Chapter Text
The kitchen was too quiet for how early it was. The clock over the fridge ticked like it had a grudge each second too loud against the hush of the house. Billy sat at the small wooden table with his hands folded his stomach making soft noises he hoped the Major couldn’t hear. The old man sat across from him polishing the same coffee mug he’d been wiping for five minutes straight.
“Toast,” the Major said, without looking up. “There’s bread in the drawer.”
Billy stood, nodding, and took out a single slice. The bread was thin and pale. He put it in the toaster, listening to the hum of the machine. He could smell coffee, sharp and bitter, but he knew better than to ask for a cup.
When the toaster clicked Billy buttered one side and sat again. He ate slow tearing off tiny pieces because eating too fast made the Major’s mouth twitch.“You’re slouching again,” the Major muttered. Billy straightened up, chewing. “Sorry.”
“You sound sorry every morning. Never look sorry.” The man’s voice was steady, measured as if every word had been planned before sunrise.
Billy didn’t answer. The clock kept ticking.
The Major set the cup down and finally looked at him. His face was clean-shaven, lined in a way that made him look carved rather than aged. “You have practice after school today?”
“Yeah,” Billy said. “Pete’s picking me up.”
“Pete.” The Major snorted. “The red-haired one?”
“That’s Ray” Billy said quietly.
“Doesn’t matter. None of them are going to get you anywhere. You waste your time with them.”Billy nodded because that’s what you did. He’d learned early that arguments here only lasted longer than meals and meals were short enough already.The Major’s eyes flicked toward the counter where a bowl of fruit sat. He pushed it toward Billy. “You want an apple, take it. Don’t say I don’t feed you.”
Billy hesitated then took one. It was green and cold the kind that makes your teeth ache. He bit into it and stared at the wood grain of the table.
“See?” The Major’s tone softened, just a fraction. “That’s better. Rabbits eat fruit.”
Billy froze, mid-bite. The name landed like it always did quiet but sharp. He swallowed and nodded again.
“Yes, sir.”
The Major stood, his chair scraping the floor. “Don’t be late tonight. You still owe me those forms from school.”Billy waited until he heard the front door close before letting his shoulders drop. He looked at the apple in his hand half gone and set it down. He wanted something warm something heavy but he knew there wasn’t much else. He rinsed the core and threw it out, the sound of it hitting the trash bag oddly final.
The day went by slowly but after practice/ school Billy found himself at peace at least for now.
Hank’s garage smelled like old sneakers and grape soda. Someone had dragged a couch in years ago, the cushions sagging in the middle and it had become their spot. The door was cracked open for air letting in the sound of crickets and the hum of cars from the road.Billy sat cross-legged on the floor with a paper bowl of chips still in his practice clothes his hair stuck to his forehead. Pete was sprawled across the couch with his cleats still on, and Ray was using a baseball glove as a hat. Hank’s mom had dropped off snacks before disappearing back into the house chips cookies fruit and a few bottles of soda that were already half gone.
“Bro, you look dead,” Pete said, flicking a pretzel at Billy. “Coach run you to death again?”Billy shrugged, grinning a little. “Guess so.”
“Dude, he runs himself to death every time,” Hank said from the corner, tightening a loose lace on his bat bag. “He doesn’t know how to quit.”
“Maybe I just like winning,” Billy said, reaching for another handful of chips.
Ray laughed. “You like eating more than winning, man. You’re gonna clear that whole table.”Billy froze for a second, his hand halfway to the bowl then smiled. “You done with it?”Ray blinked then pushed it toward him. “Go for it. I’m full anyway.”
Pete leaned forward, smirking. “Where do you even put it all? You’re like, a stick. I swear you’ve got a wormhole in your stomach.”Hank tossed a tennis ball at Pete. “Shut up man let him eat. You just mad ‘cause he’s faster than you.”
The room filled with the kind of laughter that felt easy and careless. Billy chewed slowly trying to match their rhythm listening to them argue about whose swing had gotten better. He liked the noise, the movement. It was the opposite of home here nobody cared if he slouched, if he spoke too quietly if he went for seconds.
Hank passed him a soda can, already opened. “You good, Billy?”
“Yeah,” Billy said, voice light. He smiled, but his eyes were somewhere else for a second far away like he was still hearing his father’s voice echo from the morning. Then Pete cracked another joke and the moment broke.
“Next time we hit the cages,” Pete said, “loser buys pizza. Rabbit boy included.”
“Don’t call me that,” Billy said automatically, but he was smiling again.
The others just laughed loud and messy like boys who didn’t know what to do with silence. Hank turned on the radio an old pop station fuzzing through static, and the sound filled the garage.
Billy leaned back against the wall, legs stretched out chips on his lap. The air smelled like sugar and dust. He listened to them argue about which artist was better, his chest loosening little by little, the knot of the morning unwinding with each dumb joke.
For a while it almost felt like everything was fine.