QAF Fic: Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nothing Gold Can Stay
[.072 Fixed]
Sydney Alexis
Summary: All actions have consequences. Some are far more reaching than others. Two words changed everything: "I'm pregnant." Companion piece to He. [Gus-centered fic, Lindsay and Sam bashing. Pairings: Lindsay/Sam; B/J]
A/N: I wrote this with two different endings -- the soppy/sappy version and the more realistic, slightly angsty ending. I liked both and couldn't choose, so I'm leaving it up to you to choose your own adventure.
A tiny hand clasped mine as Tristan and I weaved through the crowded station platform. This time of day, it was a mass of workers and students trying to get home. My little brother and I were no different.
Tris and I have made this journey a thousand times -- down the green line to the swanky school he got us into and back up to the Manhattan apartment we're now living in. Usually though our mom is with us.
Tris' tiny grip tightened once again, a nonverbal cue that he's having a hard time keeping up with my gait. I slow down and offer him a smile.
We emerge from the underground, blinking rapidly as our eyes adjust to the sudden brightness.
"Almost home," I murmur, guiding him through the heavy foot traffic.
The doorman on duty gives us a sad smile, and I already know what is to come. I barely key open the door when a half-dressed, obviously disheveled Sam staggers up off the sofa.
"Gus! We were just um..."
It's pretty fucking obvious what he was doing, and I know my expression tells him as much.
"Right...Marie, this is my son, Tristan, and my wife's son, Gus. They were just leaving," he said, fishing out a stack of bills and forcing them into my hand.
It's always been like this. Mom goes away for a few days on buying tours, Sam brings back his sycophantic groupies to the house, and Mom pretends not to know any better. Tristan and I are the ones that suffer. Two children forced to fend for themselves far before they should.
I'm not sure why my brother and I are even here anymore.
Oh, I know why Lindsay stays with Sam -- for his connections, to stay in his world. She was even clever enough in naming her second born, Tristan for the sorrow she felt. The shortened form, Trist, was what she called him to remind herself, Sam, and me of how he came to be.
He's not old enough to understand, to be hurt by it. Yet.
Things in my life had never been the same since the move. No. That's not entirely true. Things hadn't been the same since Tristan was born. The moment Lindsay popped the poop machine out, Mother seemed to orbit around the little shit.
Her and all her society friends would gush and coo over the wailing machine.
'Oh, look! Isn't he pretty in his frilly, designer, foo-foo booties?!' They would all say and then squeal. Never mind the fact that he was loading his diaper at the same time.
At first, I hated Tristan because he represented everything that was wrong in my life. He was the reason Mother and I were here and not in the Pitts with Dad and Justin. He was the reason Mother turned into Crazy Society Bitch. And he was the reason I'd been pushed away, utterly ignored...at least in the presence of Mother and all those society friends.
And then one afternoon Mother brought me home from school to find Sam fucking the nanny on the dining room table while Tristan slept a few feet away in his portable playpen.
Mother turned sheet-white, turned on her heel, and left the apartment without a second glance at me or Trist.
Sam pulled up his pants, straightened out his hair, and went running after Mother. The nanny-turned-tart, after sorting out her clothes, walked out of the apartment and our lives forever.
I watched the proceedings with disinterest; it wasn't the first time I'd walked in on Sam fucking someone.
In less than a minute and a half I was left alone with my three year old brother for god only knows how long.
It was then that I began to realize that it was just Tristan and I against the world.
I would learn later that Sam's tricking started when Tristan was 21 months and I was five. My little half-brother had just started preschool and, due to Mother and Sam's schedules, he had the opportunity to use the empty apartment to bring home vapid, giggly groupies. Our nanny was just one of them.
And I wasn't sure who I hated more -- Mother for pretending those bimbos didn't exist, for getting pregnant in the first place or Sam for having the gall to fuck his weekly bit on any available surface and not caring one whit if his pseudo-stepson caught him in the act.
The first time or two, Tristan and I had walked in to find Sam balls deep in some trashy, Victoria Secret wanna be model, he'd hastily pulled out, zipped up, steered the two of them into the foyer of our -- correction his Manhattan apartment, handed me fifty bucks and told me to make Trist and I scarce.
After awhile bills 'suddenly' appeared in my book bag weekly -- always on the days Mother was working late or out of town.
Technically, Sam was supposed to pick us up from school and ride the subway with us. It's what our old nanny did before she started boffing Sam, but the prick with legs couldn't be bothered, Mother didn't know -- or, more accurately didn't want to know, and the idea of employing a new nanny fell through the cracks for fear of a repeat I guess.
I took it upon myself to drag my heels getting myself and Tristan home so he wouldn't be exposed to that shit.
It was an utterly miserable existence -- an endless circle of subways and kiddie friendly restaurants where servers began to recognize the pair of us by name. I began to think of myself as Tristan's parent in some ways; I was the one that got him up for school, made sure he had his pack lunch, taught him how to tie his shoes, helped him with his homework, and held his hand as we navigated the busy streets and subway terminals of New York City.
Lindsay happily went to work at her gallery thinking that Sam took care of us in the afternoon, and Sam 'parented' using dead presidents.
And the pair of them only seemed to remember each other and Tristan when an opening occurred as the press would always ask about 'the little darlings.'
Even then, after an hour, I would take Tristan's little hand in my own and ride the subway or take a cab back home.
And then, just as it had once before, everything changed in an instant; Sam had an opening up the street from the gallery Justin was showing at. Not that I even knew about it at the time; my father and Justin's name were all but taboo in Sam's apartment.
Tristan and I, still dolled up in the ridiculous designer wear Lindsay had outfitted in, were walking towards the subway entrance to catch a ride on the 6 when Tristan caught sight of a familiar face.
"Bwian! Jus Jus!"
And just like that, he was tearing down the street in his little black suit with me trailing behind.
Two hours and a medium pizza later, Brian and Justin had learned all the grizzly details of Lindsay and Sam's 'care' for the past few years.
A week later, Lindsay had been blackmailed into signing over her custody of both of us to Brian and Justin.
And, just like that, everything changed again.
. . .
Pittsburgh was nothing like New York. Oh, it was big and crowded and polluted, but not as much. There was a public transportation, but nothing as extensive as the subways we navigated like old pros.
And then there was the not-quite-family.
The gang were all horrified to learn the depth of neglect our dear, sweet mother put us though. My once not-quite-a-mother, Melanie smirked and grimly announced she ought to turn the information over to the NYPD. Debbie began telling anyone in ear shot that she'd be calling Lindsay to give them a piece of her mind. Emmett called my mother a cunty, scheming whore and then started fussing over my clothing choices.
Of course, the gang were not quite happy with Trist and I's new guardians. Apparently, my father and his partner were known to trick, and, beyond babysitting me when I was still in diapers, neither of them had any parenting experience.
I shared a look with Trist and shrugged. It couldn't be worse than Sam and Mother's.
It was odd though.
At first, we lived in my father's fuck pad with Trist and I camping out on folding cots Debbie had in her attic.
Then Jen stepped in, flooding the dining room table with listings for housing in the Liberty District.
"They can't stay in cots forever, Brian! They need a room to sleep in, a closet to put clothes in, and you two need a room to fuck in away from prying eyes," she said.
And so Dad and Justin went house hunting.
But nothing Dad ever did could be small.
They ended up buying some tutor style, monster sized house in West Virginia that had more bedroom and bathrooms than GW had bad ideas. Tristan and I had our own wing with a bedroom, bathroom, and sitting room of our own. We also had a play room stuffed to the gills with toys. Tristan was happy which made me happy.
And that was really all the mattered.
[Version Two: More realistic/angsty ending
A tiny hand clasped mine as Tristan and I weaved through the crowded station platform. This time of day, it was a mass of workers and students trying to get home. My little brother and I were no different.
Tris and I have made this journey a thousand times -- down the green line to the swanky school he got us into and back up to the Manhattan apartment we're now living in. Usually though our mom is with us.
Tris' tiny grip tightened once again, a nonverbal cue that he's having a hard time keeping up with my gait. I slow down and offer him a smile.
We emerge from the underground, blinking rapidly as our eyes adjust to the sudden brightness.
"Almost home," I murmur, guiding him through the heavy foot traffic.
The doorman on duty gives us a sad smile, and I already know what is to come. I barely key open the door when a half-dressed, obviously disheveled Sam staggers up off the sofa.
"Gus! We were just um..."
It's pretty fucking obvious what he was doing, and I know my expression tells him as much.
"Right...Marie, this is my son, Tristan, and my wife's son, Gus. They were just leaving," he said, fishing out a stack of bills and forcing them into my hand.
It's always been like this. Mom goes away for a few days on buying tours, Sam brings back his sycophantic groupies to the house, and Mom pretends not to know any better. Tristan and I are the ones that suffer. Two children forced to fend for themselves far before they should.
I'm not sure why my brother and I are even here anymore.
Oh, I know why Lindsay stays with Sam -- for his connections, to stay in his world. She was even clever enough in naming her second born, Tristan for the sorrow she felt. The shortened form, Trist, was what she called him to remind herself, Sam, and me of how he came to be.
He's not old enough to understand, to be hurt by it. Yet.
Things in my life had never been the same since the move. No. That's not entirely true. Things hadn't been the same since Tristan was born. The moment Lindsay popped the poop machine out, Mother seemed to orbit around the little shit.
Her and all her society friends would gush and coo over the wailing machine.
'Oh, look! Isn't he pretty in his frilly, designer, foo-foo booties?!' They would all say and then squeal. Never mind the fact that he was loading his diaper at the same time.
At first, I hated Tristan because he represented everything that was wrong in my life. He was the reason Mother and I were here and not in the Pitts with Dad and Justin. He was the reason Mother turned into Crazy Society Bitch. And he was the reason I'd been pushed away, utterly ignored...at least in the presence of Mother and all those society friends.
And then one afternoon Mother brought me home from school to find Sam fucking the nanny on the dining room table while Tristan slept a few feet away in his portable playpen.
Mother turned sheet-white, turned on her heel, and left the apartment without a second glance at me or Trist.
Sam pulled up his pants, straightened out his hair, and went running after Mother. The nanny-turned-tart, after sorting out her clothes, walked out of the apartment and our lives forever.
I watched the proceedings with disinterest; it wasn't the first time I'd walked in on Sam fucking someone.
In less than a minute and a half I was left alone with my three year old brother for god only knows how long.
It was then that I began to realize that it was just Tristan and I against the world.
I would learn later that Sam's tricking started when Tristan was 21 months and I was five. My little half-brother had just started preschool and, due to Mother and Sam's schedules, he had the opportunity to use the empty apartment to bring home vapid, giggly groupies. Our nanny was just one of them.
And I wasn't sure who I hated more -- Mother for pretending those bimbos didn't exist, for getting pregnant in the first place or Sam for having the gall to fuck his weekly bit on any available surface and not caring one whit if his pseudo-stepson caught him in the act.
The first time or two, Tristan and I had walked in to find Sam balls deep in some trashy, Victoria Secret wanna be model, he'd hastily pulled out, zipped up, steered the two of them into the foyer of our -- correction his Manhattan apartment, handed me fifty bucks and told me to make Trist and I scarce.
After awhile bills 'suddenly' appeared in my book bag weekly -- always on the days Mother was working late or out of town.
Technically, Sam was supposed to pick us up from school and ride the subway with us. It's what our old nanny did before she started boffing Sam, but the prick with legs couldn't be bothered, Mother didn't know -- or, more accurately didn't want to know, and the idea of employing a new nanny fell through the cracks for fear of a repeat I guess.
I took it upon myself to drag my heels getting myself and Tristan home so he wouldn't be exposed to that shit.
It was an utterly miserable existence -- an endless circle of subways and kiddie friendly restaurants where servers began to recognize the pair of us by name. I began to think of myself as Tristan's parent in some ways; I was the one that got him up for school, made sure he had his pack lunch, taught him how to tie his shoes, helped him with his homework, and held his hand as we navigated the busy streets and subway terminals of New York City.
Lindsay happily went to work at her gallery thinking that Sam took care of us in the afternoon, and Sam 'parented' using dead presidents.
And the pair of them only seemed to remember each other and Tristan when an opening occurred as the press would always ask about 'the little darlings.'
Even then, after an hour, I would take Tristan's little hand in my own and ride the subway or take a cab back home.
When I turned eighteen and graduated from the prep school Sam paid a fucking mint for me to attend, I moved out. Out of my mother and Sam's apartment, out of Manhattan, out of New York. I got a rat trap apartment in London, started school at Oxford, and, once I'd established myself, I sent for Tristan.
He came willingly on the red-eye, three oversized bags trailing behind him on a cart. I took one look at him -- the bags under his eyes, the rigid way he held himself. I could only imagine the damage Sam and Lindsay had done without me there playing interference. Without a word, I held out my arms. He collapsed into me, sniffing loudly as he tried to keep the tears at bay.
"Easy, Tristan. You're safe now."
"They just let me go. It's like they didn't care."
I stroked his hair and remained silent. He'd always been the sensitive one.
"They don't matter. We do. We've always survived."
He tightened his grip for one second as a silent 'thank you' before pulling back. I nodded my head in understanding before leading him out to my tiny car and the new start at life London offered.
My fathers -- both biological and step -- might still be parenting with dead presidents, but that was okay. I had Tristan.
[fanfic100: 76/100]
[Big Box of Prompts]
[.072 Fixed]
Sydney Alexis
Summary: All actions have consequences. Some are far more reaching than others. Two words changed everything: "I'm pregnant." Companion piece to He. [Gus-centered fic, Lindsay and Sam bashing. Pairings: Lindsay/Sam; B/J]
A/N: I wrote this with two different endings -- the soppy/sappy version and the more realistic, slightly angsty ending. I liked both and couldn't choose, so I'm leaving it up to you to choose your own adventure.
A tiny hand clasped mine as Tristan and I weaved through the crowded station platform. This time of day, it was a mass of workers and students trying to get home. My little brother and I were no different.
Tris and I have made this journey a thousand times -- down the green line to the swanky school he got us into and back up to the Manhattan apartment we're now living in. Usually though our mom is with us.
Tris' tiny grip tightened once again, a nonverbal cue that he's having a hard time keeping up with my gait. I slow down and offer him a smile.
We emerge from the underground, blinking rapidly as our eyes adjust to the sudden brightness.
"Almost home," I murmur, guiding him through the heavy foot traffic.
The doorman on duty gives us a sad smile, and I already know what is to come. I barely key open the door when a half-dressed, obviously disheveled Sam staggers up off the sofa.
"Gus! We were just um..."
It's pretty fucking obvious what he was doing, and I know my expression tells him as much.
"Right...Marie, this is my son, Tristan, and my wife's son, Gus. They were just leaving," he said, fishing out a stack of bills and forcing them into my hand.
It's always been like this. Mom goes away for a few days on buying tours, Sam brings back his sycophantic groupies to the house, and Mom pretends not to know any better. Tristan and I are the ones that suffer. Two children forced to fend for themselves far before they should.
I'm not sure why my brother and I are even here anymore.
Oh, I know why Lindsay stays with Sam -- for his connections, to stay in his world. She was even clever enough in naming her second born, Tristan for the sorrow she felt. The shortened form, Trist, was what she called him to remind herself, Sam, and me of how he came to be.
He's not old enough to understand, to be hurt by it. Yet.
Things in my life had never been the same since the move. No. That's not entirely true. Things hadn't been the same since Tristan was born. The moment Lindsay popped the poop machine out, Mother seemed to orbit around the little shit.
Her and all her society friends would gush and coo over the wailing machine.
'Oh, look! Isn't he pretty in his frilly, designer, foo-foo booties?!' They would all say and then squeal. Never mind the fact that he was loading his diaper at the same time.
At first, I hated Tristan because he represented everything that was wrong in my life. He was the reason Mother and I were here and not in the Pitts with Dad and Justin. He was the reason Mother turned into Crazy Society Bitch. And he was the reason I'd been pushed away, utterly ignored...at least in the presence of Mother and all those society friends.
And then one afternoon Mother brought me home from school to find Sam fucking the nanny on the dining room table while Tristan slept a few feet away in his portable playpen.
Mother turned sheet-white, turned on her heel, and left the apartment without a second glance at me or Trist.
Sam pulled up his pants, straightened out his hair, and went running after Mother. The nanny-turned-tart, after sorting out her clothes, walked out of the apartment and our lives forever.
I watched the proceedings with disinterest; it wasn't the first time I'd walked in on Sam fucking someone.
In less than a minute and a half I was left alone with my three year old brother for god only knows how long.
It was then that I began to realize that it was just Tristan and I against the world.
I would learn later that Sam's tricking started when Tristan was 21 months and I was five. My little half-brother had just started preschool and, due to Mother and Sam's schedules, he had the opportunity to use the empty apartment to bring home vapid, giggly groupies. Our nanny was just one of them.
And I wasn't sure who I hated more -- Mother for pretending those bimbos didn't exist, for getting pregnant in the first place or Sam for having the gall to fuck his weekly bit on any available surface and not caring one whit if his pseudo-stepson caught him in the act.
The first time or two, Tristan and I had walked in to find Sam balls deep in some trashy, Victoria Secret wanna be model, he'd hastily pulled out, zipped up, steered the two of them into the foyer of our -- correction his Manhattan apartment, handed me fifty bucks and told me to make Trist and I scarce.
After awhile bills 'suddenly' appeared in my book bag weekly -- always on the days Mother was working late or out of town.
Technically, Sam was supposed to pick us up from school and ride the subway with us. It's what our old nanny did before she started boffing Sam, but the prick with legs couldn't be bothered, Mother didn't know -- or, more accurately didn't want to know, and the idea of employing a new nanny fell through the cracks for fear of a repeat I guess.
I took it upon myself to drag my heels getting myself and Tristan home so he wouldn't be exposed to that shit.
It was an utterly miserable existence -- an endless circle of subways and kiddie friendly restaurants where servers began to recognize the pair of us by name. I began to think of myself as Tristan's parent in some ways; I was the one that got him up for school, made sure he had his pack lunch, taught him how to tie his shoes, helped him with his homework, and held his hand as we navigated the busy streets and subway terminals of New York City.
Lindsay happily went to work at her gallery thinking that Sam took care of us in the afternoon, and Sam 'parented' using dead presidents.
And the pair of them only seemed to remember each other and Tristan when an opening occurred as the press would always ask about 'the little darlings.'
Even then, after an hour, I would take Tristan's little hand in my own and ride the subway or take a cab back home.
And then, just as it had once before, everything changed in an instant; Sam had an opening up the street from the gallery Justin was showing at. Not that I even knew about it at the time; my father and Justin's name were all but taboo in Sam's apartment.
Tristan and I, still dolled up in the ridiculous designer wear Lindsay had outfitted in, were walking towards the subway entrance to catch a ride on the 6 when Tristan caught sight of a familiar face.
"Bwian! Jus Jus!"
And just like that, he was tearing down the street in his little black suit with me trailing behind.
Two hours and a medium pizza later, Brian and Justin had learned all the grizzly details of Lindsay and Sam's 'care' for the past few years.
A week later, Lindsay had been blackmailed into signing over her custody of both of us to Brian and Justin.
And, just like that, everything changed again.
. . .
Pittsburgh was nothing like New York. Oh, it was big and crowded and polluted, but not as much. There was a public transportation, but nothing as extensive as the subways we navigated like old pros.
And then there was the not-quite-family.
The gang were all horrified to learn the depth of neglect our dear, sweet mother put us though. My once not-quite-a-mother, Melanie smirked and grimly announced she ought to turn the information over to the NYPD. Debbie began telling anyone in ear shot that she'd be calling Lindsay to give them a piece of her mind. Emmett called my mother a cunty, scheming whore and then started fussing over my clothing choices.
Of course, the gang were not quite happy with Trist and I's new guardians. Apparently, my father and his partner were known to trick, and, beyond babysitting me when I was still in diapers, neither of them had any parenting experience.
I shared a look with Trist and shrugged. It couldn't be worse than Sam and Mother's.
It was odd though.
At first, we lived in my father's fuck pad with Trist and I camping out on folding cots Debbie had in her attic.
Then Jen stepped in, flooding the dining room table with listings for housing in the Liberty District.
"They can't stay in cots forever, Brian! They need a room to sleep in, a closet to put clothes in, and you two need a room to fuck in away from prying eyes," she said.
And so Dad and Justin went house hunting.
But nothing Dad ever did could be small.
They ended up buying some tutor style, monster sized house in West Virginia that had more bedroom and bathrooms than GW had bad ideas. Tristan and I had our own wing with a bedroom, bathroom, and sitting room of our own. We also had a play room stuffed to the gills with toys. Tristan was happy which made me happy.
And that was really all the mattered.
[Version Two: More realistic/angsty ending
A tiny hand clasped mine as Tristan and I weaved through the crowded station platform. This time of day, it was a mass of workers and students trying to get home. My little brother and I were no different.
Tris and I have made this journey a thousand times -- down the green line to the swanky school he got us into and back up to the Manhattan apartment we're now living in. Usually though our mom is with us.
Tris' tiny grip tightened once again, a nonverbal cue that he's having a hard time keeping up with my gait. I slow down and offer him a smile.
We emerge from the underground, blinking rapidly as our eyes adjust to the sudden brightness.
"Almost home," I murmur, guiding him through the heavy foot traffic.
The doorman on duty gives us a sad smile, and I already know what is to come. I barely key open the door when a half-dressed, obviously disheveled Sam staggers up off the sofa.
"Gus! We were just um..."
It's pretty fucking obvious what he was doing, and I know my expression tells him as much.
"Right...Marie, this is my son, Tristan, and my wife's son, Gus. They were just leaving," he said, fishing out a stack of bills and forcing them into my hand.
It's always been like this. Mom goes away for a few days on buying tours, Sam brings back his sycophantic groupies to the house, and Mom pretends not to know any better. Tristan and I are the ones that suffer. Two children forced to fend for themselves far before they should.
I'm not sure why my brother and I are even here anymore.
Oh, I know why Lindsay stays with Sam -- for his connections, to stay in his world. She was even clever enough in naming her second born, Tristan for the sorrow she felt. The shortened form, Trist, was what she called him to remind herself, Sam, and me of how he came to be.
He's not old enough to understand, to be hurt by it. Yet.
Things in my life had never been the same since the move. No. That's not entirely true. Things hadn't been the same since Tristan was born. The moment Lindsay popped the poop machine out, Mother seemed to orbit around the little shit.
Her and all her society friends would gush and coo over the wailing machine.
'Oh, look! Isn't he pretty in his frilly, designer, foo-foo booties?!' They would all say and then squeal. Never mind the fact that he was loading his diaper at the same time.
At first, I hated Tristan because he represented everything that was wrong in my life. He was the reason Mother and I were here and not in the Pitts with Dad and Justin. He was the reason Mother turned into Crazy Society Bitch. And he was the reason I'd been pushed away, utterly ignored...at least in the presence of Mother and all those society friends.
And then one afternoon Mother brought me home from school to find Sam fucking the nanny on the dining room table while Tristan slept a few feet away in his portable playpen.
Mother turned sheet-white, turned on her heel, and left the apartment without a second glance at me or Trist.
Sam pulled up his pants, straightened out his hair, and went running after Mother. The nanny-turned-tart, after sorting out her clothes, walked out of the apartment and our lives forever.
I watched the proceedings with disinterest; it wasn't the first time I'd walked in on Sam fucking someone.
In less than a minute and a half I was left alone with my three year old brother for god only knows how long.
It was then that I began to realize that it was just Tristan and I against the world.
I would learn later that Sam's tricking started when Tristan was 21 months and I was five. My little half-brother had just started preschool and, due to Mother and Sam's schedules, he had the opportunity to use the empty apartment to bring home vapid, giggly groupies. Our nanny was just one of them.
And I wasn't sure who I hated more -- Mother for pretending those bimbos didn't exist, for getting pregnant in the first place or Sam for having the gall to fuck his weekly bit on any available surface and not caring one whit if his pseudo-stepson caught him in the act.
The first time or two, Tristan and I had walked in to find Sam balls deep in some trashy, Victoria Secret wanna be model, he'd hastily pulled out, zipped up, steered the two of them into the foyer of our -- correction his Manhattan apartment, handed me fifty bucks and told me to make Trist and I scarce.
After awhile bills 'suddenly' appeared in my book bag weekly -- always on the days Mother was working late or out of town.
Technically, Sam was supposed to pick us up from school and ride the subway with us. It's what our old nanny did before she started boffing Sam, but the prick with legs couldn't be bothered, Mother didn't know -- or, more accurately didn't want to know, and the idea of employing a new nanny fell through the cracks for fear of a repeat I guess.
I took it upon myself to drag my heels getting myself and Tristan home so he wouldn't be exposed to that shit.
It was an utterly miserable existence -- an endless circle of subways and kiddie friendly restaurants where servers began to recognize the pair of us by name. I began to think of myself as Tristan's parent in some ways; I was the one that got him up for school, made sure he had his pack lunch, taught him how to tie his shoes, helped him with his homework, and held his hand as we navigated the busy streets and subway terminals of New York City.
Lindsay happily went to work at her gallery thinking that Sam took care of us in the afternoon, and Sam 'parented' using dead presidents.
And the pair of them only seemed to remember each other and Tristan when an opening occurred as the press would always ask about 'the little darlings.'
Even then, after an hour, I would take Tristan's little hand in my own and ride the subway or take a cab back home.
When I turned eighteen and graduated from the prep school Sam paid a fucking mint for me to attend, I moved out. Out of my mother and Sam's apartment, out of Manhattan, out of New York. I got a rat trap apartment in London, started school at Oxford, and, once I'd established myself, I sent for Tristan.
He came willingly on the red-eye, three oversized bags trailing behind him on a cart. I took one look at him -- the bags under his eyes, the rigid way he held himself. I could only imagine the damage Sam and Lindsay had done without me there playing interference. Without a word, I held out my arms. He collapsed into me, sniffing loudly as he tried to keep the tears at bay.
"Easy, Tristan. You're safe now."
"They just let me go. It's like they didn't care."
I stroked his hair and remained silent. He'd always been the sensitive one.
"They don't matter. We do. We've always survived."
He tightened his grip for one second as a silent 'thank you' before pulling back. I nodded my head in understanding before leading him out to my tiny car and the new start at life London offered.
My fathers -- both biological and step -- might still be parenting with dead presidents, but that was okay. I had Tristan.
[fanfic100: 76/100]
[Big Box of Prompts]