beautifulandnew | (no subject)

(no subject)

Part of me thought there might have been a possibility that 'takeout and crafts' had taken on a new meaning. Perhaps it was code now, a less hip version of 'Netflix and chill'. Much, much less hip, considering the source.

Once inside Danny's apartment, however, it quickly became pretty clear that there was no hidden meaning. There was takeout and there was crafting paraphernalia.

It's been a week and I'm no less confused now than I was then. Maybe even a bit more so right now, sitting here, neither of us having actually acknowledged what had happened. Is he expecting me to play along? Eat and drink and cut construction paper and never speak of it? Is that what he plans to do? Or has he blocked it out? Did he have more to drink that night than I realized? Because there's a whole movement and hashtag now that I would potentially have to answer to.

Maybe agreeing to come was a bad idea. I'm not sure I'm prepared to pretend to deal with takeout and crafts if all it really is is takeout and crafts. I'm not sure I'm prepared to deal with the alternative either.

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There's been an empty whisky glass sat on Danny's baby grand since early afternoon. There's a coaster underneath, of course, because as crazy as the last week has been, he hasn't completely lost his senses. It didn't matter how many times he'd played the chorus to Moana's How Far I'll Go, though, it hadn't lifted his spirits this time. But it had cleared his mind a little, enough for Danny to reach for his phone and send Hansel a text message inviting him over.

"Found it," he calls on the way out of his bedroom, picking up the whisky glass as he passes and heading to the kitchen, gaze on the little screen in his hand. "This is the old guy I was telling you about," he explains, sliding his cellphone across the table in front of Hansel and prodding the screen. "Took him four years to build a replica of the Yankee Stadium and like, seventy five thousand matchsticks. It got put on display in the stadium. I saw it. Wasn't that great," he shrugs as he turns to the sink to rinse the glass. "I mean, was it impressive? Sure. Was it accurate? I thought so. But it was big, you know. What's the point of making a miniature version of the Yankee Stadium that's not miniature? That's just dumb. Plus, the guy's from New Jersey. I mean, come on. They're the New York Yankees, it's right there in the name. So that's when I decided."

Danny turns back around, leaning against the counter as he dries his hands on a towel.

"You've heard of The House that Ruth Built, right? Well, this is gonna be The House that Castellano Built."

And it's going to blow Bill Becker's out the water.

"Wouldn't it being small enough to be put on display in the stadium qualify it as a miniature...?"

If he thinks I'm helping him glue together seventy five thousand matchsticks, he's lost his mind. I'm willing to bet Bill Becker didn't have much of a social life outside of his matchstick dealer.

"Technically, maybe, I don't know," Danny semi-concedes with a point of a finger. "But it's basically as big as me and I'm the size of a regular man. Okay, that's not miniature. I wanna make the Tyrion Lannister of Yankee Stadiums. I'm gonna show Jersey how it's done right."

Ranting about the Bridge and Tunnelers is about as normal as Danny can get. Usually he would have a pit of mild anger in his stomach while doing so, rather than the knot of nerves that is currently residing there instead tonight.

He lifts the back of his hand to his hairline, trying to discreetly catch a bead of sweat before it fully forms.

"So... You in?"

"No." Unlike him, I have no desire to show Jersey how this or anything else is done. "Let Jersey have this. They've earned it by being the worst at literally everything else."

"Yeah, no, okay. Okay," Danny shrugs again with a slow nod. "Crafting is a very personal decision." That's why he always prefers to craft alone. Fewer arguments.

He clears his throat and takes his seat back at the table, picking up his half eaten Katz's sandwich and taking a bite. Being Italian, he perfected the art of talking and eating at the same time long ago.

"I've got my coin collection, remember, if you wanna see that later. It's not big but it's quality," he offers around horseradish brisket and pastrami on rye. He's not sure why he thinks Hedwig would want to see it now when he's never shown any interest in it before. But Danny supposes that kind if logic went out the window the last time he was here.

Turning down crafts and not having much of an appetite makes me a pretty poor choice as guest to takeout and crafts night. The best I can manage is nibbling on a fry occasionally.

"Has anyone ever taken you up on that offer? Out of genuine curiosity, I mean." And not just to be polite or as a means to an end, a hurdle to endure before getting into his pants. Not that I imagine he would be able to tell the difference either way. Danny is probably one of the least perceptive people I've ever met.

"Totally, yeah. It's a real hit with the ladies," Danny insists, completely earnest in his claim. He's lost count of how many times he's come home with a woman and after one mention of the collection in his bedroom, they've made their interest in seeing it very, very clear.

"Somehow, I doubt that," I mutter under my breath. He was a hit with the ladies. And the men... And I'm sure I've seen a dog try to mount him on more than one occasion if he strays too close to a dog park.

"So... What's your favorite coin, then?" Oh, God. If I try really hard I can probably successfully impale myself on the toothpick that kept his sandwich together.

"I started by collecting Lincoln pennies when I was a kid," Danny begins, looking pleased to be asked. Pleased and a little surprised. "My favorite was the 1909-S VDB but I don't have it anymore. I had to sell it during med school."

He scratches his cheek as he thinks. "Now my second favorite, that was an error coin, a 1955 Lincoln cent. It had a double impression of 'In God We Trust.' It was pretty rare. I don't have that anymore either. Mindy used it to tip an Uber Eats driver."

He drops his chin into his hand, elbow propped on the edge of the table.

"So now I deliberately don't have a favorite."

"Like picking a favorite child, huh?"

Why is the toothpick so far away? Why did I not have the forethought to order something with the added convenience of a complimentary weapon?

"See how easy it was to pretend to be curious? Absolutely nothing you just said stuck. None of it. In one ear and poof."

There's Hedwig, Danny thinks, and he can't even be offended because normal behaviour is exactly what he'd been hoping for. It's almost a relief.

"That's very funny," he drawls, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "You gonna eat those fries or are you saving them for your own miniature craft project?" He pops the cap off his second bottle of beer and leans back in his chair, holding Hedwig's gaze.

"Just proving a point." Genuine curiosity isn't always so genuine. And he's terrible at reading people.

"How many of those have you had?" I ask, ignoring his question. How many or how few fries I eat won't have an affect on anything but my waistline potentially. Not being sure how much Danny had to drink has had me looking over my shoulder while walking down the street, sure that a group of feminists in poorly knit pink hats would appear.

"Beers?" Danny checks after swallowing, because his answer would be different if Hedwig meant all alcohol today. "Two. Why d'you ask?" It's not like he's driving home.

I shake my head and shrug. And just because that alone doesn't seem like an adequate enough response: "Just looking out for your liver."

Two. I make a mental note of it.

"Thank you," Danny replies without looking away.

Of the two of them, the doctor is probably the one that ought to be concerned about the health of vital organs, so he's not convinced he just received a straight answer.

"Well," he announces on a deep breath, surveying a table piled with take out and craft boxes. "I think I'm too tired to craft tonight. Fancy some wrestling instead?" He offers, pushing to his feet and taking his plate over to the sink. He'll leave the tidying up til later.

"Help yourself to a drink," he says, clapping Hedwig on the shoulder as he passes behind him on the way to his bedroom. "Bring your food over too if you want."

I stay put.

"What is it with straight men and watching wrestling?" It's not as dumb as NASCAR, but it's close. I'd rather watch something blatantly homoerotic even if there's zero payoff in the end, instead of seven hours of cars making a left turn.

"You know wrestling is just gay porn without the orgasms, right?" I add before eating another fry. It might actually explain a thing or two, but not nearly enough.

Danny and Stevie used to wrestle in the basement all the time, reenacting moves they'd watched on TV. That's one of the reasons Danny grew up so scrappy. He knows how to handle himself in a fight.

There's a wave of relief when he hears Hedwig from the bedroom. Clearly he still thinks of Danny as a straight man. Good. It's short lived though and Danny's eyes only just return to their normal size before he reappears with a blanket in hand.

"Gay p--uh, wow. That is news. I wouldn't know. I've never... Actually, I think maybe there's some NASCAR we could watch instead?" He turns away from Hedwig quickly and drops down onto the sofa, blanket balled up in his lap.

Nothing. There's no way his poker face is that good. Unless he really doesn't remember anything... I can't decide if that's a good or bad thing.

"Mm-mm. I've lived in a trailer park and I'm still not quite at the level of white trash it takes to enjoy that." And I'm completely sober, so I can't even find it within me to pretend.

"I'm foreign, so maybe that scale is graded on a curve for me."

"Hey, you're talkin' to a guy who used to get called white trash on the daily growing up," Danny rebutts, grabbing the remote and starting to channel hop.

"NASCAR ain't white trash. Wanna know what is white trash? That show Mindy's always watching in the break room, Keeping Up With The Cardigans. This is for you," he transitions smoothly, twisting to lay the blanket across the back of the sofa. "In case you get cold."

"Kardashians," I correct, finally pushing up from my seat at the table. "If it existed, Keeping up with the Cardigans is definitely a show you would though." Thankfully, it does not. He would be queuing up his DVR to the latest episode right now if it did.

Rounding the sofa, I take a seat. I can't tell if it's too close or maybe too far away. A week ago something that stupid wouldn't have even crossed my mind.

With wrestling off the menu, Danny settles on an episode of Deadliest Catch, throwing a flash of a smile Hedwig's way when he sits down.

"Look what's on," he sing-songs enticingly, slouching back against the sofa, legs falling open. "Oh no." He presses a fist to his mouth, trying to hold back the sudden wave of emotion, even as his eyes begin to water. He knows this episode well. "Captain Phil, you were taken too soon. Oh, why God, why? Crabbing was never the same after this."

I can't do this. I can't sit and pretend to enjoy the crafts and the terrible television like usual with also pretending things a normal.

"Nope." I snatch the remote away in an instant, dropping it down on the cushion between us once the screen goes black.

"Who's cryin'? I'm not cryin'," Danny insists defensively, his words undermined by a thick gasp of air that jolts his shoulders.

He peeps at Hedwig out the corner of his eye, not brave enough to look him head on yet, and suddenly feels the urge to cry for an altogether different reason. Not one to usually show much emotion beyond anger, frustration and pride, Danny wipes his eyes quickly with the hem of his t-shirt.

"Are you... actually crying over a crab boat guy you've never met right now?!" I ask with an incredulous stare. This is insane.

Leaning forward in my seat, I rest my knees against my elbows, fingers pushing deep into my hair. Why does he have to be so fucking weird?

"How much did you have to drink the last time I was here, Danny?" I realize asking a question like that for a second time makes it sound like I'm staging an intervention for an alcoholic, but it seems like the gentlest way to approach it. Not that I'm convinced gentle is the way to go. Quick, like a band-aid, that might have been easier. Direct, with less chance for crossed wires. Maybe this approach will result in less shouting.

"He's in a breed of his own!" Danny yelps, gesturing passionately at the now blank television screen. He sniffs then, glancing over at his friend, hunched and clearly agitated. Normally Danny would reach over and give the back of his neck a comforting squeeze but he keeps his hands to himself. This time.

Shifting up to the arm of the couch, giving them a little more space between them, Danny swallows and twists to face Hedwig's direction. He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees in an almost mirror image.

"A bit," he eventually answers in a low tone. But not so much that he can't remember everything from that night. "You?"