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It’s been six songs on the radio— all of them slow and “Christmassy” without really being about Christmas— and Ash isn’t leaving. That means he won’t leave until the twentieth song or so, and that’s good, that’s really good. Shorter pours a bit of light soy sauce— barely half a teaspoon— into the bowl of wonton soup in front of Ash and his white ass has the audacity to glare at him.
Shorter glares back. Ash puts another wonton in his mouth. Shorter wins.
Being Ash’s friend means numbers and patterns. Taking notice of the littlest things he’s decided are safe enough to keep the same, to not change— some bit of normalcy he allows himself to have. Even if said normalcy has to revolve around a restaurant that only exists because it pays “protection fees” to the Chinese mafia— even if said normalcy is with Shorter, of all people— he’s glad Ash has this at least. Some form of routine, rules he gets to decide on.
If it’s after midnight Ash comes into Chang Dai through the staff door. If it’s between noon and four in the evening he uses the front door, sometimes sitting at the farthest, least visible corner of the restaurant until Shorter or Nadia inevitably notices him. He never comes in the morning. Half the time he leaves after four songs on the counter radio, enough only for a bit of food and a wave to Nadia, but half the time he stays for more. (And Shorter’s always happy to give, to be , more, whatever that may be.) He always orders wonton soup, the bland kind, but once a month he begrudgingly lets Shorter coerce him into eating a more fulfilling plate of chow mein. No chilli flakes, half a tablespoon of soy sauce in the broth instead of one—Shorter will change that before the end of the year. He’ll make sure Ash eats like an actual human being with actual taste buds.
But right now, Ash is eating. Ash is eating! With his eyes on the bowl and not flickering between Shorter and whichever dish has been set in front of him, like he used to do just months ago. He looks at peace, almost, and his posture doesn’t say I trust you yet but it says Hey I think you won’t hurt me and Shorter is the biggest proudest friend in the world. He wants to reach across the table and hold the kid and never let go but he can’t do that because he’s a gang leader— not out of some fake macho notion of dignity but because he’s genuinely, really a gang leader, and he can never protect Ash from this mess of a world because he is part of that mess of a world.
Depressing, isn't it? How do people even live with this?
Shorter wonders, sometimes, what life would be like if he met Ash somewhere other than in juvie, or if he didn’t turn out the way he did– running a gang already at seventeen, worrying Nadia with everything he does, he knows– and was one of those kids who got put into prison just because and have never actually done any wrong, but the wondering never lingers. Reality is not to his taste but the what-ifs make him sadder, only from how unattainable all those hopeful possibilities seem to be.
So he settles for free meals and nagging Ash to wear more than flannels and tank tops in winter and yes, even if your so-called clients don’t like it ! Shorter doesn’t press Ash about how he shouldn’t have to be thinking about “clients” in the first place, because it’s not something either of them can change, or even dare to hope of changing—so they adapt. And adapting sometimes means being a Nadia replica to a fifteen-year-old, in all variations of do you have enough clothes, are they warm enough, dude you’re gonna turn into an icicle if you go out in those jeans tonight, I can lend you my clothes if you want.
Ah, that reminds him. Clothes for Ash.
The coat that Nadia got— it’s second-hand, but it looks warm. And really fucking big, grandpa-sized almost, but it doesn’t matter. Ash is half a grandpa already with his little old man books and how he fucking huffs when he’s mad, like a 60-year-old with way too many thoughts on politics, instead of a literal teenager.
Oh, Shorter loves him.
Ash looks close to done, so he decides to bring up the coat. He can already tell this is going to be hard, but oh well.
"Hey," Shorter tries, and Ash stops his spoon on the way to his mouth. “Nadia got you a winter coat from one of her thrift shop runs- you wanna take a look? I have it upstairs.” They’re still at a stage where “upstairs”— and the implication that he’ll be alone with Shorter— makes Ash hunch his shoulders, but that’s okay— it’s better now than it was. Ash shifts in his seat.
“I have winter coats,” he says, “lots of them.” From Dino, Shorter knows. He leans back a little, plays it off like any reference to that man doesn’t immediately sour a conversation.
“And you never wear them, so! Might as well get a new one right?” Shorter carefully keeps his tone light, and Ash all but shrinks . He wants to leap across the table and hug Ash right there and then, but he doesn’t– instead, he waits for him to speak. The seconds seem to drag on. Shorter’s faintly aware of Dolly Parton’s voice on the radio— some harmonies from Kenny Rogers too, if he's right.
Finally, Ash clears his throat. He's still looking down. “I don't know, Shorter," he starts, "like, thanks for- but I-”
“Please, Ash? I know you hate it when I try to force you to wear something-” Ash flinches, “-but just this once? Think of it as an, uh, early Christmas gift. It’s like, only two weeks away.”
It’s a desperate lie, more than anything. They don’t do Christmas– Christmas is more of a nightmare than a holiday if you do business in Chinatown, but sometimes, when Ash acts like kindness needs reason- like caring is some kind of business deal where he’s supposed to give always and never take, it’s easier to make up a reason than… to tell him most everything he’s had to learn from life is false, Shorter supposes.
Let Christmas be a reason then. Season of giving, baby! Season of making your friends warm and healthy.
But in front of him, Ash goes all stiff— stiffer than he had previously been, somehow. Okay , Shorter notes, guilt tripping Ash into taking care of himself ‘for holiday reasons’ is, in hindsight, a really fucking bad idea. He made a mistake, he just doesn’t know what . Shorter tilts his head in what he hopes got translated as a gesture of concern.
Ash coughs a little, still stiff. “I… don’t want to do Christmas?” he offers, almost a question, “so like, thanks for the, uh, gift. But no.”
“Wait, is it because of Christmas Christmas? Religious shit? Sorry about this then, I didn’t—”
“No! No, if you really really want to do this Christmas stuff, I don’t mind! I won’t mind.” Ash looks close to panicking, so Shorter backs away. Ash seems to pay this no mind, and takes a desperate breath. Hands on lap, his back so straight Shorter’s sure it must hurt. “It’s just, it’s winter, alright?”
Shorter fails to see the connection there. “All the more reason for you to take this coat, I guess?”
“No! No,” Ash shakes his head with more conviction than Shorter has ever seen on him, “I mean, I will. I’ll take the coat, I’ll wear it.”
For a fleeting moment, Shorter feels relieved, happy even. He kind of wants to punch the air and give Ash a stupid grin that he knows will be made fun of, except there’s obviously something— not that he knows what that something is—wrong with this whole situation. But then Ash continues.
“Like I said, I can do Christmas! The whole gift exchange thing.” He’s reassuring himself and not Shorter, it seems— his expression, so carefully schooled Shorter might’ve missed it if he hadn’t spent two months locked up with him in the same tiny room, says I can and I will and I’m about to make this right but his fidgeting hands say otherwise. Hmm.
“Just that, I don’t know, I kinda don’t wanna save up for a gift- your gift? This year’s been really fucking cold and they- no, I can still do it. It’ll only be a couple hours more, I bet, I can buy something nice. For you.”
Oh, no. Oh, Ash . This is everything that Shorter doesn’t want. Oh fuck.
Stop this , he tells himself. Reassurance. That’s what Ash needs right now, not Shorter’s misplaced sympathy. He tries.
“Ash, you don’t need to give something- anything- back to me. It’s not an expectation, alright?” It’s never an expectation with you , he wants to add, just the fact that you’re here– it’s ten times more of what I deserve . “I don’t want you to, well, work , more. I don’t need a Christmas present, I don’t even celebrate it!”
“But you said the coat was a Christmas gift?” Ash slumps down into the chair, and Shorter’s chest tightens. He looks less like he's about to flee, thank god, but with his hands hanging off the sides, Ash looks so weary – more than any kid ever should– and entirely too sad, like he’s somehow to blame for Shorter’s communication fuck-up– like he’s guilty for every bad thing in this room.
Before Shorter can think of a proper reply, Ash sits up straight again, pressing down on his hands. Pulling himself up.
“I can’t do that to you, Shorter,” he continues, “I know the lease is tight on Nadia, and Chang Dai’s gone close to having to shut down like twice already, but here you are buying me a coat of all things when I don’t even need it, and you won’t accept a gift from me even though it’s supposed to be the giving season or whatever, and I’m out here just receiving and receiving but it’s all good things from you, and- and I can’t do that!” Ash shakes his head, his face now in his hands. “I can’t allow myself to do that. My conscience won’t have it.”
Baby, no . “If it makes you feel better,” Shorter offers, trying to look concerned and nonplussed at the same time because that’s what he always does with Ash– trying to prove several points at any given moment, not because Ash demands it of him but because Shorter wants everything to go right, and he doesn’t even know what ‘right’ means, dammit– “that coat was a thrift store find, Ash. Cost barely anything– not that we don’t think you deserve anything better, we do, and I know Nads would buy you a fucking tailored coat if only she could.” He pauses to take a breath. Ash looks relatively calmer, though still not meeting his eyes, and that urges him on.
“A coat won’t put a dent in our deficits, promise! But this isn’t about how much it costs, it’s about whether or not you need it and you do , Ash. We wouldn’t want to lose a precious customer to hypothermia now, would we?”
Ash snorts. “I don’t pay.”
“That you don’t! But who else would eat my burnt youtiaos, hmm? What other sodium-repellent white boy can we save spice on?” He smiles. So does Ash, and Shorter allows himself a silent cry of victory— another successful clutch at straws to make light of something so dark, another second of forgetting reality. “Also, let’s have a little more faith in Chang Dai, shall we? ”
“Right. Sorry about that, I didn’t- I didn’t mean to imply-”
“-that we’re a small business being a small business? Failing small-business fails? You’d be right about that.”
“Oh, shut up,” Ash snips. He lifts the bowl to his mouth and practically drains what’s left of the soup, sifting out the chives and leaving them sticking sad and soggy to the sides. This will probably be the last warm meal he’ll have in a while.
They’re silent for around three minutes, a silence Shorter figures would only get more strained if he doesn’t speak first. “The whole Christmas schtick I pulled- it was just so you’d take the coat. Sorry, it was a shitty thing to do, huh?”
Ash looks at him, puzzled. “What was the coat for, then? Why would you, I don't know, spend money on it otherwise?” Ash asks, and Shorter wants to wither away. He doesn’t know how he can ever make Ash understand the concept of kindness without reason, caring without attached strings– all he can do is prove it, he supposes.
“Nadia and I- we care about you, Ash. A lot. That’s literally the only reason why.”
Ash chuckles. “Somehow I don’t believe that.
“Somehow I’ll have to help you believe that then, yes?” He stands up, and walks over to ruffle Ash’s hair. He doesn’t quite lean into it like Shorter's hoped he would, but he doesn’t duck away either. “I love you. Don’t run out in the three seconds it’ll take for me to go get the coat.”
“Hmm,” Ash replies.
It’ll be alright, really. It’ll be alright.
At that moment, with the radio still playing a Thompson Twins song as he climbs up the stairs– Both of us searching for some perfect world we know we'll never find, they sing, but you know that there's nowhere that I'd rather be than with you here today, and Shorter finds himself relating to a British rock song like a teenage schoolgirl– he allows himself a bit of hope.