A/N: Happy very belated birthday to Writhing, whose beautiful Quembry one-shot in the heat of the summer gave me Thoughts.
If he had to rank all of the holidays, Christmas would be at the absolute bottom of Embry's list. Between sky-high airfares - seriously, who the hell can drop a grand on a two-week vacation? - and the stress of finding the cash to buy gifts from somewhere classier than the dollar store, the entire month of December has climbed to the top of his shit list. It lives there, in fact, reigning supreme above February - he has endless bones to pick with Saint Valentine - for the third year running. Historically speaking, spending the holidays alone in his dorm has sucked, but the reality of returning to La Push for the first time since his high school graduation isn't too much more appealing.
Embry presses down on the accelerator pedal, willing the snow-lined highway to blur by just that little bit faster. Sure, his shitty Honda Accord isn't exactly built for navigating the wintery landscape, but after one too many guilt-trip phone calls from Mom about missing her firstborn - as if he isn't her only child - and hating running the store solo, an impromptu road trip quickly became the only option.
The crackly stereo bleats a warped version of Mister Heatmiser as he edges further down the 101, half-contemplating turning around on the other side of the bridge. Mom doesn't exactly know he's coming, and he's not even sure if he wants to be in La Push - let alone whether his car will make it there.
"Friends call me snow miser, whatever I touch turns to snow in my clutch," croons an insufferable voice, and it's the last freaking straw.
"Enough!" Embry roars, smacking the stereo with an open palm.
Abruptly, the dashboard warning lights blink into brilliant crimson; the radio fizzles to nothing, and the engine dwindles to an ineffectual grinding crawl. The stream of profanities that escape his mouth will definitely banish him to the bottom of the naughty list - if he isn't already there - and that's without taking into consideration him careening over the concrete kerbing bordering the highway.
As soon as he finds the handbrake buried under a critical mass of miscellaneous clothing and other debris, he leaps out onto the shoulder, circling the car to study the damage. It's hard to tell what's new, and what are remnants of previous misadventures, though he's sure that sailing over solid obstacles would have done a real number on the chassis…. especially in combination with whatever the hell's going on with the engine.
He roots around in the pocket of his cargo shorts until he can find his phone, already rehearsing what he'll have to say to his mother.
No signal.
Embry leans over the bridge railing, staring into the inky black depths below. He tries to remember the meditation-style breathing sequence his roommate from first semester taught him, some zen bullshit, but his breath comes in quick little pants and he can't focus on the count. He closes his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands to his face.
Think, Embry, think, he commands himself, racking his brain until his head pounds from the exertion.
Finally, after a suitable period of acting like a partially-sane adult, he does it.
He leans forward and yells, bellowing into the swirling waters until his chest aches and his throat throbs.
"Helluva scream you got there," a voice says from behind him, and this time, he shrieks, whirling around.
"Mother of Christ," Embry exhales, clutching his chest. "Y'almost gave me a heart attack!"
The man smiles at him, crossing his plaid-covered arms across his chest, and it takes a moment.
Only one.
"Quil?" he breathes, squinting at the man.
He grins even wider, lurching forward to wrap him in one of those cheesy bro-hugs the frat guys are always doing in the cafeteria. It's been, like, at least six months since he's been touched, and it's weird and uncomfortable and also kind of nice. Quil's still got those big beefy linebacker kind of arms and when he gives Embry a squeeze his whole bicep ripples -
And then Quil steps back and the moment is over as soon as it started.
"What are you doing here, dude?" he crows, gesturing wildly. "It's, like, forty degrees and you're on the side of the road in freaking Washington. I thought you were in one of those corn states or something."
Embry laughs. "Naw, Oregon. Real corn shortage, I gotta say."
Quil snorts. "Could say the same for 'round here. Y'need a tow?" he says, cocking his head towards his truck. "I'm on my way back to La Push anyway. If that's where you're going," he tacks on quickly.
"You," Embry declares, "are a lifesaver. Seriously. I was ready to start begging and all."
"I dunno, man, that screaming was a little freaky," Quil jokes, squatting down in his oil-stained jeans to size up the situation. "You probably scared off the better half of the Pacific Northwest."
"I'm gonna be honest with you. One look at this dumpster on wheels would've had the same effect," Embry says, kicking the back tyre. "One minute it was all shitty Christmas carols, and next minute I was going over the divider like the fuckin' DeLorean."
Quil hums as he works, messing around with straps and cables and winches until the old beast is creaking back over, inching towards the right side of the highway. Embry stands awkwardly beside the truck, mechanically clueless and entirely unuseful, trying to make conversation about anything and everything to fill the silence. Quil's as good of a listener as he is a tow truck operator, nodding and vocalising at the right parts of his stories until, somehow, they're God-knows how many minutes in and Embry's offloading about his awful string of bad luck.
"- you should've seen my mid-term, man, it was bad. No, terrible. I'm meant to be done next quarter and I can't even tell you how to file for a statutory audit. I can't figure out how to pass the CPA exam without violating at least three of the fundamental principles," Embry gripes, running his hand through his grown-out hair.
Quil eyes him curiously as the battered Accord inches its way up the tilt tray. "You've always been tough on yourself. I bet you've got a 3.0 GPA or something crazy."
"A three ain't something to brag about," he huffs, trying not to calculate the actual figure in his mind.
"Hey, you're talking to the guy who got through high school on borrowed answers and bribes," Quil laughs, tugging on the ratchet strap for one final check. "She's good to go. Come ride up front?"
"Sure," Embry says, a smile tugging at his lips as he climbs in the cab. "Unless you're charging extra for that. I have twenty bucks in my wallet." He pauses, digging in his cargo short pockets. "Actually, scratch that. I don't even have a wallet."
"Conned again," Quil sighs, dramatically slumping against the dashboard. "When will I learn?"
"I think that's a question for the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come," he teases, buckling his seatbelt.
Quil's eyebrows shoot up as he knocks the truck into gear. "Let me get this straight. Embry Call, famed Christmas grump, is not only back in town for the holidays, but is making actual accurate references? I guess leopards really can change their spots."
"Well, you know what they say. Big city changes you…or something," he says, shaking his head ruefully.
Quil hums thoughtfully. "Somehow, I doubt that. I mean, look at us. Three years and it's like nothing has changed."
Embry stares silently out the windshield, the words weighing heavily on his mind. It's crazy how despite the distance and space and time, a mere thirty minutes with Quil has him hurtling headfirst back into his junior high heartsick phase.
Well, not just junior high.
But that's beside the point.
"How long are you back for?" Quil asks softly, his brown eyes flicking across to study his expression.
"Not sure," he mutters, slouching in the passenger seat. "I guess I'll see Mom and then go from there."
Quil slows as they approach the county line, fiddling with the radio until the static smooths into some moody hillbilly song. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel as he drives, bobbing his head in time with the beat. After a lifetime of listening to a redneck wail about beer and F-150s, the cab lapses into a comfortable silence.
Embry fiddles with a loose stitch on his shorts, trying to find a topic of conversation that won't make his russet skin flush. If he asks about Quil's predilection for surfing, it'll be impossible to suppress the memory of his toned body clad only in swim trunks under the hot summer sun. Mentioning Claire is sure to spark an in-depth conversation that'll signal Quil's immense emotional availability that Embry would die for.
He clears his throat. Quil turns to look at him expectantly. "So…how'd you get into towing?"
Quil brightens, immediately launching into a detailed recap of Jacob Black's flourishing garage, the very same that they had brainstormed over countless free periods so many years before. His chocolate eyes light up when he talks about the vintage Mustang he got to fix up last fall, how Jacob even lets Claire wash cars and clean windscreens for extra pocket money.
"It sounds like you love your job," Embry comments softly, his heart skipping a beat as Quil squeezes his shoulder.
"I do, man, I really, really do," he says, looking almost wistful in the evening light. "Always thought you'd be sticking around, too."
Embry shrugs. He can't exactly clue Quil in for the full story of why he left La Push - that would involve explaining his decade-long crush, which would then require him to be honest about his sexuality - and so he hums noncommittally, trying not to let his inner turmoil show.
"Things change, I guess. People change," he says, settling for something suitably vague.
"Sure," Quil says amicably, flipping on the blinker. "How do you feel about plans changing? I promised Claire I'd stop by at Sam and Emily's Christmas Eve dinner, and we can probably make it for dessert if I speed a little. Or I can drop you off at your mom's. Totally your call."
Embry blinks. "You want me to come to the dinner?"
"Uh, duh," Quil says, nudging his shoulder again. "Gotta make up for lost time, 'specially if you're not hanging 'round for long."
His skin tingles from where Quil's fingers rested, if only momentarily. Maybe that's what's controlling his brain when the yes slips from his lips, his mouth rearranging into a genuine smile when Quil cheers.
Some things never change.
Claire's shriek rings out clearly above the chatter and chaos of the makeshift buffet dinner, just as high and ear-piercing as Embry remembers.
"Quil!" she cries excitedly, clambering over her aunt to launch herself into his arms.
He swings her around, narrowly missing dropping her head-first onto the wet grass, and Embry can't help but laugh. Claire's six now, he thinks, but she looks exactly the same as she did when she was a sticky toddler running around the Rez in too-big overalls and ratty pigtails. As soon as Quil flips her back upright, placing her safely on her two feet, she spots Embry, and it is shrieks all around again.
"Em!" she squeals, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Merry Christmas!"
Embry pats her head awkwardly, stunned that she even remembers him - let alone remembering him enough to hug him with all the force that a small child can command. "Hi, Claire. Merry Christmas to you, too."
She bounces back over to Quil, seemingly vibrating with elation. "You did it! You got your present!"
Quil's face blanches, and Embry's pretty well positive that one of the unfamiliar faces over by the trestle table laughs - at them.
"What present's that, Claire-bear?" Embry asks, his curiosity piqued.
Before she can reply, Emily swoops in, two powdered-sugar pastries in hand. "So lovely to see you, Embry," she says, passing the desserts to Quil. "Claire, come and help me make cocoa."
"But -" Claire protests.
"Now, Claire," she says sternly.
Quil gives her a comforting pat on the shoulder. "Come and sit with us after, okay?"
"Okay," she huffs, stomping off after Emily with a sour look on her face.
"Well, that's Claire. Six going on sixteen," Quil jokes, tipping his head towards a cluster of abandoned lawn chairs. "Wanna sit?"
"Sure," Embry says, still thinking about Claire's ambiguous comment as he settles in. "What was that all about?"
Quil's cheeks bloom red as he scuffs his sneaker on the ground. "It's…personal," he says finally, avoiding eye contact.
"Oh," Embry murmurs. "Gotcha."
"No, actually, you know what," Quil says, abruptly jerking his chin upwards. "Fuck it. Serendipity and all that shit. Let me tell you a story."
Embry leans back, balancing precariously in the sun-worn lawn chair. "I feel like I need popcorn for this."
"Okay, okay, it's not that good," Quil says dismissively, shaking his head. "D'you remember that graduation party right before you moved away?"
"Sure," he says easily. "Jacob drank half a bottle of Everclear and passed out with Leah, and then you puked in his shoes."
"Mm, not exactly what I was going for. Do you remember spin the bottle?"
Embry stares at his feet. Is he in the twilight zone? Is Quil about to freak out on him again - as if the first time wasn't bad enough? He swallows thickly. "Yeah. I remember."
"I kissed you," Quil says quietly.
"Yeah, you did."
"Do you know why I did that?"
Is this what dying a slow death feels like?
"Because the bottle told you to," Embry mutters, digging the toe of his sneaker into the long grass.
"Well, that, and because I wanted to," Quil whispers, his voice almost inaudible. "I wanted to for ages."
Embry stares at him, studying his earnest expression. "What are you talking about? You kissed me and then you left and acted like it never fuckin' happened. That's not what you do when you like someone. Not like that."
"I know," he breathes, his hand twitching. "And I've regretted it every single day since. Really. That's why Claire said that - because when she asks me why I don't date around like Paul and Jared, I tell her that I'm still waiting on someone else. And it's true. I've been waiting on you."
"That's stupid," Embry groans, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'm sorry, but it is. You never even tried -"
"And what was I meant to say?" Quil argues, jumping to his feet. "That I'm a raging fucking faggot in a town where straight seems to be the only option? I didn't have a choice!"
Embry's eyes swim with tears. If there was ever a need for that cliche mindful breathing bullshit, it would be now, when he feels on the verge of exploding into smithereens in a semi-acquaintance's backyard.
"You always had a choice, Quil. Did you really think I would react like that?" He asks, hurt infusing his tone.
Quil frowns, wrapping his arms around his stomach. "I don't know - and I still don't. This isn't how I wanted things to go."
"Yeah," Embry sighs, blinking the wetness away. "I get that. I used to hope that you'd suddenly realise you liked me and make some overdramatic announcement that I'd pretend to hate but secretly love. Too many rom-coms, I think."
"No such thing," Quil says, a tiny smile pulling at his lips. "How long?"
"Sixth grade Life Science," he admits, fighting back laughter. "Mrs McEullen asked you to read from the textbook on the first day and you kept saying orgasm instead of organism until she sent you to the Principal's office."
Quil lets out a surprised bark of laughter. "Really? That's what did it for you?"
"Unfortunately," Embry says, shrugging. "Couldn't tell you why, but it's been you ever since."
A mischievous twinkle glitters in Quil's brown eyes. "Guess I'd better make up for lost time, then."
Before Embry can even ask what Quil's talking about - let alone whether he wants to know what's coming - Quil hops up onto his lawn chair, dramatically waving his arms like a drowning man.
"Yo, listen up! I have something to say," he bellows, giving a satisfied nod when the backyard dips into silence. "Thank you. As some - or all - of you may know, I am an idiot. Maybe even the biggest idiot, and that's including Jacob."
"I resent that -"
"Yeah, no one cares, Jake. Anyway," Quil starts, his eyes flickering over to Embry, "I made the idiotic choice to let this one go, instead of getting the balls to say how I felt - how I feel. So this is me, Quil Ateara the fifth, swallowing my pride, telling the whole fuckin' world that I love Embry Call more than I love Bud Light and repo jobs put together. Also, if y'all give him any shit I will not hesitate to tow your cars past the county line. Thanks. That's all."
Quil takes a theatrical bow, hopping down from his lawn chair as the mismatched group dissolve into a mixture of cheers and wolf-whistles. Embry's face burns as he watches Quil soak up the attention, completely unperturbed by the very public display of affection. Finally, he collapses back in the chair beside Embry, a hopeful expression playing across his face.
"I'm no Cusack, but I can get behind grand gestures," he teases, leaning his head back against a plaid-covered arm. "Can't change the past, but I'd sure as hell like to change the present. Let me take you out tomorrow."
"Bold of you to assume I'll be here tomorrow," Embry comments, chuckling at the dismayed look on Quil's face.
"Y'know, I'd be put off by that, but I've seen your car. That thing ain't going nowhere. How 'bout I make you a deal - we go to the tide pools, and you get the first push. I won't even scream."
Embry rolls his eyes. "Where's the fun in that?"
"Fine. First push and I scream like I'm a banshee dying a slow, painful death," Quil concedes.
"Spit shake," Embry declares, extending his newly-dampened palm.
"Deal."
(Despite Embry having the first push, they both end up soaked, and their first real kiss tastes like sweat and salt and sunshine.)
(Claire only stops saying I told you so when Jacob threatens to take away her car washing privileges.)
(Quil thanks his lucky stars for Embry's remarkably poor driving skills.)
