(no subject)
Title: Fuck Home
Pairing: background Jepha/Quinn
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 1418
Summary: At some point you just have to say 'Fuck it, I'm not what you want me to be'. Bert's hit that point.
Warnings: age fuckery.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
"You told Mom what?"
It’s like some horrible hallucination. It’s like... like someone has literally made nightmare juice, and forced him to drink a gallon. He struggles to find the right metaphor, which is a sign in itself. Bert never has problems finding metaphors, never can't find a way to express himself, whether it’s for the zine he writes for, or his more private musicless lyrics.
"I told her you like guys."
An apt metaphor comes to him. This is like Bert’s own personal apocalypse.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Joseph smirks. He smirks and for that alone, he deserves to die. What kind of person smirks at someone else's misfortune? Never mind causing it. Joseph is a sociopath, and it would better the world if Bert killed him. "That doesn't sound like a question. Is it?"
"My question is why would you do this to me. Why?"
"What did I do that I shouldn’t have?"
It isn't as if he doesn't know. He has to know. No one can possibly be that stupid. Joseph has to know, because this is a powerplay. No one in the church dives for the power without knowing what they’re going to do with it.
"You told mom that I was gay. I... you know she doesn't like... She expects me to be..." Bert stammers, unable to finish a sentence. It’s the second sign of an oncoming apocalypse. He always has something to say. "She might kick me out, Joseph!"
“She seemed calm enough when I told her.”
Of course she took it calmly. Mormons don’t get mad, they get righteous.
"A loaded cannon is calm enough, for a while, until they fucking explode and take out everything around them. No, wait. They only take out the target. I'm the target, Joseph. She's going to..." Bert runs his head through his hair and pulls hard. The pain isn't even a momentary distraction from the sheer horrible ugliness of what has happened, and what’s going to. And Joseph's still smiling. How can he be smiling when Bert's world is really and truly falling to bits around his feet?
His sickening stomach-churning fear morphs into to anger. "Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?"
The anger boils over quicker than Bert expects. One second his fists are clenching and he blinks and when his eyes are open again he’s swinging at his brother. Joseph evades the fist, bending backward and sideways at the waist, which is enough to throw off his balance. He topples onto Bert’s bed, giving Bert the chance to pin him and hit him once, twice. But Joseph’s gained height and strength over the year, and when his surprise at the ambush fades he easily fights back. One suckerpunch and Bert is gasping, all thoughts of violence gone under the immediate concern of trying to breathe.
Joseph pushed him off and stands up. "Back off, Bert!"
"How can I back off when you've ruined everything?" His voice cracks on the last syllable. His eyes are full of tears he’s not sure come from rage or horror or sadness. He’s a defeated emotional wreck, basically everything his father taught his two sons not to be.
“I’ve saved you. Deep down you know it. You need to get right with Heavenly Father, sooner rather than later.”
Joseph leaves then, closing the door softly behind him. Bert can’t help himself; he gets off the bed with a jagged inhale, opens the door and slams it as hard as he can. The wood doesn’t splinter, but it’s a close thing.
It’s not over, of course. Walking away in this house is a signal for 'we'll continue this later' not 'end of discussion'. It happens exactly the way he thought it would. They sit down for dinner, all seven of them, his sisters on one side of the table, he and Joseph on the other, Mom and Dad at either end. There are half a dozen bowls of food in front of them, on top of the crocheted table runner. For a second it’s the perfect still image. It’s what his parents strive for, to have the kind of life where any candid photo taken would be perfect for a photo album. But instead of Dad starting the pre-meal prayer Mom asks him if he has anything to confess.
“Why?” he asks bitterly. “Fuckin’ fuckstick over here already told you everything.”
“Bert! Language!”
“Go to your room! After dinner your mother and I will figure out how to fix this.”
Bert goes to his room, well aware that Katie and Melanie are watching him, expecting God to smite him on the spot for cursing. Rachel’s too old to care, and Joseph knows the best is yet to come, but his cute littlie-little sisters are stunned. He could reassure them that he’s done worse, and he will do worse in the future, but that’s probably not what a six and a nine year old want to hear. He slams the door again. It still doesn’t shatter the way he wants it to. It takes Bert ten minutes sitting on the edge of his unmade bed to decide what to do. Namely: fuck this. Fuck this, fuck his parents, fuck his siblings, fuck God, fuck heterosexuality, fuck the church and obligations and straight edge and making a good impression. Fuck fuckin’ everything in existance.
After that monumental decision it’s only a matter of cramming everything important he owns into his backpack. Not as much as you’d think, really. All of Bert’s clothes are a style he wants to shed, namely church presentable, and with five kids on a one parent income he’s not exactly spoiled with gadgets. He throws the backpack out the window and it lands with not even a crunch. It’s a well thought out stress test- if something breaks from a four foot drop it’s something that wouldn’t last in his new homeless life anyway.
Bert needs a distraction. The only way he’s going to get into the backyard without being chased after is if they have a more Godly child to worry about. He might as well do what he’s wanted to do for years. Once he’s back in the dining room Bert throws Katie’s plate full of potatoes and carrots at Joseph. Little fucker. In the chaos of Mom and Dad rushing to make sure little mr perfect doesn’t have shards of corelle in his eyeballs it’s easy to slip out the front door.
After a quick swing around the side of the house to pick up his backpack Bert heads out. He knows exactly where he’s going. There’s only one place to go. It’s a long bike ride, but he’s got no one waiting on an ETA. He might not even be home, or in the city. And if he isn’t, Bert’s sleeping on the sidewalk somewhere. Better to be an optimist and hope he’ll be there.
There’s a light on in the window. It doesn’t necessarily mean more than he left lights on to dissuade burglars, but Bert has a bit more hope as he tilts his bike against the wall and rings the doorbell. When Jepha answers the door he’s shirtless, Quinn draped over his well tattooed back with his head on his shoulder. “Oh, Bert. Hey.”
“I’m gonna stay with you for a while.” He speaks with a certainty he doesn’t at all feel. It’s pure bullshit bluster.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m gay and I need to live with you.”
“Woah man. I’m glad you change your Kinsey level, but that was me and Quinn trying out jealousy kink. I’m not actually dating you because we kissed.”
Bert decides to clarify. “Got kicked out for being gay. My shitty little brother spotted me making out with you. I don’t know where else I can stay.” All his so called friends are Mormon. They’d rat out his presence in a heartbeat, if they even let him inside.
“There’s shelters,” Quinn says.
Jepha elbows him. “Don’t be a douche.”
“You’re seriously-?”
“Yes, seriously. Welcome in Bert,” Jepha adds a sweeping flourish of a hand to the comment then backs out of the door frame, Quinn separating from him. Quinn looks unimpressed. Bert’s okay with that. He faked being a good Mormon for fifteen years. He can fake being a good guest until Quinn likes him. Maybe he’ll do a good enough job that they won’t want him to leave. And if not, well, fuck being a guest.