cruel of me to post anything knowing this is nowhere near ready to post in spite of having literally 30,000 words written. I am however in need of a distraction and someone on Twitter called it whitsantos week so hereās a teeny tiny peek at the beginning. Picks up right after season 1. Platonic only those are the siblings of all time!!
ā
āHave you eaten anything?ā
āHuh?ā
āFood, Huckleberry,ā she says as she drops her keys into a ceramic dish that has a decent sized chip in it. His eyes are still scanning the apartment. Couch in front of a TV to his left, adorned with mismatched coffee and side tables. Kitchen peeking out through a half wall behind it. Two closed doors in front of him that he assumes are bedrooms.
āUh, yeah, I had a sandwich earlier.ā
āEarlier when?ā
āMaybeā¦one?ā
His head turns as she walks past him, her shoes left lopsided by the door. He quickly takes his off, placing them as neatly and out of the way as he can manage. āIāve got leftover stir fry in the fridge,ā she says as she opens one of the doors. āSave me a bowl and the rest is yours, if you want it.ā
āOh, no, itās fine, I couldnātāā
She sighs loudly, heavily, her whole body turning around in the doorway like itās being dragged against its will. āListen. I know this is weird. You know this is weird. Weāve established that. But itās only going to get worse if you tiptoe around all the time. I have food. I wonāt eat it all. Have some. Itās not that big of a deal.ā
It is a big deal. There arenāt enough words in any language to express how big of a deal it is, to be offered the stuff of life so freely, but instead of saying any of that, or doing something equally as embarrassing like cry, he just nods. āAlright. Thanks.ā
āYour room is the door to the left. Sheets on the bed are clean, and there should be space in the closet for your stuff. Washer and dryer are in one of the closets in the kitchen.ā
āGot it. Thank you.ā
āStop thanking me.ā
āOh. Right. Sorry.ā
Santos sighs again, softer this time, before turning and walking into her room. āIām gonna shower. Try anything and Iāll gut you like a fish.ā
The door closes behind her, just loud enough to make him jump. After a minute, the water starts running, and after another minute, he thinks he probably shouldnāt be found standing outside her door like a lost puppy when she comes back.
It isnāt much, but he grabs his stuff ā shoved into a backpack that has seen him through nearly every grade, and a duffel he stole from his dormās lost and found on the last day of undergrad ā and makes his way to the second bedroom. She warned him on the way over that it isnāt anything fancy, just a bed and a dresser and a little nightstand, with beige walls and a tiny bathroom that should work.
Considering heās gone from sharing a room with his older brother, to shitty college dorms, to an unsavory apartment with more roommates than was technically legal, to a hospital bed in an abandoned inpatient wing, a bedroom to himself in a building that isnāt also his place of employment is a considerable upgrade.
Within a pitifully low number of minutes, everything he owns is put in its rightful spot. Venturing back into the kitchen, he goes straight to the fridge and finds the leftovers amidst nearly empty shelves. Opening cabinets at random makes him feel like an intruder, but by some miracle, the bowls are in the third one he checks.
He fills one up for her, and then one for himself, doing his best to make sure he isnāt taking any more than heās giving. Already he can feel his stomach straining, desperate in a way heās grown used to. Patience is a virtue, though, and itās one heās always had in spades, so he takes the bowl and throws it in the microwave, staring at it for every second it spends spinning behind the glass.
While he waits, he thinks about her name. He canāt help it. Old habits are easy to cling to when thereās nothing else to hold.
Saint Trinity. Grandma would be beside herself.
The beeping startles him, knocks him out of his head and back into reality. Grabbing the bowl, he cheats right at the end, abandoning his self-proclaimed virtue for a scolding bite of rice, beef, and vegetables he can barely even taste.
By the time she walks into the room, wet hair leaving damp spots on her hoodie, heās on his last mouthful. Her eyes go wide, and he braces for the comment, but she says nothing, just walks up and grabs the other bowl. A minute later, sheās suffering the same consequences as him, letting her tongue bear the brunt of the heat in a worthy sacrifice for hungerās sake.
Thereās a kitchen table further down, but neither of them make a move to sit. They both stand on opposite ends of the counter, nearly empty tupperware and a thousand unspoken questions filling the space between them.
āIām going grocery shopping tomorrow.ā He looks up at her, but sheās staring down, studying her food like it has something to say. āIf youāre off, you can come with, otherwise just text me a list of what you want.ā
āI donāt need anything, I can manage with whatever you donātāā
āWhitaker.ā Her eyes pin him in place, cut his words off with efficient brutality, but thereās something delicate in them. Something careful. āI can afford this. I wouldnāt offer if I couldnāt.ā
Itās something he knows heāll never ask, but he wonders how itās possible, the same way heās spent years wondering how anyone his age on his track survives when thereās no pay and no time for anything that would.
Rich family, maybe. That seems to be the answer for everyone else.
āOkay,ā he relents. āIāll go with you.ā
āNow, was that so hard?ā She teases, before grabbing her bowl and tossing it unceremoniously into the sink. āIām gonna go put on the stupidest show I can find. Iāve used too many brain cells today. Iāll keep it quiet if youāre gonna call it a night.ā Sheās on the other side of the half wall when she adds, āOr, I guess you can watch, if you really want.ā
Does he want to call it a night? Two hours ago he was exhausted and ready to collapse, but now the thought of turning the lights off and lying down with nothing but his mind to keep him company is unexpectedly daunting.
āSure, Iāll watch.ā
She puts on Keeping Up With The Kardashians. Heās proud that he does, in fact, know who they are, but his knowledge starts and ends with general name recognition.
It fascinates him, mostly from an anthropological standpoint. They are unlike anyone he has ever seen, perhaps anyone who has ever existed. It canāt all be real, heās not that naive, but enough of the behaviors feels too genuinely ridiculous to be fake. He tries to sit and observe in silence, hardly moving a muscle to avoid shifting too far into the gap on the couch, but curiosity gets the better of him, the way it has his entire life.
āWait, why is this guy so important? Is he another celebrity?ā
āHeās a basketball player. Or, was.ā
āOh. And theyāre dating?ā
āAt this point, but this is an oldāyou really never heard about them?ā
āNever been a pop culture guy, I guess. Or a reality TV guy. We didnāt get a ton of channels back home. Why, was it news or something?ā
Santos grins at him, and the sight makes his palms sweat. āOh, Huckleberry, you have no idea.ā
ā
The next morning, they go grocery shopping, and after pointed glares and a threat to simply guess what he might eat, he makes his necessary selections: off-brand cereal and milk, sandwich bread and deli meat, frozen nuggets, a box of pasta, granola bars, and a bag of potato chips.
She tells him she doesnāt know how to cook for one, but if he doesnāt like whatever sheās having, he can make something else. Heās not a great cook and heās not picky (beggars and choosers and whatnot), but heās decent at baking, so he offers to make up for the meals with sweets, which is how flour, eggs, sugar, and butter get added to the cart.
āLast thing,ā she says as they walk into the frozen aisle. An overwhelming selection of pints stare back at them. āYouāll need your own. I donāt believe in eating ice cream any way except directly out of the carton.ā
āWhatever flavor you like is fine.ā
āHuckleberry,ā she groans. āArenāt we past this?ā
āFine,ā he says quickly, reaching in and grabbing one from the top shelf.
Santos leans over his shoulder to see. āMint Chip? Are you deranged?ā
āWhatās wrong with Mint Chip? Itās a classic!ā
āItās toothpaste! Youāre eating toothpaste for dessert.ā
āIt is not! Itās delicate!ā
āItās disgusting.ā
āMint and chocolate are complimentary,ā he protests as she reaches in and grabs one from the bottom. He peeks at it, then scoffs. āRocky Road? Really?ā
She crosses her arms in front of her chest. āWhatās wrong with that?ā
āThatās kid stuff!ā
āWhat are you talking about? Rocky Road is the fucking best.ā
āItās, like, seven toppings slammed into one! Youāre shaming Mint Chip when you eat the whole kitchen sink covered in chocolate. At least mineās a real flavor.ā
His eyes go wide at his own words three seconds after theyāve left his body. Sheās buying him groceries he canāt afford, to take back to her apartment that heās living in for free, to make something sheāll allow him to eat at no cost, all while asking for essentially nothing in return, and heās bickering with her?
Itās impossible. Heās polite. Heās respectful. He doesnāt shoot gift horses in the mouth by insulting their taste in ice cream. How could he turn so quickly into the version of himself that only used to exist with three very specific people, all hellbent on riling him up?
An apology is halfway out into the world when her laughter cuts him off. āDamn, dude,ā she says, āif I knew thatās what it took to break your little soft and sweet act, we would have stopped here first.ā
She grabs the cart and starts moving, not looking back to see if heāll follow.
the trolley problem except the guy tied to one set of tracks is your friend and someone you trust and one of the few people in the world that you genuinely like and he's begging for his life and he's saying that you're murdering him and he's screaming and clawing and running like a wild animal. on the other set of tracks is every living thing on the planet. its a no brainer, obviously. but he will still scream. this happened to my good friend eva stratt
sometimes I think about trinity santos and just start crying like wdym you're callous and jaded and people usually only see that when they look at you, someone abrasive, someone uncaring, someone "with an aggressive energy" and yet you are unwaveringly kind where it matters.
taking in a man you barely know just because he needed a place to stay. noticing mel's loneliness and taking her out for a fun night, even offering to bring her sister along with zero problems. noticing an attempted suicide when no one else did, staying with him and talking to him and showing him that people do care, and life is worth it.
and you've been chewed up and spit out by life over and over again and you're not healed and maybe you never will be all the way but every day you try. you're making a life for yourself, making a career that you're fucking good at, starting to make friends, and if you fail you just keep trying. and you care about doing the right thing. you hide behind a shell but you fucking care. so much.
character of all time I'm crying screaming sobbing my girllll my fucking girl
realizing Iāve given myself the opportunity to write the most self-indulgent scene in my whitsantos roommatism fic has me feeling like that grinch gif
