Expanding Chapter 7 - Brave
| Rating: T | Words: 3,177 | CW: Mild use of homophobic language. Non graphic mentions of animal killing/death | | On Ao3 |
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Branson
The first week after his arrest, Branson spends moping around the house. Evan spends a lot of time helping him find somewhere to fill his community service hours. It’s tougher than it seems since Branson doesn’t have his license and needs to be able to get there by bus in case both men are working or otherwise occupied. At seventeen, fostered or not, and hardened criminal or not, he’s still expected to show some responsibility.
They’ve not found anything after the first weekend, but by Wednesday of the next week, they’ve located a struggling animal shelter that’s in desperate need of volunteers since they’re unable to pay for regular staff. Branson doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s kind of excited about it. Ever since he was a kid he’s loved animals of every kind. Of course he was expected to not show his softness towards them.
The first time he brought an injured kitten home, he’d tried to stow it away in his room so he could nurse it back to health. The next day he’d excitedly rushed home from school so he could hang out with the small white cat with various shades of brown spots to find his uncle sitting at the kitchen table with the kitten's limp, lifeless body sitting at the edge of it. Its neck was twisted at an unusual angle and his uncle had sternly warned him to never bring an animal into his house again. It wasn’t his house. Branson had been just ten years old. And he never looked at an injured animal again for fear of what might happen.
That aside, two weekends have gone by now with Branson having worked four eight hour shifts already, knocking out almost all of his hours in less than a month. They’d tried to convince him that it was unnecessary to give up his weekends, that he’s a kid and should be out doing kid things, but he told them that he literally had nothing more he’d rather do than hang out with the animals. And it was true. Plus, being there meant not having to see Evan and Tommy’s faces, remembering their disappointment at his arrest every single time. Nothing’s ever cut him quite so deep.
Shaking away the melancholic thoughts, he hops out of Evan’s jeep with a mumbled, quiet goodbye. Evan will be on a forty-eight hour shift starting at noon today, so Branson won’t see him for a couple of days unless they swing by the firehouse. Evan gives him a two fingered salute before pulling out from the curb and navigating away from the school’s heavy morning traffic. Hitching his backpack up onto his shoulders, both of them for possibly the first time since he was in second grade, he pushes his way into the school.
The halls are crowded as students hurry to put their things into lockers before class starts - the first bell will ring in less than ten minutes. Branson finds his own locker and shoves a few textbooks inside. Ever since that Friday night he’s been trying to do better, worried that he’s going down the same path as his family. So his textbooks come home with him every night - he heads straight home after school now, even if Tommy and Evan weren’t making sure of it - and he’s actually paying attention in class. He’d gotten a B on his last English test, his absolute worst subject, and he nearly cried. He’s been skating by with C’s and D’s for as long as he can remember. After class, the teacher had approached him and congratulated him, telling just how proud he was to see Branson becoming more invested in his education. To his horror, Branson had blushed and scuffed his toe against the ground as he thanked Mr. Harrison. The teacher cuffed him lightly on the shoulder, giving him a squeeze and a soft smile telling him to, “keep up the good work.” Praise has never felt so good.
Then there was his history teacher, Mrs. Milton, who had been shocked speechless when he’d raised his hand in class and had not only willingly participated, but gotten the answer correct. Her glasses comically slipped down her nose and she’d had to readjust them before continuing. She’d attempted to hide the tiny little smile on her lips as she turned back to the board but Branson had seen it.
Do these adults actually care about what I do? He’s asked himself that question more times than he can count in the last three weeks. Before now, he’s always assumed that the teachers were just being nice because they had to be. You know how you play nice with someone because you’re going to be spending eight plus hours a day with them, five days a week, and you don’t want the negativity of an antagonistic relationship to ruin your day every day? Yeah. Branson convinces himself that that’s how they all feel. Yet so many adults seem determined to prove him wrong, including his teachers.
“Yo, Branson.” A familiar voice says. Turning his head he sees Smith slowly loping towards him. He’s got khaki shorts on and Branson’s eyes are drawn downward towards a slow blinking red light. Attached to a small black box wrapped around Smith’s ankle. A monitor. He’s got an ankle monitor on. Branson hasn’t seen him since the incident and since Smith never really uses his phone, they haven’t spoken either. When close enough, Smith holds out his hand for their shake and says, “Been a while my guy. What’s popping? I see you admiring my new accessory.” He shakes his foot like it’s something to be impressed by. Entranced, Branson can’t seem to find the energy to play the handshake game. His mouth is dry and he’s gone silent, unable to find words. “Dude, cat got your tongue or something?”
“Um. No. Sorry. What?” Branson blinks out of the daze and rubs the back of his neck, ignoring the outstretched hand. Something in him rebels at the idea of it right now. It feels wrong somehow. Like it’s a betrayal to Evan and Tommy. Realizing that Branson isn’t going to take it, Smith stuffs his hand deep into his pockets and shrugs, a lazy grin still on his lips, his demeanor overall laid back. Opening his mouth to say something, anything, the minute warning bells rings and saves him from having to say something to someone who should be his friend. Someone he should be excited to see after weeks of radio silence. But all he feels is relief.
“Guess we’ll have to catch up later. See ya. Meet under the bleachers at lunch?” Smith’s got one foot turned towards his first class, looking over his shoulder.
Swallowing hard Branson exhales, in a rush, “I think I’m going to just… stay in the courtyard today.” Finally this draws a reaction from Smith. His brow furrows and his lips turn down at the corners. “C’mon man, don’t give me that look. I’m just not feeling the bleachers, okay? I’ll catch you later.” Branson finds the willpower to hold his fist out for a bump at least which Smith returns slowly, his expression calculating.
“Sure.” The word is spoken with a less than inviting tone, and Branson represses a shiver. Smith has never spoken to him like that before. They’ve been thick as thieves since his second day at this school. The changes around him are making Branson wonder if maybe he should’ve been a little bit more picky about those he brought into his inner circle. “See ya around. Branson.”
Without another word spared between them, they part ways.
Classes drag by, Smith’s attitude on his mind. In the nearly four years they’ve been friends, Branson can’t remember a time when Smith had given him such a cold shoulder. Why? All he’d said was that he didn’t want to go out to the bleachers today. Or ever again if he was being honest. Was it so bad to want to stay inside the school? Then there’s the ankle monitor. Branson’s been around those too often in his life to feel comfortable seeing one on someone he thinks of a friend. A friend who’s only been eighteen for about two months. Despite how he acts, Smith Patterson is an extremely intelligent guy, he’s an absolute whiz when it comes to technology, so it’s baffling to see him attempting to throw his life away for the sake of some fun.
Fourth period bell rings and it’s time for lunch, finally. Shaking his head of wayward thoughts about his friend, he grabs his bag and darts out of the classroom, desperate to get to the courtyard so he can hopefully find an isolated corner where everyone will just leave him the fuck alone. As he’s about to round the corner to the doors that lead out towards the football field, he hears familiar voices. He pauses when someone says his name, a clear sneer in their voice. “Look at Branson getting all high and mighty. Thinks that since he got off easy we’re not good enough for him anymore. Which of the faggots dicks do you think he had to suck for them to bail him out?” Smith.
Another voice. “You think it was just one? I bet you anything it was both. He doesn’t even look at me in the hall anymore.” That was Easton.
“C’mon guys, that’s going too far.” Nikki.
“Too far? Nik, you shoulda seen the look he gave me this morning. He fucking acted like I was the shit on his shoe. Then when I told him to meet us outside for lunch he was like, ‘I’d rather be a good boy and stay in the courtyard’.” Smith again.
Branson’s chest tightens and he feels rage bubbling up in his chest. No, not for himself. But for Evan and Tommy. Sure, he’s said some nasty shit about them but that was before he knew them. Not that that makes it any better but he knows now. He knows how selfless these men are, regardless of who they have in their beds. And it pisses him off that Smith would joke about them asking for sexual favors of any kind.
Nikki scoffs. “Maybe he just doesn’t feel like eating with us, Smith, ever think about that? Unlike you, he’s actually a good kid and he deserves better. Maybe he’s finally learning that he can be more than some addicts lackey.”
“Excuse me?” Oh, Branson does not like that tone. Not at all. “Nikki, stop acting like you know what you’re talking about. You’re just as fucked as we are so get off the fucking high horse and stay down here where you belong.” Nikki’s snort of indignation is the last straw. Branson can handle being talked shit about; it’s been happening literally all of his life, but Nikki doesn’t deserve it. Sure, she gets into shit, but she’s trying. She may be average in academics but she’s kind, and generous, and beautiful, and she doesn’t deserve someone, a man no less, talking down to her like she’s nothing.
“Smith, shut the fuck up.” Branson steps out from behind the corner, seething. “Leave her alone.”
“Oh, has his majesty decided to join us? Finished cock sucking so you could join us lowly servants for some grub? Who’d you get off first? The big one looks like he’d fill your mouth up nice and good. Did he hold your head down while you sucked him?” Smith’s glower turns on him immediately. “Or maybe it was the light haired faggot. He probably talked to you nice and sweet until you swallowed down his jizz.”
“You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” His gorge rises higher. “Are you seriously mad that I got bailed out? Why? It was literally my first offense.”
Smith steps into his space and jabs a finger at his chest. “No. I’m mad because now you’re acting all high and mighty, like you’re somehow better than us. You’re acting like you forgot that you’re one of us. That you’re just a foster kid that kept getting kicked out because he didn’t know how to sit down and shut up. Then, the moment two queers show up and show you the smallest bit of kindness, which I know you have to be doing favors for, you grow fucking angel wings and a halo.” He jabs Branson hard enough that he stumbles back a step. “Now you come swooping in like some knight in shining armor. Like Nikki needs protection from someone who’s secretly getting fucked in the ass.”
“Smith.” Nikki’s tone is sharp as daggers and she steps forward, grabbing him by the arm. “That’s enough.” To his and her shock, and Branson’s horror, Smith shakes her off and shoves her back with his elbow, making her fall flat on her ass, Easton doing nothing to either help her up or stop the fall. Her naturally round green eyes grow rounder and mist over with unshed tears. Oh ho ho. That is it. Branson’s has had enough and damn the consequences.
Grabbing Smith by the front of his shirt, Branson pulls his fist back and lets the rage out. The first punch lands square in his face, his nose crunching as blood begins to trickle down over his lower lip. The second one lands in Smith’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The world around him is silent as he lets all his pent up rage out. He’s never been so thoroughly pissed off in his life.
Nikki’s on her knees now, reaching for him. He sees her mouth move but hears no sound. Easton stands nearby with his mouth agape, shitty flip phone in hand; probably taking a shit quality video to upload to the net later. Branson doesn’t. Fucking. Care. Each thought is punctuated by another fist somewhere on Smith’s body. Shocked, it takes awhile for Smith to react but once he does, the two of them are grappling at each other, pulling at each other’s clothes as they claw at the other's skin.
Sound comes back and Branson hears the way Smith is screaming insults at him. It ranges from his intelligence to who he fucks. Then it morphs into insulting Evan and Tommy, who he’s only met once in passing when Branson first moved in. Once Smith found out they were gay, he made a point of not going near them because he didn’t want to ‘catch the queer.’ Whatever the fuck that means.
“You’re such a piece of shit, Smith.” Branson snarls, pulling hard at his former best friend's oily, unkempt hair. “Maybe I just realized that smoking weed and partying isn’t worth it. Unlike you, I don’t want to end up like my parents.” Evan and Tommy are giving me a chance at a better life. “I’m better than that. I know I am.”
“Like fuck you are!” Smith yells back, attempting to bite Branson in the forearm that’s wrapped around his neck. Branson has him in a headlock, foot knocked between Smith’s so he can’t shove him off balance. “You’re just a piece of lowbrow trash like the rest of us and you know it. Just like that bitch.” He attempts to nod at Nikki. So much for Branson thinking this turd has a crush on her. No one that likes someone as more than friends talks about them like Smith is talking about her.
“Don’t. Call. Her. That.” Using his knee, Branson knocks out Smith’s from the back and gets him onto the ground, face down, knee pressed into Smith’s middle back. Smith flails wildly and Branson barely holds on. He’s not small, but Smith is huge. “You’re a shit friend, you know that?”
Their arguing draws unwanted attention. Easton slips into the crowd so he’s not implicated but Nikki is still sitting there on her knees. Tears track down her cheeks and she’s sniffling. Hot rage boils from his stomach as he looks at her and he grabs Smith’s hair once more, ready to smash his face into the cold concrete of the hallway but there’s suddenly large, meaty, fingers wrapped around his wrist and they’re pulling him back even as he kicks and screams obscenities at someone he’s been through so much with. Someone he never wants to even look at again.
“Rodriguez!” Branson’s spitting like a feral cat, hissing and growling as an unfamiliar arm wraps around his waist to hold him place. “Branson Rodriguez quit it, or I’m putting you in cuffs.” The school’s security guard. A large, friendly faced older black man that’s nearing retirement age, close shaved head peppered with white fluff the only indicator he was aging, but could put any kid in their place in an instant. The fight leaves him and he deflates, sucking in harsh, ragged breaths as he glares poison at Smith who’s being held back by who Branson thinks is one of the gym teachers. His face is bloody, and purple, and his nose is definitely broken, and Branson feels a sick sense of satisfaction at that.
Another teacher is kneeling by Nikki to check on her. Her tears seem to have dried up but her eyes are beyond puffy and a little bit of mucus dribbles to her upper lip. She’s talking in hushed tones to the older woman, likely giving her version of the story. Good. Hopefully she’ll implicate Smith. He doesn’t deserve her defending him. Anyone that puts hands on a woman deserves the worst fate.
Officer Anderson’s grip loosens and Branson stands on his own two feet, wiping at his own bleeding nose, wincing when he pulls his arm back and sees the streak of red on the sleeve of the brand new sweatshirt Tommy gave him just last week because he’d noticed the one Branson was always wearing is worn out. Fuck. He isn’t scared about Tommy being angry anymore, oh no, that fear was dispelled after he’d been arrested. No, he’s now terrified of seeing the disappointment and worry in that rugged face. What could possibly be worse than seeing a man that saves people realizing that his teenage foster is raising his fists against others?
“You two, with me. Now.” Officer Anderson takes him by the bicep and he allows himself to be guided away, scowling at Smith - who the officer has in his other hand. Anderson marches them to the principals office where they’re deposited in the waiting room on opposite ends of the visitors bench. “Now, you give Mrs. Eve here any trouble and you’ll be speaking directly with me, do you hear?” He raises a bushy eyebrow and puts his hands on his wide hips.
“Yes sir.” Branson mutters quietly, hanging his head. Smith snorts and doesn’t reply.
“Good. The principal will be with you in a moment.”
With that, Branson is left to await his fate, heart in his stomach knowing he’ll have to see that look again, and knowing how much he’s just fucked up. Again.