(no subject)

[survivalof]

WHO: Marty, Liam, and Liam’s parents
WHAT: Marty surprises Liam with a spring break visit
WHEN: Tuesday, March 19
WHERE: Pittsburgh

When Liam answers the video call, he sees Marty’s face first, smirking knowingly. "Fuckin’ Carmen Sandiego bullshit," Marty comments. Then he adjusts the angle of his phone, so that his face is still in view, but now Liam can see behind him as well. Over his shoulder, the Pittsburgh bus depot he’d arrived at. He turns in a slow circle on the sidewalk, in case the surroundings are necessary context. "Now, if I yell ‘Marco’ real loud are you close enough that I could hear you yell ‘Polo’ back?" "Aw, the Artful Dodger misses me so much, he..." Liam's cooing before he's even looked at his phone, but falls silent when he sees Marty’s surroundings. It's a weird feeling, being right and having to eat your words at the same time. And for a moment, all Liam can do is blink. Blink and feel, without a doubt, that (A) Marty needs to be put in a box and mailed off forever to be someone else's problem, and (B) that he loves him desperately and would be utterly lost without him. "You fuckin'. You little shit," is how Liam decides to convey this information, voice gone watery. Marty’s response is to burst out laughing, a full bodied cackle right there on the sidewalk that earns him a couple of sideways glances. He’d wanted to see Liam’s reaction in person, but this is still well worth the effort spent selling foot pictures to get to Pittsburgh. Next, he's treated to a chaotic view as Liam's phone sails through the air and lands with a soft pomf!, presumably on a pillow of some sort. Propped up, it's half a peep show as the top third of Liam peels himself out of a hole-filled black t-shirt. "I'm coming to get you. I can't believe— Jesus Christ." There are about forty different flavors of emotion in Liam's now-muffled voice. He's also struggling to pull on a gray sweater, which complicates things further. "Slow your nerd ass down," Marty says, through barely contained laughter. "I’m not going anywhere." "Yeah, yeah." Still fussing with one inside-out sleeve, Liam scoops the phone back up. He scowls at the screen. But the look doesn't - can't - last long, softening while he chews on his lower lip. "It's just— it's—" "It’s aight," Marty answers. By now, his giggles have died down, but he’s still wearing that shitty, self-satisfied half smirk. Liam glances away, looking for some composure. Dumping a whole lot of emotion on a tiny computer screen version of his boyfriend hardly seems ideal when the real thing is ten minutes away. He can hold it in for a bit longer. And, anyway, he's finally liberated his hand from its cotton blend prison. "You should've asked me for my address a week ago." He posits, instead, taking the stairs out of his basement bedroom two at a time. "Fair enough, but hindsight is 20/20 and all that," Marty replies, watching the Blair Witch view of Liam’s ascent. "I'll be there in fifteen." Before he ends the call, he takes one last long look at Marty and adds, "Be safe." And, okay Liam, that was a little extra and embarrassing and weird. Nobody's going into any rifts. Nobody's going to die. Marty probably— Liam interrupts that thought with a groan as he shuffles himself out the front door. He knocks the heel of his hand against his head to try and stop his brain from berating him anymore, then hops in his car. As advertised, the old blue Hyundai zips across town in just a few minutes. Parking's only mostly an ordeal. Just enough to key Liam up a bit more so that he's all jitters when he leaves the car. He keeps telling himself to be cool. Walk slowly. It's only been two days. That's nothing. Hell, a week apart is nothing. They're just teenagers. This is just high school romance. But then Marty comes into view and the only thing in Liam's head is that all that hustling Marty'd done was to see him. So, he can't be cool. In just a few long-legged strides, Liam's at Marty's side, pulling him close to plant a kiss on his temple. No snide comments. No complaining. Just, "God, I'm so happy you're here." Marty isn't paying attention, playing on his phone while he waits for his ride, so that Liam is almost upon him before he notices. Still, he reacts quickly, opening his arms to catch the warm, familiar weight of him against his side. It's a little embarrassing — not the affection or how public it is, but instead how unusually earnest. Liam is so glad to see him and, even if he had couched the visit in his particular brand of chaos, Marty is happy to see him too. It's a soft, fragile feeling that he doesn't know how to safely hold onto. Instead, he wraps Liam in a crushing embrace that threatens to turn into rough housing and says, "Surprise, asshole." Liam bumps his nose against the side of Marty's face laughing. It's a heavier sound than normal, breaking when the other boy squeezes him, but already overburdened by feeling to begin with — pure joy, mostly. "I can't believe you, you shit." He says again. One more press of his face against Marty's cheek, he breathes in deeply and then it all gets to be too much sensory information. People are looking. His face is roughly the color of cooked lobster shell. "Aw God, dude, c'mon." Liam wheezes, scrambling to free himself from the bear hug as though he isn't the one whose eyes are glazed with tears. He'll remember all this. Every detail. Years down the line, or maybe forever. It's a strange prospect. Liam doesn't normally think about what might come ‘after.’ And it almost seems wrong, not just thinking about it, but being so positive that Marty will be there with him. Ugh. That’s too many feelings. He slugs Marty in the arm when he finally squirms away, still smiling. This is all his fault. "How was the ride?" Liam frees himself from the crushing hug, and Marty picks up his book bag and slings it on. It definitely doesn't have books in it. It might have clothes. But by the way it crinkles, it does have snacks. When he sees tears brimming in Liam's eyes, Marty looks away, the same way anyone else might politely divert their gaze for someone who's changing. Because if it were him, he wouldn't want to be seen. The punch to his arm is a comfortable reprieve. He turns back to Liam with a lopsided grin, "Long, but fine. Had to keep reminding myself not to post on Instagram about it so you wouldn't see." Liam swipes his sleeve across his cheeks so that when Marty's attention is back on him, he can meet the other boy's gaze with a crooked grin and one quirked eyebrow. "Such restraint. I just figured you were in the bathroom. You gonna show me all your bus selfies?" "Since when does being in the bathroom stop me from taking selfies? Anyway, I’m already editing my bus selfies to post. Had to wait to get a picture with your shocked face, though. To tell the whole story." Marty holds his phone up and waggles it for Liam to see. He’s been busy while he waited. As he peeks at the phone, Liam’s fingers brush down the length of Marty's arm, but hang when a sudden bubbling of fear stops him from taking his boyfriend's hand. It's an old and aching feeling. And ill-fitting now, too; like pulling on a bit of old clothing he'd always hated, anyway. This isn't Finchwood, he tells himself. But, the other half of his brain says, no one here can hurt him, anymore. So, Liam grasps Marty's hand, his little act of defiance snuffing out the now impotent fear. "How many weirdos hit you up?" He asks, pushing all that aside and leading Marty toward his car. "Like, at least one at every rest stop, right?" Marty laces his fingers with Liam’s easily. If he noticed the worry, he doesn’t show it, though his grip is tight. "Oh, at least. But I think I got some more foot porn customers." He’s probably lying, but his grin makes it hard to tell. "You should set up a Patreon." Liam deadpans, leveling a sideways look in Marty's direction. The fact that foot money brought them together is so uniquely the Wand's style that Liam almost finds it endearing. Almost. It's still feet. What is endearing is the way Marty's dressed. As he leads them through a parking garage, Liam keeps stealing glances. His shirt has buttons! The pants possess a normal number of pockets! Muscle shirts, cargo pants and athleisure will always be dear to Liam's heart, but this is something else. It's Meeting The Parents attire. Liam finds himself both glowing with affection and horribly embarrassed. "Did you lose your stuff and have to steal a new outfit off somebody's clothesline?" Liam says, because not being a shithead is too much of an ask. But, he also gives Marty's hand a squeeze. "You look nice." Marty snorts and hip checks Liam in response. "No. I was working on convincing my parents to let me leave campus right up ‘til the last minute. I didn’t have time to do laundry." They both know he’s lying. The cleanliness of clothes rarely matters to Marty, so long as they reasonably pass a sniff test. Liam snickers. He doesn't need to stumble quite as much as he does against Marty's hip, but it gives him a reason to pull the both of them toward his car. Leaning on the trunk lid, he hooks his fingers in Marty's belt loops to pull him in for a kiss, pressed with a smile and a humming laugh. They haven’t been separated for long, but it’s as good an excuse as any. As soon as Liam reels him in, Marty presses close, one hand slipping behind Liam’s neck, lightly running his fingers through the short hair there. With Liam leaning back against his car, it’s just enough to even their height, putting them eye to eye. "I always look good," Marty murmurs, still close enough to brush the side of Liam’s nose with his own. "You do." Liam answers, insistent. Not that Marty doesn't believe it, but this is a little different. Releasing his hips, Liam tugs at Marty's shirt and smooths out his collar, keeping his gaze on the other boy's face. His voice dips, soft, "The kinda boy you can bring home to mom." They both know Liam is right, no matter what excuses Marty makes. He knows his boyfriend well enough to suss him out within moments of seeing him in his Sunday best. Still, the declaration makes him glance away while Liam picks at his clothes. You can dress a wolf in sheep's clothing, but that doesn't mean anyone will buy it. It only takes Marty a second to recover, and he leans in to purr suggestively in Liam's ear, "Are you so sure?" Then he leans back out, smirking. "Well, I hope so. I don't wanna sleep on your lawn." "I've had plenty of camp outs on the front porch and I can tell you it's perfectly comfortable." Liam pretends his face isn't burning at Marty's whispered words and approximates haughty offense with lifted brow and a shake of his head. He knows Marty would prefer they left it here, at jokes and teasing. It would be easier. But that ease, that feeling of safety, is deceptive. If the roles were reversed, Liam would be terrified. He can't imagine Marty ever being half as afraid of anything as he regularly is of everything, but it's safe to assume his boyfriend's a little nervous. "Hey, we're going to be fine." Speaking with an honest, easy confidence, Liam puts on an assured grin and cups Marty's face in his hands. "My parents are shitheads, so they'll love you. I can give you the parental rundown in the car. It's gonna go great. And if for some weird ass reason it doesn't?" He pauses for a breath, then bites down on his lower lip before going on. "I've got you. I've always got you." It's strange, being a 'we', but stranger still that Marty doesn't mind it. It just fits. Liam holds his face in his hands like something precious, and for once, he doesn't divert his gaze. He answers with a smile and says, "Yeah, I know." Marty's smile is sunshine. Liam takes a moment to bask in it before patting his face twice and letting him go. He hoists himself off the trunk, readying his keys with one hand and slapping the bumper with the other. "Really, what you should be worried about is the old shitbox stalling out in the middle of an intersection before we get home." He's joking. Kind of. * * * It's less than four miles between the bus depot and the Blumenthal residence. The drive—blessedly free of vehicular breakdowns—is plenty long enough for Liam to get out a shortlist of facts about his parents, information he delivers with varying degrees of care. His mother is easy enough to talk about, but he waits until they're driving through his neighborhood, a quaint city street lined with red brick buildings set against the sidewalk, to talk about his father. "So, my dad, uh, used to be a doctor. He can't practice traditionally anymore because he's, like, blind." Liam rattles this information off like it should be nothing, but there’s strain in it. He clears his throat. It’s not a big deal. But it is. But it isn’t. "It's been five years. And, uh, he's consulting now. So he's doing way better than he was, like, mood-wise." Liam looks like he wants to say more, but only a sigh escapes him. They're here. His home stands out from the others, a narrow building with speckled gray and red bricks, making the whole house looks sort of pink. It doesn’t look like what Marty was expecting, though now that they’re here, he couldn’t say how. He’s quieter than usual, because he’s actually putting forth the effort to remember what Liam is telling him. He’s one of the few people who has that effect on him, though he’d hate to admit it out loud. Something in the car's engine knocks loudly in protest when Liam throws it in reverse to parallel park. He mockingly imitates the sound as he cranes his neck to see where he's going. Once he's shut the car off, it occurs to him that maybe having a college professor and a physician for parents is intimidating when you're not the one living it. He offers Marty a reassuring smile, removing his keys from the ignition and throwing his door open. "They're both dorks. I can't wait for you to meet them." "Uh-huh," Marty says, reaching into the backseat to grab his backpack while Liam is climbing out. It’s hard not to picture Liam’s parents as older, male and female versions of Liam. On the other hand, what he has said about them so far reminds him of his own parents. So he’s trying to imagine boring, judgemental older versions of Liam. "So like, is the blind thing a sore spot? Should I act like I don’t notice?" Marty asks as he climbs out of the car and shoulders his bag. "And are they gonna get all pissed if they hear me cussing?" Liam rounds the car, listing his head to the side and squinting as he tries to think of what to say. It's a struggle to explain how to handle his father. So many years spent walking on eggshells. He's still learning, himself. "Um, well, kinda? But, you know, just treat him like normal. He hates feeling like he's being pitied." Marty nods once. He can understand that. It's also the easiest strategy for him, because he's never been good at pity. It's a very short walk from there, past a small patch of grass, up three steps to the porch and the front door. Here, Liam pauses. "Cursing?" He laughs, a rush of air that untangles some of the knots in his shoulders. "Oh yeah. You should definitely watch your language." He grins. It's wry, barely containing his amusement. Before he turns the doorknob, Liam scoops Marty's hand up in his own. "You ready?" Marty catches his sarcasm and grins. Well, at least that's something. "Sure," he says with a nonchalant shrug that crinkles the snacks in his book bag. There's a loud jingle when Liam opens the door, an old cast iron bell hanging over the entrance rattling with a deep ding-ding-dong. He hardly reacts to the sound, cutting right and leading Marty into the living room. It looks a bit like something you'd see in The Addams Family; dark wallpaper, old furniture, countless books, and a medical skeleton wearing an ushanka-hat in one corner. On the couch in the middle of the room sits a woman, monstrously pregnant and fully engrossed in grading papers. She doesn't look up from her work, but her striking resemblance to Liam is still obvious. Same nose, same eyes. "What the hell was that?" Same casual heatless sarcasm. "Did Zordon need you? Goldar tormenting the city, again?" Liam looks at Marty and shrugs. He has no clue what a Zordon or a Goldar are. At the silence, Rachel Blumenthal finally looks up. There's no surprise in her expression. Instead, she narrows her eyes and grins at the both of them, suspicious. It's a look Marty might find familiar. "Hello there." "Mom, this is Marty—" Liam tries to take point on a normal introduction, but his mother foils him. "Liam," she gasps. "You're gay?" "Oh. My God." Liam's ohmigods already usually push the limits of exasperation, but the one he produces for his mother truly feels like he's scraped the lining of his soul to deliver it. "Fuck off." He turns to Marty while his mother barks a laugh and says, "She's being a dick." Which only makes her laugh harder. Marty lets this exchange pass uninterrupted, glancing back and forth between mother and son like he's watching a tennis match - one Liam is definitely losing. He likes Liam’s mom, he thinks. Mrs. Blumenthal remains seated but extends her hand. "I'm Rachel. I'd stand to greet you, but I'm carrying this boulder." She pauses, grin broadening. "Glad to finally meet you. You're the one who tried to steal the car, huh?" Liam just shuts his eyes in response to that question. Marty takes her hand and gives it a firm shake. Confident, but a little stiff. "Nice to meet you. I see you've heard about me." He cuts a look sideways at Liam, eyes glinting with the promise of future teasing. "Ah, I was only borrowing it. But I did make it off campus, so." "A gentleman thief." She says to Liam, who looks mortified, hiding his face in the palm of his hand. Liam's mother meets the gesture with the smile of a cat, pleased and mysterious. She turns it back to Marty. "I wish we'd've known you were coming. Would've had a better welcome for you." "Oh, didn't I tell you?" Liam interjects, lying with the skill of someone who can rarely tell his parents the whole truth about anything. "I could've sworn I did, like, last week. My bad. Sorry." "Mmhmm." Rachel levels a look at her son. It's clear she accepts this excuse only begrudgingly, but doesn't seem angry or put out. More like she's just gained an interesting bit of information. Apparently satisfied, she sets her paperwork aside and turns her attention back to Marty. "I've heard plenty from Liam, but why don't you tell me about yourself? You're from Tennessee, right?" "Yeah, Clarksville," Marty says with a nod. If he’d had the forethought to see this question coming, he would have dreaded it, but instead he discovers he doesn’t have a good answer in real time. Well, I spend a lot of time fighting monsters and getting wasted, and I flunked sophomore year, isn’t acceptable, but his brain doesn’t present anything better. "Me and Liam’re in the same grade," he offers. He’s sure she knows that, if she knows about his joyride, but it fills the silence better than anything else he has. "You're about as forthcoming as he is." She jokes, tipping her head in her son's direction but keeping her eyes on Marty. "Are you also in that—" "Rach, the kid's been traveling for a minimum of seventeen hours." The man standing in the wide archway separating the living room from the kitchen looks like a middle-aged Liam who traveled back in time and decided that flannel was better than monochromatic sweaters once he got here. The resemblance is absolutely uncanny. "Maybe we could offer him a pop or a sandwich or something before you bust out the iron maiden." Now, he turns his attention to his guest, looking roughly in Marty's direction. "Marty, right? Max. Can Liam or I get you anything to make your inquisition a bit more enjoyable?" Liam says, "I want a sandwich." "You know where the bread is." His father returns. It turns out that Marty’s assumptions hadn’t been entirely wrong. These two are definitely older versions of Liam. He’s still not totally comfortable, but the bantering puts him a little at ease. "Yep, that’s me. Guess my reputation precedes me. Nice to meet you, Max.” He looks sideways at Liam. "Not gonna lie, I am starving.” "Let's go scrounge something up." Liam suggests. He'd like to say more, to reassure Marty or apologize for how relentless and exhausting his parents are, but that's better left for later. He settles, instead, for bumping against his boyfriend as he nods toward the kitchen, offering him a soft smile. For a moment, Marty's the only one in the room with him. He doesn't even notice his mother tilting her chin up and glancing at his father. Evidently, Liam's father is oblivious to all of this, because as Liam leads Marty toward the kitchen, he says, "I'd love to hear your versions of some of the stories he tells about you." Rachel ducks her head into her hand and laughs, a quiet snort. "Ah, Maxwell. My love." "Ugh." Liam's face immediately floods with warm color. He squints one eye shut, but the other one squarely holding Marty's gaze, a cringing half-smile. "Cut it out, he's going to start thinking I like him or something." "I’d love to hear what versions he’s been telling,” Marty says with a rakish grin. "Bet mine are better.” He’s teasing Liam, but it’s still true. He can’t help but wonder what Liam has said about him, how he has painted him in his versions of these tales, and how long he’s been telling them about him. "No you wouldn’t.” Liam protests, but in the face of that grin, all he can do is duck his head. His smile goes bashful and he huffs, a single breath of shy laughter. He hadn't anticipated this—hadn't realized just how blatant he'd been to his parents this whole time. Meanwhile, his father soldiers right on. "I think we may hear more about you than about Kyra or Nora." That snaps Liam out of his haze. He throws his hands up, trying to cut his dad off from saying more. "Ah! Ba ba ba ba!" He looks from his father to his mother to Marty, complaining, "This is an assault on my person." Marty sees no reason to come to his boyfriend’s rescue, and simply raises his eyebrows at Liam. His mother finds this instantly hysterical. "Liam, honey, go help Dad get some food together." As her laughter calms, she turns her attention back to Marty and holds out her hand. "Hey kiddo, mind swinging back over here and helping me up?" Liam blanches, but his mother meets that look with a scowl. "Oy, God in heaven, I'm not going to eat him. Go help your damn father, I swear." After that, her son shoots an apologetic look in Marty's direction and scrambles out of the room. For once, Marty does as he’s asked, approaching Liam’s mom to take the offered hand. He’s strong, and he has a lot of experience moving people, but very little experience doing so carefully. Even their training in case someone on his squad was charmed had focused on a quick, nonlethal takedown, but there had been very little consideration to gentleness. Even dance has falls and crushed toes. He seems uncertain, but when she seems ready, he pulls her forward. She isn’t as heavy as he was expecting, so close to popping, only awkwardly proportioned. "Alright?” he says. The effort of it seems to leave her exhausted. Or, at least, panting. Still grinning, though. "Thank you, honey. I think I'm doing damn well for someone who's got a seven pound turkey pushing on her lungs." Clearly she'd wanted Liam in the other room for a reason. Rachel retrieves her phone from her pocket. "Here. I want to show you something. It's embarrassing, so bear with me." Liam's mother pulls her glasses down out of her hair and onto her nose. Flick, click, scroll, scroll, scroll. "Ah-hah." Rachel tilts the phone so that Marty can see. It's a series of text messages with her son, and honestly, there's not much there. A lot of one-sided conversation. Responses range from the highly engaged K to the loquacious IDK mom sry. No emojis. No whining. No quips. It's not him at all. "This started in November." She scrolls through countless one word replies, until they stop coming all together. Just a wall of sent messages with no response. "January was..." Rachel doesn't finish the thought, just squints at the screen. "But then, look. February." At first, Marty doesn’t understand what she’s showing him. He always texts with his own mom this way. Terse, or not at all. It was always hard to talk to her truthfully without getting a lecture, and harder still once he came to Finchwood. But once they reach February, Marty sees what she means. Suddenly, texting into the void gives way to return messages. Just a few words at first, but it grows into long conversations. Rachel doesn't linger enough for any of them to be legible, but the words Marty and I scroll by several times. Then the pictures start; selfies, shots with friends, of friends. There's a candid picture of Marty, himself, snapped in what looks like English class. Here, Rachel shuts the screen off. All Mrs. Blumenthal knows is that being a teenager is hard. She'll never understand what any of them are going through. Only that Liam was struggling, he was fading, and then he wasn't. "Thank you." She says, then ticks her head to the side. "Keep getting him into trouble, okay? He needs it." Marty processes her words in reverse order. At first, all he hears is trouble, and his brain fills in with the assumption that she has asked him to keep Liam out of it. He’s on the verge of saying that he can’t do that, he’s not the type to— but then he realizes what she has asked him and he nods. "Well, I’m really good at that,” he says, tone playful. Only then does he realize that she thanked him, so earnestly, and that hits him like a slow motion punch. Blood spatter, single tooth flying, knockout. He remembers Noah saying, You take care of everyone. He sort of feels like he has a seven pound turkey sitting on his lungs, too, now. "I’ll do my best.” It’s all he can promise her, or any of them, but he means it. Marty's response gives Liam's mother pause. How can it not? It seems like every child at that school is carrying the burden of someone twice their age. She opens her mouth to say more, but Liam pops in the doorway. "Would you stop tormenting him?" He hisses through clenched teeth, brandishing a pack of string cheese. Rachel looks at her son and pushes her glasses up her nose using her middle finger. Liam ignores that, instead focusing on Marty, his expression bright, mischievous. "C’mere. I got you cheese to apologize for the interrogation, and I bet I can eat more than you."