happy birthday!

[broski]

Isaac has a red hoodie.

It's nothing special. Something the school offered for those on the lacrosse team, something he had to spend months raking in pennies from his job at the graveyard in order to pay for. It's worn by now. Stretched at the wrists from nervous picking habits, and the zipper sometimes gets stuck from use and reuse, and the inside is far from it's original soft contours.

He loves this hoodie.

He bought this hoodie. And sure, he had to hide it from his father the day he brought it home, had to shove to the bottom of his lacrosse gear, along with sweaty shirts and dirty shoes, but that didn't make it any less important to him. Even when vibrant red faded into a dusty, dirty blood color - he still loved it. Maybe he loved it even more.

At night he'd pull it out. After the freezer, and after the sunset - some people had teddy bears, some people had nightlights.

Isaac had his hoodie.

And, one day, he notices that Scott looks cold.

It's far past memories of freezers and such, through the house of his childhood and then again through Derek's loft - now he's residing in the McCall family household and Scott McCall looks cold. Which is interesting enough - Scott seems to run on heat and eternal happiness, and the idea of anything about him being chilly seems outright stupid to Isaac. Even skin, which looks like a warm caramel color and reminds him of coffee and milk, appears like it should always be hot to the touch, a lick of his tongue, or a press of their lips against each other. It should be warm.

And he shouldn't be thinking about it.

But the signs are all there - goosebumps, the slight bend of his shoulders and he leans forth a bit, trying to huddle in warmth from his torso. Isaac gets that position. He's spent hours there, curled up against four too small walls of a freezer, yearning for the touch of something warm, waiting for a father to stretch his hand out, touch his curls, whisper I'm proud of you, baby.

Something hurts in him while he watches Scott look like that - it's not anything major, he's not curling on his side and sobbing - he's just sitting at his corner of the bed, back angled while he rubs his forearm with one hand. Goosebumps budding, hair sticking straight up. Isaac hates that he has to lick his lips while he watches, eyes quickly flashing up to Scott to make sure he's still oblivious to Isaac's wandering look. He's not doing anything wrong. He basks in that - the I'm not doing anything wrong, I'm not going to be punished, even though he knows Scott would never punish him, knows Scott and Mr. Lahey are nothing like each other.

He almost has to scoff at the thought of it. Yeah, right.

But he spares a glance to his own skin, fingers peeping out of the wrist holes of his hoodie, looking pale. White like snow, or white like ice. White like blistering pain, or white like scar cream he used to rub into it, to fight off imperfections burned into his skin. He didn't like looking at them. By now the scars are long since faded, but Isaac still sees them - even if they aren't there, they still were, and some part of him misses the validation that it happened once upon a time.

He pulls his sleeves down again.

And he's warm.

Because he's nestled up against Scott's pillows, shuddering his shoulders down to further bury himself in the scent of him - which, after a few weeks of deliberation, smells distinctly like pancakes and oak - offer himself the night to get lost in this room, the contents of which reek Scott McCall, and he can't be bothered to care about loving it so much, because everything is perfect. They're happy in a comfortable silence, listening to the beat of each other's hearts, the heaviness of each of their breaths.

Everything is perfect.

Except Scott's cold, and something is entirely wrong about that.

Isaac doesn't really think while he unzips his hoodie, tossing it unceremoniously to the other boy and it flops right on his face. He doesn't think about it until it's gone - doesn't think about how that little piece of clothing has become a part of him, how he misses it, how he feels almost... incomplete without it. Not cold. Just empty, like he's said goodbye to an old friend.

And then he realizes that if this hoodie is a part of him, he'd gladly give his whole self to Scott, if it meant he could get a smile like the one he's getting now.

And Scott is equally quiet, pulling his face out from the tussled hood which smells like Isaac's shampoo, to flash a grin at "Lahey" written on the back of it in bold, white letters. He tugs it on. And it's too big, of course, his hands swimming around in the fabric momentarily to find the openings, head tilting itself up so his eyes can peek out from where the hood covers them.

"I have my own, you know."

Is what Scott finally says, bringing up a hand to move the hood back down. But he shows no intention of taking it off, zipping it to the middle of his chest, leaning back against the foot of his bed after a moment. Isaac isn't sure how to feel for a second - obviously he knew Scott had his own, but it wasn't the point. He probably doesn't how important this feels to Isaac, and it's not like he can blame him, because it's a dumb thing to get sentimental over.

Still, Isaac's gaze traces him over once, flickering up to his eyes after a moment.

"Oh. ...Can I wear it?"

And they grin at each other.



Happy 19th birthday, baby! I love you, and I hope you have an ice one ;)

BA DUM CHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

♥