry."
Drake pushes air through his nose, the sound reverberating in the phone. "How is she?" he finally asks.
There's a long pause and Drake can hear the static on the line. His brother has never felt farther away than he does at that moment. Finally, Josh breaks the silence. "You know how she is," he says. "She's putting up a strong front. But she's dying inside."
Drake closes his eyes, unable to speak. He understands the feeling.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
"A hundred bucks," the man behind the counter says to him.
"A hundred bucks?" Drake asks, staring at the man incredulously. He's got his guitar case open on the counter and he points to the instrument nestled inside. "That's Brazilian rosewood," he says. "It's worth at least ten times that."
The man gazes at him with disinterest. "Not to me, it isn't," he says. "Look around, buddy. I've got guitars coming outta my ass. A hundred bucks is a generous offer. Take it or leave it."
Drake stares at the man unblinkingly, a sharp coldness slowly seeping into his skin. He can feel the icy tendrils of it grip his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. His heartbeat echoes inside his skull, but despite the noise, he can still hear Josh's voice telling him he needs to come home.
He meets the man's eyes across the glass counter. "I'll take it," he says.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
The plane is cramped and the recycled air is stale and tastes slightly metallic against the back of his throat. He's got the aisle seat next to the bathroom and his elbow throbs from where the drink cart slammed into it during some turbulence.
He's tired, but he can't sleep. His mind's too wound up with worry and nerves to rest.
He's on his way home. It'll be the first time he's set foot in San Diego in nearly six years.
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