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rainbowfic2015-08-23 12:07 am
starphotographs) wrote in rainbowfic2015-08-23 12:07 am
Folly 6
Name: starphotographs
Story: Universe B
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Summer Carnival), Novelty Beads (http://24.media.tumblr.com/a3c9c4621106051a6463c576c1f67b3e/tumblr_mn0loqJ4US1rj2qoso2_250.gif)
Characters: Zach (POV), Barclay, special guest appearance by Barclay’s dads.
Colors: Folly 6 (I wonder where the mama is?)
Word Count: 1,789
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: A visit from the ‘rents.
Note: I dunno, I wanted to write something fun that drops a few backstory details.
Dinner With the Maximovs
The Boss was still sitting at his computer, working. I was sitting on the back of the couch, waiting for either the oven or the doorbell to ding at me. To open the door on either the lasagna or the Boss’s parents, whichever came first.
“You know, you ought to go get dressed.”
The Boss, as is his way, was working in nothing but his bathrobe. It was always my job to make sure he put on actual clothes, but I was only successful maybe about sixty or seventy percent of the time.
“…Fuck you, Zach.”
He didn’t raise his voice, but then, he never does. That said, he typed for about half a minute more, sighed, then creaked up from his chair, headed for the bedroom closet.
The oven dinged, and the lasagna looked done. Then the doorbell dinged, while I was still holding a pan of hot cheese. I sat it on the counter, then went to look through the peephole.
And there they were, The Dads.
Sinclair Maximov is dark-haired and serious. Him and the Boss look related. Giles Maximov has that brown-blonde hair color you can’t really place, and always looks like he’s laughing at some inside joke. A joke from his own insides, maybe. He seems like he’s from a different planet entirely. But, they work well together. All three of them, I mean.
I opened the door. Contrary to appearances, it’s Sinclair that’s the hugger. Quick and tight, like those machines that test things for durability in factories. He’s also the one who gives the normal greetings.
“Zach. Hey.”
Giles, in a way, is all business, and usually wants to get right to the story he’d been waiting to tell in the car. Pointing accusingly at his husband, he blurted out, sans-context:
“He got in a fight today.”
I walked us to the sitting area.
“Like, a fistfight?”
Sinclair barked through his teeth. Like the Boss always does. I guess this is where he got it.
“…Giles!”
The three of us sat down around the coffee table, them on one side, me on the other. Giles rolled his eyes and went on with the story.
“Jesus Christ, it wasn’t a fistfight. It was just, like, a little road-fight. What was it about again, Sincs?”
Sinclair grunted.
“A guy kicked my tire, and-”
Giles cut in. This was his story, dammit. Never mind if he was actually the one involved.
“Oh yeah! This dude in a parking lot kicks our hubcap… Don’t ask me why… And I was just, like, ‘hey, watch it,’ and the dude mooned me, which, you know, who cares, right? I thought it was over, but then Sinclair speeds after the guy and pulls him over like a cop and just loses his shit.”
“I hardly think I lost it… Giles, where’s our son?”
Giles shrugged.
“How would I know? I just got here!”
I tilted my head towards the bedroom.
“He’s getting dressed.”
Was getting dressed. The Boss, now fully clothed, emerged from the door.
“Jesus, Pop, you have road rage.”
I don’t know who said it first, but they both shouted “Barry!,” leapt up from the couch, and got to the hugging business. The Boss isn’t much of a hugger, and always looks kind of like he feels awkward about the whole practice, but he’s a champion reciprocal back-patter. After a good round of hugging and patting, The Dads sat back down on their couch, and the Boss joined me on mine. Giles gave a brief summary of events so far.
“I was just tellin’ your assistant about how your Pop got into it with some goon on the way over here.”
Sinclair seemed to think about this for a second, but it turned out he was thinking about something else all together.
“…You know, it’s weird that my son grew up to be someone with an assistant.”
The Boss looked confused.
“Don’t you have a teaching assistant?”
Sinclair snorted.
“…That’s not an assistant, that’s a grad student! The whole setup is for their benefit. You think it’s for mine? Nuh-uh. If it was for my benefit, they’d have given me someone competent, with a little experience.”
Giles, who had entirely forgotten to end his Road Fight Story, was cracking up.
“That kid busted a cartridge of copy machine ink on me once.”
The Boss paused to clean his glasses, put them back on, and squinted in concentration for a while.
“…Oh yeah. I think I was there for that.”
Sinclair nodded.
“You were there. There was some kind of special food event in the dining hall and I took you both with me.”
I wanted to know more about all of this, but, as with the Road Fight, they offered no more explanation. Not about the food, not about the ink. Everyone sat in silence for a while. Not awkward silence, just regular old mid-grade silence. Giles turned on the TV.
“…Hey, it’s that commercial where they walk a raw chicken on a leash!”
This must have been a controversy in their household. Sinclair smacked his forehead.
“What is your obsession with this damn commercial?”
Giles shrugged.
“I dunno, I just like it.”
Before I knew it, the mood had completely changed. Sinclair smiled deviously.
“…I just like you!”
What happened next was my favorite thing about these visits. The two of them glommed together, embracing in something that looked like those durability-testing machines, or kids having a tickle fight, but with more tongue. I watched them for a while, then turned to smile at the Boss. Who was beet red and suddenly very interested in the ceiling. Normally, he’s white as a sheet, so the change was pretty amusing. I nudged him, and stage-whispered:
“…They’re in love with each other!”
The Boss was now interested in the floor. My interest was still in his parents, and I thought, man those Maximovs really know how to Dad. I vowed that, when I have kids some day, I’m going to be the most embarrassing parent ever and absolutely glory in it. I’ll tell awful jokes, and take people to tawdry road-side attractions, and make out with my spouse in public. I’ll be able to make grown men and women in their twenties and thirties and forties revert to age twelve with a tip of my omnipresent goofy hat and a flick of my novelty-watch-adorned wrist.
The Model Dads disentangled from each other, ready to return to normal conversation. The Boss, still slightly mortified, cleared his throat to speak. Which is a normal enough mannerism, but Sinclair looked concerned.
“…You alright, Barclay?”
He was about to say he was just fine, but Giles cut him off.
“Jeeze, he’s just tryin’ to get a word in edgewise. Don’t worry so much, alright? He hasn’t been sick since he was fourteen.”
This made the Boss get embarrassed all over again, and what can you say? I couldn’t resist. I’d be nuts if I didn’t poke this turd.
“Actually, he had a bad cold last winter.”
He kicked me in the shin.
“…Zach!”
Barking at me, just like his Pop.
“Well, you did!”
Sinclair looked worried. The Boss tried to keep the situation from escalating.
“Everyone had that cold. A doorman gave it to Zach, Zach gave it to me, I gave it to our downstairs neighbors.”
Giles shrugged.
“See, that’s normal. He’s not like he was, Sincs. The kid’s a grown-up now!”
I’m not clear on all the right terms, because I know mycology, not medicine, but the Boss came out with cataracts and spleen issues because his biological mother had rubella while she was pregnant with him. So he used to get sick a lot, and had his lenses taken out before he was old enough to remember having them. He’s okay now, though. He got stronger over time. His glasses focus his eyes and cut the glare. And the immunostimulants help. He shrugged and threw out his arms.
“That I am!”
Sinclair relaxed, smiled again.
“You sure are, kiddo… Speaking of grownups, have you talked to Shiloh lately?”
The Boss shrugged.
“Last month. She’s doing good, yeah. Still a lawyer and everything.”
Shiloh was the Boss’s older sister. Apparently, she was the one who was supposed to catch rubella. Insofar as anyone is supposed to do something like that, anyway. Their ex-mom was fucked-up and lived in a commune or something. I was worried that Sinclair was about to ask about her, like he sometimes did. No, the Boss hasn‘t talked to her. He‘s never talked to her, in his entire life. Because none of us like her. Especially not you, so quit asking. Thankfully, Giles, who had been flipping channels, butted his way into the conversation.
“I like Shiloh! She’s cool. Makes me wish we could’a taken both of them.”
Sinclair shook his head.
“You just want to adopt every kid in the world! Remember when we lived in that first house? You always talked about how you wanted to adopt his friend from next door.”
Giles pointed at the ceiling. Which is kind of a universal sign for “listen to me,” even though it looks, for all the world, like “look up.”
“See? I just have intuition about who’s gonna be a good adult!” He shifted his finger downward, to point at the Boss. “…Picked that one, didn’t I? Anyway, how is Kelsey?”
The Boss shrugged.
“She’s good. Still working for that radio show.”
Sinclair was focused on some point in the middle distance.
“…You know, I’ve been meaning to listen to that, but I always miss it.”
Giles waved his phone around.
“I record it, but always forget. We can listen on the drive home.”
The Boss was laughing, which is kind of a rarity.
“…As long as you don’t pick another fight and get arrested.”
Sinclair rolled up a magazine that had been sitting on the table, then reached over and swatted his son with it.
“Hey, don’t underestimate your father like that!”
The Boss was still laughing.
“You’re not my father, you’re my Pop!”
Giles, who never seemed to be focused on one thing at once, had been testing different obnoxious ringtones on his phone.
“…Am I your father?”
The Boss didn’t miss a beat.
“No, you’re my Dad.”
Hard-faced and serious again, Sinclair pointed the magazine at me.
“And who’s he?”
I usually knew, or at least I thought I did, but I wasn’t sure in this context, so I was waiting to hear what they’d have to say. The Boss shrugged.
“A weirdo?”
Everyone laughed. Even me.
“…Alright. The Weirdo is gonna go get you guys your lasagna.”
They cheered. All three of them.
And I thought I knew my own boss…
starphotographsStory: Universe B
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Summer Carnival), Novelty Beads (http://24.media.tumblr.com/a3c9c4621106051a6463c576c1f67b3e/tumblr_mn0loqJ4US1rj2qoso2_250.gif)
Characters: Zach (POV), Barclay, special guest appearance by Barclay’s dads.
Colors: Folly 6 (I wonder where the mama is?)
Word Count: 1,789
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: A visit from the ‘rents.
Note: I dunno, I wanted to write something fun that drops a few backstory details.
The Boss was still sitting at his computer, working. I was sitting on the back of the couch, waiting for either the oven or the doorbell to ding at me. To open the door on either the lasagna or the Boss’s parents, whichever came first.
“You know, you ought to go get dressed.”
The Boss, as is his way, was working in nothing but his bathrobe. It was always my job to make sure he put on actual clothes, but I was only successful maybe about sixty or seventy percent of the time.
“…Fuck you, Zach.”
He didn’t raise his voice, but then, he never does. That said, he typed for about half a minute more, sighed, then creaked up from his chair, headed for the bedroom closet.
The oven dinged, and the lasagna looked done. Then the doorbell dinged, while I was still holding a pan of hot cheese. I sat it on the counter, then went to look through the peephole.
And there they were, The Dads.
Sinclair Maximov is dark-haired and serious. Him and the Boss look related. Giles Maximov has that brown-blonde hair color you can’t really place, and always looks like he’s laughing at some inside joke. A joke from his own insides, maybe. He seems like he’s from a different planet entirely. But, they work well together. All three of them, I mean.
I opened the door. Contrary to appearances, it’s Sinclair that’s the hugger. Quick and tight, like those machines that test things for durability in factories. He’s also the one who gives the normal greetings.
“Zach. Hey.”
Giles, in a way, is all business, and usually wants to get right to the story he’d been waiting to tell in the car. Pointing accusingly at his husband, he blurted out, sans-context:
“He got in a fight today.”
I walked us to the sitting area.
“Like, a fistfight?”
Sinclair barked through his teeth. Like the Boss always does. I guess this is where he got it.
“…Giles!”
The three of us sat down around the coffee table, them on one side, me on the other. Giles rolled his eyes and went on with the story.
“Jesus Christ, it wasn’t a fistfight. It was just, like, a little road-fight. What was it about again, Sincs?”
Sinclair grunted.
“A guy kicked my tire, and-”
Giles cut in. This was his story, dammit. Never mind if he was actually the one involved.
“Oh yeah! This dude in a parking lot kicks our hubcap… Don’t ask me why… And I was just, like, ‘hey, watch it,’ and the dude mooned me, which, you know, who cares, right? I thought it was over, but then Sinclair speeds after the guy and pulls him over like a cop and just loses his shit.”
“I hardly think I lost it… Giles, where’s our son?”
Giles shrugged.
“How would I know? I just got here!”
I tilted my head towards the bedroom.
“He’s getting dressed.”
Was getting dressed. The Boss, now fully clothed, emerged from the door.
“Jesus, Pop, you have road rage.”
I don’t know who said it first, but they both shouted “Barry!,” leapt up from the couch, and got to the hugging business. The Boss isn’t much of a hugger, and always looks kind of like he feels awkward about the whole practice, but he’s a champion reciprocal back-patter. After a good round of hugging and patting, The Dads sat back down on their couch, and the Boss joined me on mine. Giles gave a brief summary of events so far.
“I was just tellin’ your assistant about how your Pop got into it with some goon on the way over here.”
Sinclair seemed to think about this for a second, but it turned out he was thinking about something else all together.
“…You know, it’s weird that my son grew up to be someone with an assistant.”
The Boss looked confused.
“Don’t you have a teaching assistant?”
Sinclair snorted.
“…That’s not an assistant, that’s a grad student! The whole setup is for their benefit. You think it’s for mine? Nuh-uh. If it was for my benefit, they’d have given me someone competent, with a little experience.”
Giles, who had entirely forgotten to end his Road Fight Story, was cracking up.
“That kid busted a cartridge of copy machine ink on me once.”
The Boss paused to clean his glasses, put them back on, and squinted in concentration for a while.
“…Oh yeah. I think I was there for that.”
Sinclair nodded.
“You were there. There was some kind of special food event in the dining hall and I took you both with me.”
I wanted to know more about all of this, but, as with the Road Fight, they offered no more explanation. Not about the food, not about the ink. Everyone sat in silence for a while. Not awkward silence, just regular old mid-grade silence. Giles turned on the TV.
“…Hey, it’s that commercial where they walk a raw chicken on a leash!”
This must have been a controversy in their household. Sinclair smacked his forehead.
“What is your obsession with this damn commercial?”
Giles shrugged.
“I dunno, I just like it.”
Before I knew it, the mood had completely changed. Sinclair smiled deviously.
“…I just like you!”
What happened next was my favorite thing about these visits. The two of them glommed together, embracing in something that looked like those durability-testing machines, or kids having a tickle fight, but with more tongue. I watched them for a while, then turned to smile at the Boss. Who was beet red and suddenly very interested in the ceiling. Normally, he’s white as a sheet, so the change was pretty amusing. I nudged him, and stage-whispered:
“…They’re in love with each other!”
The Boss was now interested in the floor. My interest was still in his parents, and I thought, man those Maximovs really know how to Dad. I vowed that, when I have kids some day, I’m going to be the most embarrassing parent ever and absolutely glory in it. I’ll tell awful jokes, and take people to tawdry road-side attractions, and make out with my spouse in public. I’ll be able to make grown men and women in their twenties and thirties and forties revert to age twelve with a tip of my omnipresent goofy hat and a flick of my novelty-watch-adorned wrist.
The Model Dads disentangled from each other, ready to return to normal conversation. The Boss, still slightly mortified, cleared his throat to speak. Which is a normal enough mannerism, but Sinclair looked concerned.
“…You alright, Barclay?”
He was about to say he was just fine, but Giles cut him off.
“Jeeze, he’s just tryin’ to get a word in edgewise. Don’t worry so much, alright? He hasn’t been sick since he was fourteen.”
This made the Boss get embarrassed all over again, and what can you say? I couldn’t resist. I’d be nuts if I didn’t poke this turd.
“Actually, he had a bad cold last winter.”
He kicked me in the shin.
“…Zach!”
Barking at me, just like his Pop.
“Well, you did!”
Sinclair looked worried. The Boss tried to keep the situation from escalating.
“Everyone had that cold. A doorman gave it to Zach, Zach gave it to me, I gave it to our downstairs neighbors.”
Giles shrugged.
“See, that’s normal. He’s not like he was, Sincs. The kid’s a grown-up now!”
I’m not clear on all the right terms, because I know mycology, not medicine, but the Boss came out with cataracts and spleen issues because his biological mother had rubella while she was pregnant with him. So he used to get sick a lot, and had his lenses taken out before he was old enough to remember having them. He’s okay now, though. He got stronger over time. His glasses focus his eyes and cut the glare. And the immunostimulants help. He shrugged and threw out his arms.
“That I am!”
Sinclair relaxed, smiled again.
“You sure are, kiddo… Speaking of grownups, have you talked to Shiloh lately?”
The Boss shrugged.
“Last month. She’s doing good, yeah. Still a lawyer and everything.”
Shiloh was the Boss’s older sister. Apparently, she was the one who was supposed to catch rubella. Insofar as anyone is supposed to do something like that, anyway. Their ex-mom was fucked-up and lived in a commune or something. I was worried that Sinclair was about to ask about her, like he sometimes did. No, the Boss hasn‘t talked to her. He‘s never talked to her, in his entire life. Because none of us like her. Especially not you, so quit asking. Thankfully, Giles, who had been flipping channels, butted his way into the conversation.
“I like Shiloh! She’s cool. Makes me wish we could’a taken both of them.”
Sinclair shook his head.
“You just want to adopt every kid in the world! Remember when we lived in that first house? You always talked about how you wanted to adopt his friend from next door.”
Giles pointed at the ceiling. Which is kind of a universal sign for “listen to me,” even though it looks, for all the world, like “look up.”
“See? I just have intuition about who’s gonna be a good adult!” He shifted his finger downward, to point at the Boss. “…Picked that one, didn’t I? Anyway, how is Kelsey?”
The Boss shrugged.
“She’s good. Still working for that radio show.”
Sinclair was focused on some point in the middle distance.
“…You know, I’ve been meaning to listen to that, but I always miss it.”
Giles waved his phone around.
“I record it, but always forget. We can listen on the drive home.”
The Boss was laughing, which is kind of a rarity.
“…As long as you don’t pick another fight and get arrested.”
Sinclair rolled up a magazine that had been sitting on the table, then reached over and swatted his son with it.
“Hey, don’t underestimate your father like that!”
The Boss was still laughing.
“You’re not my father, you’re my Pop!”
Giles, who never seemed to be focused on one thing at once, had been testing different obnoxious ringtones on his phone.
“…Am I your father?”
The Boss didn’t miss a beat.
“No, you’re my Dad.”
Hard-faced and serious again, Sinclair pointed the magazine at me.
“And who’s he?”
I usually knew, or at least I thought I did, but I wasn’t sure in this context, so I was waiting to hear what they’d have to say. The Boss shrugged.
“A weirdo?”
Everyone laughed. Even me.
“…Alright. The Weirdo is gonna go get you guys your lasagna.”
They cheered. All three of them.
And I thought I knew my own boss…
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THIS IS THE BEST METAPHOR EVER.
Or, it will be until you come up with a better one, which I KNOW YOU.
I love the dads and Zach's narration and life in genera, ATM, because I read this fic!
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