Expanding Chapter 8 - Blossom
| Rating: T | Words: 4,828 | CW: Mentions of drug use | On Ao3 |
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Tommy
It’s just past noon when his phone rings. Rolling out from under the car he’s currently working on, a banana yellow Volkswagen Bug from the 1980’s, he picks up the device that’s laying on the worktable and checks caller ID. It’s Branson’s school. Sighing, and rubbing at his forehead with grease stained fingers, he readies himself for what he’s going to hear. Swiping to answer, he puts the phone to his ear and says cordially, “Hello?”
“Hello, is this Mr. Tommy Buckley-Kinard?”
“It is.”
“Hi, Mr. Buckley-Kinard-”
“That’s a mouthful, please just call me Tommy.” He interrupts, already feeling the headache bloom. He loves Evan, but he curses their hyphenated last name on the daily. It’s too long for really no good reason.
“Tommy, then.” The voice on the other end of the line is friendly enough, but is no nonsense. From Tommy’s memory, it sounds like the principal. What’s his name? Mr. Coralson? “This is Harold Carlson calling from the high school” Carlson, that’s right. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m afraid that I need you to come down to the school to pick up your foster child, Branson Rodriguez.”
“My son.” Tommy corrects him. “I need to come pick up my son.”
A beat of silence. “My apologies, Tommy. I hadn’t realized that you had officially adopted him. Congratulations to you and your spouse. I’m sure Branson is in wonderful hands.” Ugh, Tommy hates empty platitudes, but he supposes the principal can’t exactly call the teen a little shit. Most parents would take offense to that.
“We haven’t yet.” Tommy clarifies. “But that doesn’t make him any less of our son.”
To his surprise, Tommy hears the smile in the man’s voice when he next speaks. “Well then, that’s just as good, if not better.” Another quiet pause. “But as much as I love to hear that, Mr. Buckley-Kinard, my reason for calling still stands. Branson is the unfortunate instigator of an altercation with Mr. Smith Patterson.”
Tommy’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. That isn’t what he’s expecting to hear. Branson is a lot of things, but Tommy would never peg him as the type to raise his fist. “Are you sure that he’s the one that started it?” Also, isn’t that Smith kid Branson’s best friend?
Mr. Carlson hums. “According to his own story, yes. Smith corroborated it. If you could please come to the school we can discuss it in further detail. Unfortunately Smith’s parents are unavailable at the moment, so I’ll have to have a meeting with them at a later date.” There’s unspoken words there; unavailable isn’t exactly the way to put it but in polite company, that’s the only PC way.
“Sure thing, Mr. Carlson. I can be there in about twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting for you in my office, Mr. Buckley-Kinard.” The line goes dead and Tommy lets out a long, slow breath, letting his head loll back as he rolls out his neck a few times and places his hands on his hips. Emira hadn’t been kidding when she warned them about Branson. Tommy knows, from the bottom of his heart, that Branson is a good kid. But god almighty is he testing every ounce of Tommy’s patience. He’s honestly glad that he’s the one who received the call and not his husband. Evan is the type to blame himself for everything, and he’s already got guilt for miles about Branson’s arrest, whether it stays on record or not.
Once his feelings are wrestled mostly back into place, he heads back into the house to wash off his hands and at least change shirts. The one he’s wearing has oil stains all down it from the pan dripping on him. In under five minutes he’s in his truck and driving towards the school.
The building looms as he pulls into a visitor parking spot not too far from the entrance. Hopping out, he checks his phone for any missed messages and sees one from Evan, sent about fifteen minutes ago.
<3 Evan: Miss you.
Tommy: It’s been like… four hours.
<3 Evan: Yeah? Well to me it feels like a lifetime.
Tommy: if you were here, I’d be snorting in your face you sap.
<3 Evan: It’s a good thing I’m not. I don’t want your nasty boogers all over me.
Tommy: I bet I know what you want all over you instead.
<3 Evan: Tommy omfg! I’m at work! You can’t just say things like that. Now I’m gonna have to miss you even more. *pouting face emoji*
Tommy contemplates taking a crotch shot to show Evan that he isn’t the only one affected, but then he remembers where he is and settles for:
Tommy: Good. If you’re thinking of me it means you won’t cheat on me. *kissy face emoji x5*
He snickers for a long minute thinking of the look of indignation Evan most certainly has on his face right now. Tommy loves him, but Evan doesn’t handle jokes at his own expense very well, so Tommy has to be exceedingly careful when he uses them. The last thing he wants to do is legitimately hurt Evan’s feelings, even if most others would take the comment in stride. His husband is a sensitive person, towards others and himself, and it’s a quality Tommy wouldn’t change for the world… Even if Tommy’s snarky attitude gets him in trouble more often than he likes.
<3 Evan: You’re such an asshole. But I think I like you anyway. Swing by the firehouse tonight or tomorrow?
Tommy: Of course. I think I like you, too. Have a good shift. *heart emoji x3*
Tommy slides his phone back into his pocket, rolls his shoulders a few times, and strides towards the front entrance. Through the front doors, he veers left into the office where the secretary, Ms. Eve - a younger white woman with platinum blonde curls Tommy’s grandmother would’ve envied, bright pink lips, and a genuine smile - greets him. “Hello, can I help you?”
Tommy surveys the room, eyes stopping on a familiar teen, slumped in his seat as he fidgets with one piercing and then another, alternating as though on a puppet string. He hasn’t even looked up yet, seemingly lost in thought. Bringing his eyes back to the pretty, young, secretary he says, raising his voice a bit in hopes he’ll get his son’s attention, “Yeah, I got a call from Mr. Carlson about my son, Branson.”
Ms. Eve gets a pitying look on her face. “Oh, of course. You must be Mr. Buckley-Kinard-”
“While I love my husband dearly, I’d really appreciate it if you’d just call me Tommy. My biggest mistake in marrying him was telling him we could hyphenate.” Tommy winks and gives her a cheeky smile. She blushes and snorts a laugh, her pink lips turning up in the smallest smile.
“Why d’you think I stayed with Eve?” She chuckles. “Anyway, I understand, Tommy. Mr. Carlson is waiting for you in his office. I’ll let him know you’re here. Please take a seat while I reach him for you.” She points in the direction of the seats Branson is parked on. He’s still staring at the ground as if he’s waiting for it to open up and swallow him. Nodding and stuffing his hands into his jacket pocket, he approaches the teen.
“Hey.” He says, plopping down in the spot right next to him. Branson’s body stiffens, something in his demeanor changing in an instant. He doesn’t speak but the fidgeting stops. There’s a nearly feral look in his eye and Tommy swears Branson’s biting the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t know what to say or do when he’s like this so he remains quiet, trying to give off some sort of calming vibe; tries to convey that, while in trouble, Branson needn’t worry. Tommy’s frustrated, not mad. There’s a vital difference.
Not more than three minutes later, the door behind the front desk swings open and the principal, Mr.Carlson walks out, a grim look on his somewhat pudgy face. He’s got cheeks like a chipmunk which takes away from the height advantage when it comes to intimidation. Harold Carlson is by no means a small man, standing at least 6’2 and weighing at least 200 pounds. His white-grey hair is still thick and gelled back into a gentle puff, a wisp of bangs tickling his eyebrow. Underneath the layer of extra love, Tommy feels that there’s a whole lot of muscle. This is the type of guy that plays sports where being heavy is a benefit.
His brown eyes roam the room before landing on Tommy, who’s now standing. “Ah, Mr. B-... I mean Tommy. Thank you for coming.” Approaching, the older man holds out a hand that hosts surprisingly slender fingers. Tommy takes the hand and shakes it. “While I would love to be meeting under better circumstances it is what it is.” He turns his eagle sharp stare on the boy. “Mr. Rodriguez. If you’d please come with us.”
“Yes sir.” Wow. His voice is the smallest Tommy has ever heard. Branson’s always shown a level of self confidence most would envy. He spoke with assurance, even if he was in the wrong. But right now, it’s like the teen is a shell of himself. When he stands, he hardly picks up his feet as he’s ushered into the small, clean office. Tommy follows a step behind, closing the door without asking.
Herded to one of the chairs in front of the large desk, Branson sits, falling hard into it. Habitually he begins picking at his cuticles. Tommy can see how raw and red there are from here. Something pulls hard at his heart and he moves on instinct, grabbing his son gently by the wrist and pulling the arm back so he quits destroying his skin. Branson’s breath catches and he stops breathing. “Branson.” Tommy tries to keep his words soft. “That’s enough. You’re going to start bleeding.” Tommy feels the way his pulse races where his fingers are pressed into his skin. God. This boy was terrified. Of him?
Tommy takes a steadying breath before letting go of Branson’s wrist, setting his hand on Branson’s shoulder and squeezing lightly instead. He can’t check the teens heartbeat anymore, but he seems to breathe again, however shallowly. Hopefully he doesn’t begin hyperventilating. If he does, it's a good thing Tommy has EMT training. Turning his attention to Mr. Carlson, who’s now sitting behind the desk, hands clasped on its top, he states, “Tell me exactly why I’m here, Mr. Carlson. I understand that Branson instigated a fight but I’d like the whole story.”
“Yes, let’s get straight to the point. Unfortunately we found Mr. Rodriguez and Mr. Patterson duking it out in the hallway near the exits to the football field just prior to A lunch. When Mr. Anderson got to them, he’s our campus security guard, Mr. Rodriguez has Mr. Patterson held down on his stomach, trapping him. If help hadn’t arrived when it did, Mr. Rodriguez himself admits that he was ready to smash Mr. Patterson’s face into the ground.”
Gawking, Tommy’s mouth flaps soundlessly for a solid thirty seconds as his grip on Branson’s shoulder tightens. When he finds his words his voice is brusk, “Branson. Seriously?” It takes an agonizingly long second for Branson to bob his head in acknowledgment. Tommy stares at him in astonishment. “Christ, Branson. How badly did you hurt him?”
The principal clears his throat. Tommy snaps his head back to him. “Though quite bruised, and having his nose broken, Mr. Patterson is otherwise alright. The nurse did what they could with the resources available, though we sent for a professional to check for anything more serious.”
Tommy is forced to swallow the lump in his throat. He’s known enough people in his life that resort to violence to solve their issues that he doesn’t want it for anyone else. Fists tend to only make things worse; he’s learned through first hand experience. Quietly he asks, afraid if he speaks any louder he’ll lose it, “Tell me why, Branson. Every detail, I don’t want the abbreviated version.” To his utter shock, Branson spoke immediately, not making a single excuse for his actions. He states the facts without embellishing anything. There’s no elation about the fight in his words. It feels like a sad resignation, like Branson expects it of himself.
“So you see,” the principal says once Branson finishes his story, “it’s quite the response to the actions taken. Ms. Portman wound up with some bruises as well from Mr. Patterson’s actions but she’ll be just fine, and should heal in a few days. Now, as for Mr. Rodriguez’s punishment.” Mr. Carlson sighs heavily, seemingly genuinely upset over what he’s about to do. “The violence shown today is unacceptable for any reason. An adult intervening is the only reason that the fight came to a somewhat peaceful resolution. That being said, I understand that many students view out of school suspension as a vacation, but it is the best course of action for all parties involved.”
Branson’s shoulders shake under Tommy’s hand and he glances down at him. Branson’s eyes are wet, a single tear sliding down his cheek as he holds in a sob. Attention back on Mr. Carlson Tommy asks, “For how long?”
“A month. Minimum. During that time, I will expect Mr. Rodriguez to continue his coursework online. The only positive thing to come from a modern day pandemic is the ability for students stranded away from school to continue their lessons. I’d be more hesitant to do such a long suspension if he had no way to keep up on his school work, but the joys of modern technology make it an easier choice.” The man takes a deep breath before steepling his fingers, attention turning to his student. “Once he returns from his suspension, I will expect him in detention Monday, Wednesday, and Friday every week until the teacher on duty decides that he’s fulfilled his punishment. Do you understand, Mr. Rodriguez? You will be out of school, but this will be no vacation.”
“I understand.” He sniffles, not bothering to wipe his face.
“And what about the Patterson kid? Clearly he’s got some answering to do.” Tommy asks, a slight bite to his words. His kid fucked up but he didn’t do for solely selfish reasons. That isn’t an excuse, but it softens the blow a bit. “It sounds like he’s already on the police’s radar.”
The principal nods. “I can’t give you all of the details but Mr. Patterson will be removed from the school for an indeterminable amount of time. During that time he will be seeing a counselor that will help to get him back on the right path. And if that doesn’t work…” The thought hangs in the air like a rain sodden cloud.
“I understand. Am I allowed to take him home now?” Tommy asks, giving Branson’s shoulder one last gentle squeeze before crossing his arms over his chest.
“Certainly. He’ll receive an email where he can join in any classes that he’ll be missing. Teachers will be expected to continue marking him present or absent so make sure that he’s signing on each day. As for the rest of the day he’ll just have to miss the lessons.”
“Will do. C’mon, Branson. Let’s head home.” Wordlessly the teen gets to his feet, grabbing his backpack by the straps and letting it swing between his legs, an attitude like that of a beaten dog. Ire rises in Tommy’s chest because no child should feel this scared, especially of a guardian. Holding back a growl, he guides Branson in front of him, nods to the principal and Ms. Eve, and leaves the school behind.
When they get back to the car, Branson goes to open the back door but Tommy stops him. “Why not sit up front, Branson?” His shoulders are up by his ears again as he hunches in on himself, trying to make himself as small as feasibly possible. “I don’t bite, I swear.” He tries to add some levity to the situation. He doesn’t know how to make him relax, or if he even can if he’s being honest. The teen is opening up to Evan more than himself and he’s not sure why. Maybe it’s because Evan is sunshine and warmth and a golden retriever incarnate, while Tommy is more like a cat - moody and guarded and acts uninterested but then offended when he’s not included. He’s difficult to open up to, he knows that. It still hurts a small bit to know that even someone he’s trying to make his family is weary.
Shifting from the back door to the front, Branson pulls it open and slides into the front seat, hugging his bag to his stomach like it’s a life preserver, the only thing saving him from drowning. Swinging the door closed, Tommy sighs heavily and runs his fingers through his hair, sending his curls astray. If this is how the next forty-eight hours are going to go, it’s going to be a very long two days.
Getting into the driver’s side he puts the truck into reverse and pulls out, pointing the vehicle in the direction of home.
As he expects the ride is more silent than the grave. As they approach their driveway he states, “I don’t want you sitting in the house by yourself right now so I’m going to clear a spot off on the workbench and you’re going to hang out in the garage with me.” A small part of him wishes Branson would rebel, show a little bit of that familiar ferocious spirit he’s got but instead he nods like a meek little kitten. Head drooping and sighing in resignation, they climb out of the car and head the rest of the way back down the long drive to the garage that’s hidden behind the house.
They enter through the side door and Tommy flips the switch, illuminating the space with the bright fluorescents. Walking over to the table that’s covered in tools and various bits and bobs he pushes them aside, making sure to keep them somewhat orderly for easy access, and takes a cleanish rag to wipe the surface down. Once that’s complete, he habitually throws the rag over his shoulder and turns to his son. To his surprise, Branson’s eyes are locked on the Bug, mouth dropped open in the tiniest O of shock. He never hangs out outside so Tommy isn’t all that surprised by his surprise. “A Volkswagen Bug, circa 1985 or so.” He states, unable to stop his smile. “I’m only about 60 percent done restoring her so she’s got a long way to go.”
Branson approaches slowly and looks down into the engine compartment, brown eyes taking in every little detail about the car. His lithe fingers brush over certain parts and he inhales sharply, eyes turning a bit glassy as he pulls his hand back. “T-that’s cool.” He mutters, turning and stomping over to the table. Dropping his bag, he falls onto the wooden stool pushed under it and begins to pull out his school supplies.
Interesting. Tommy thinks. Wonder if he has a thing for cars in general or if it’s just the classics. “Thanks. I’m going to go change back into my other t-shirt so don’t go anywhere.” As he exits he hits the garage door opener and it trundles open slowly as heads back into the house.
For the next two hours the two of them work silently side by side, though Tommy can feel Branson’s eyes on him, burning holes in his back with a million questions. They’ve got the radio playing a station that plays mostly rap and hip-hop - Branson’s choice - and he finds himself bobbing his head to the beat. He’s never actively listened to this particular genre, but he finds that he doesn’t hate it. Eventually the silence is too much, the laser focus on the back of his head more than he can take so Tommy starts to ramble. “You know, Branson. What you did was wrong, but I’m not really that mad about it. There’s no right reason to do what you did, but I can kind of understand. What Smith did to Nikki wasn’t right, and the way he was talking about her was unacceptable. That being said, he’s been clear about his feelings about myself and Evan since day one. While I don’t exactly enjoy some of the things people say about me, it’s no skin off my back when a newly turned eighteen year old is talking smack about me.” He cranks the ratchet in his hand, relishing the sound as it’s turned. It’s soothing.
He doesn’t turn as he hears Branson’s toe scraping over the dirt laden floor. When there’s no timely response, he expects his words to be ignored so when Branson replies, he goes stock still and listens. “He shouldn’t say things like that. He called Nikki a bitch and a whore and a whole bunch of other things. She didn’t deserve that.”
“No, no one ever deserves to be called those things.” Tommy agrees, bending back over the engine to continue working. “As for what he called myself and Evan, as well as every gay man alive or dead, I know you’ve said similar things.”
“No I haven’t-!” He goes to defend himself, the stool screeching back as he goes to stand.
“We know you have, Branson, and it’s okay. You grew up in an environment where being different was frowned upon. Evan’s teammate, Eddie, grew up in Hispanic culture, the machismo culture, and he developed some pretty damn backwards beliefs about masculinity and the roles women were to play.” The bolt tight, Tommy turns and leans casually against the bumper, crossing his arms once more, as well as his ankles. “It took him well into adulthood to unlearn some of those behaviors. There are some he still can’t quite shake but that’s a topic for another day.”
A blush rises to his cheeks and he looks away. For the first time in the months they’ve had him, Tommy can’t help but see him as cute. Still a teenager. The thought makes him grin, just one side of his lips quirked up. “I… I don’t like that I said those things.” He admits quietly. “You guys… you guys aren’t like what I thought queer… gay men… are like.”
“And if we had been?” Tommy knows what he’s referring to. If he and Evan had been more on the effeminate side of the queer scale, and were more visibly a part of the community, Branson’s opinions would likely still be different. The shrug he gives proves it. “Anyway, we can maybe discuss this more later but I can tell that you’re upset by your actions and that’s all I can ask. Just know that I can’t fault you one hundred percent for your actions, even if they weren’t the best course of action, and know that I appreciate you standing up for Evan and myself. You’re growing, Branson, and we couldn’t ask for more than that.”
The urge to hug him grows too strong to ignore so Tommy walks right up to him and wraps him in a bear hug, pressing his cheek to the top of his head and not letting go until Branson wraps his arms around Tommy’s waist and hugs him back. They stay wrapped like that for a solid minute, at least, before Tommy lets go and ruffles the boy's hair. “So, I saw you eying the car. Are they something you enjoy?”
Branson swats his hand away, some of his spunk coming back, though his cheeks are rosy either with embarrassment, happiness, or a mixture of both. “Um… Not cars… really.”
“Oh no? You seem to know some about them.” Feeling lighter, Tommy returns to work, though he shuffles around the vehicle so he can work while watching Branson as he does, the tension between them eased by at least 85 percent.
Branson picks up the pencil he’s been writing with it and fiddles with it for a second before saying, “When I was a kid, I had a collection… of model cars. I, um, I didn’t want to work on cars but… I liked looking at them. It wasn’t huge or anything, but I treasured them a lot. My grandparents gifted them to me any time they went anywhere, they would stop in at local rest stops and stores on the side of the highway to check and see if they had any different ones. My abuelo loved to tell me all their stories and would tell me all about the models they’d found.” Tommy’s heart melts into a puddle of goo at the soft expression on Branson’s face, at the far away look in his eyes. Tommy’s never seen anything even close to that in the three months he’s been here. “Once they died, I didn’t have much chance to collect them anymore, though I would sometimes find Hot Wheels for cheap at thrift stores, though it was never the same.”
Tommy wipes his hands on the grease rag over his shoulder. “What happened to them?”
Branson’s expression shutters, lips drawing into a thin, pale line. “My parents started selling them off for drugs saying that they were just useless pieces of junk that cluttered up the house.” Under his breath he muttered, “As if the trailer we lived in wasn’t a piece of shit that fell apart if we breathed the wrong way, anyway.”
“Branson, I’m so sorry to hear that. That was wrong of them.” Tommy’s brows furrow, upset at Branson’s, rightfully, sour mood. “Were you able to keep any of them at all?”
He nods, but shrugs. “I mean, I managed to stash a few of them and I took them with me when they took me away but…” His expression falls further. “Some kids found them at my first placement and before I knew it, I was told that I had to share them, and that I couldn’t hoard toys. They tried telling me that they weren’t mine, there was no way I could have something like that, and said they must’ve bought them and just didn’t remember. I stashed one away for safe keeping, the very first one my abuelo and abuela gifted me, but when I got to the group home, I was told I was too old for toys and they took it from me.” He sniffles, clearly upset, but he shakes his head, dispelling any tears he may have cried. “Anyway.” His words are choked, but he’s trying to be strong. “It was just a stupid collection, and I’m too old for toys anyway. But yeah. That’s why I like cars.”
Tommy decides right then that he will scavenge the world if he has to to find replacements, and more, for every single model car taken from this boy’s hands. “Hey, you’re never too old to find enjoyment in something. If you like model cars, you like model cars. If you want to see the bigger versions, maybe we can find a car museum some day and go check them out.” His expression brightens, a small hint of excitement in them. “I’d have a great time, too. There’s a lot of cars that had a very short production window and I’d like to be able to see some of them with my own eyes.”
“That… sounds like fun.” He admits, scratching at his nose before tugging lightly on the small golden hoop in it, a nervous habit if Tommy’s ever seen one.
Grinning Tommy nods, resolute. “Awesome. Let’s look some up together later, alright?” Branson nods, looking significantly happier than he had in weeks. “Now, it’s almost dinner time. How does it sound meeting Evan at the firehouse for dinner? You can finally meet at least the adults in the family.”
He perks up, sitting up straight in his chair. “Yeah?”
Laughing Tommy says, “Absolutely. I’ll text him to let him know we’re coming. Go shower and get changed. I’ll be right behind ya.” Hopping up from his seat, Branson zips through the garage, leaving his things behind. Chuckling softly, with a small shake of his head, Tommy pulls out his phone and opens the text thread with his husband.
Tommy: Branson and I are stopping by for dinner. I have some things to tell you so be prepared.
<3 Evan: Uh-oh, should I be worried?
Tommy: Maybe only just a little. *smirking face emoji*
He slips the phone back into his pocket without waiting for the answer and trails after Branson into the house, excited to finally be making real progress with a kid that just needs a little bit of care and attention.