Wrong Number

For a couple of days prior to the signing at Rough Trade, Larson had debated whether or not keeping his identity somewhat less than fully disclosed to Patrick was the best way to handle things.   He hadn‘t lied, per se, but he had purposefully failed to volunteer certain information.  He had figured there was a good chance that telling Patrick who he was over the phone would change the nature of his interest in Larson, or convince him that Larson was either delusional or a liar, and so he had ultimately decided to leave the big reveal until they actually met in person.

Patrick‘s gobsmacked silence for the first 5 minutes after he‘d approached Larson at the signing table had initially made Larson think that perhaps he hadn‘t made the right choice, after all.  

So, it was quite a relief when, after having been herded into the back of a taxi while Larson explained himself, Patrick had recovered enough of his faculties  to begin chattering excitedly about crazy coincidences and making unsubtle hints about certain people who could maybe get him an autographed copy of a certain super-rare hard-bound coffee table omnibus.  

Since he‘d already left his now-signed original printing of said edition, along with a few of his very first sketches of Spectre, wrapped and waiting on top of his bed at home (one had to be optimistic, after all,) Larson had merely chuckled and directed their cab driver to a popular uptown bistro for dinner.

-------

“So, I’ve talked about my weirdo family in a few of our conversations, but you haven’t mentioned yours, yet.”

Larson looked up from the remnants of his sweet corn and scallop bisque and grimaced slightly, causing Patrick to shift around a bit on his seat.

“S-sorry.  Touchy subject?  If you want, we can go back to talking about Doctor Wh-”

“No, it’s cool.  It’s just that I have pretty much the polar opposite of the Atomic Family.  I don’t really mind talking about it, but it makes most people sort of uncomfortable; they always try to, I dunno…console me.  Like I’ve got a dead aunt, or something.  Then I spend the rest of the conversation assuring them that I’m not a psychological wreck over it, or anything.”

“Alright, then.  No sympathy for Lars.  Got it.”  Patrick beamed his goofy grin across the table at him, and Larson  briefly entertained the ridiculous-yet-appealing fantasy of tickling him until he peed his pants a little.

“Okay, well first off, my family is a lot smaller than yours, and I only really talk to my grandmother.”  Larson noted the little crinkle that materialized between Patrick’s eyebrows.  “Hey, no sympathy, remember?”

“Nope.  No sympathy.”

“Good.  Because my grandmother is probably the most awesome person I know.  She pretty much raised me on her own while also running an art gallery and a small farm.”

“Cool!  With, like chickens and stuff?  Cows?”

“We had hens and a rooster, yeah.  No cows, but we did have goats, a few sheep, and a bitchy llama.  Gran is kind of a crunchy, bohemian type, but not in an obnoxious way.  I mean, she doesn’t reek of patchouli or have a fried brain from doing a bunch of psychedelics, but she and my granddad were hippies, back in the 60’s.   They were a bit liberal in the way they raised my mom, but not neglectful or ridiculous about it, or anything.  Mom was apparently really close with her father, so after grandad died in a bike wreck, she sort of went off her nut, and Gran had trouble reeling her in.  There was the farm and the gallery to run, and she didn’t know how to juggle them plus a daughter who would skip out on her college classes and disappear for days at a time, getting high and shit…she eventually dropped out of  school altogether, and she and Gran stopped talking for a while.

“Of course, one day Mom showed up back at home;  knocked up with twins with no clue who the father was.  She was almost 20 at the time, and Gran had to threaten to call the cops and have her arrested for child endangerment in order to get Mom to stop doing dope and stay at home long enough to get through the pregnancy.”

Patrick’s eyes were as big as saucers, and he didn‘t even blink as their server cleared away the dishes from their appetizers.  “So, you’ve got a-”

“Twin brother, yeah.  Fraternal.  Mom was determined to give us both up for adoption, but we came way early, and it was kind of touch-and-go for me.  I was much smaller than my brother, Gabriel, and my esophagus wasn’t completely connected to my stomach, so I had to have surgery to correct that.  They weren’t sure I was going to make it.   You know know Bob and Candace Love?”

“That scary evangelist couple from T.V.?”

“Yeah, them.  They were the couple who adopted Gabe, although they were just the co-pastors of a small church, at the time.  They didn’t want to take me, too, as the doctors weren’t sure whether or not I was gonna survive my first month.  By the time I was healthy enough to leave the hospital, Gran had gotten all attached to me and begged Mom to keep me.”

“Woah.  You seem really, um…fit, now.  I’d never have thought you were a preemie.”

“Yeah.  It was my brother who had the major health problems, later, believe it or not.  Gran had told me all about him, once I was old enough to understand, but I never met him, until we were 9.  His folks contacted Mom because Gabe had been diagnosed with leukemia.  His doctors had already decided on chemotherapy, but they were looking for marrow matches in case the treatment wasn’t 100% effective.  Mom, Gran, and I all got tested, but only I was a match.  At the time, Mom was back on the dope and being a complete dirtball.  She tried to get the Loves to pay her $25,000.00 in order for her to sign the release forms to let me donate my bone marrow.”

“Oh, no…did-?  Is he-?”

“Oh, he’s totally fine, now.  Gran had to call Protective Services on Mom because of the drugs and stuff.  She was also charged with extortion for what she tried to do with the Loves,  and the courts granted Gran custody of me, initially just for the duration of Mom’s trials.  Mom ended up doing some time for narcotics possession, and she never did forgive Gran for ‘selling her out,’ I don’t think.  She’s in and out of rehab, still, and she’ll surface every now and then to try to ask  me or Gran for money, but we both refuse to help her financially until she cleans herself up for good.

“Anyway, once Gran was legally calling the shots, she asked me what I wanted to do, and I told her I wanted to save my brother, so after he finished his Chemo, she let me undergo the transplant procedure.  Gabe’s been in full remission for almost 20 years, now.”

“But you guys don’t talk, now?”  The eyebrow crinkle was back.  “How come?”

“Well, once Gabe was better, I was all excited to have a brother to play with.  But by then, the Loves had turned their small church into this behemoth congregation, and they decided to move across the country to start up the Lovehope Revival Network.  Gabe and I had to settle for writing letters and talking to each other on the phone, almost every day.”  

The waiter came with their entrees, and they ate in brief silence, before Larson continued.   

“Sometimes I would go spend holidays or a couple weeks of summer vacation with the Loves, but Gran wasn’t really comfortable with their lifestyle and Gabe’s parents weren’t too thrilled with Gran’s, either.   As we got a bit older, Gabe and I began to feel the tension, there- me, especially, once I really came to understand what Mom had done to the Loves by demanding all that money, before.  I felt guilty about that, and I was ashamed of her, too…you know?  I mean, who does that?

“By the time we started high school,  Gabe and I were just so different.  He was all full of the light of Jesus and the Holy Ghost; going to Bible Camp, and whatnot…and I was really into drawing, and comic books, and starting to realize that I was really, really into guys, in a tingly-feeling-down-below kind of way.  Of course, Gran was totally cool, when I came out to her, but I knew Gabe wouldn’t be, and I was right.  He blabbed to his parents- who then immediately forbade him to have any sort of contact with me -after I told him I was gay.  We didn’t speak for a long time, after that.  He found me on Facebook, about 3 years ago, and we exchanged numbers so we could call each other on our birthday and at Christmas, and stuff…but it’s just…awkward.  We’ll never be close, again.”

The noise of choked dismay, and Patrick’s suspiciously moist eyes, touched Larson with their sincerity.   However, he had long gotten over most of the unfortunate events of his childhood, and a distraught  Patrick, sniffling into his rapidly cooling mashed potatoes, was just not allowed.

“If you don’t stop with the sad face, I’m going to make you do two shots of warm rail gin, once we get to Mason’s.”

Patrick snorted and jerked back in his chair, nearly swiping his wine glass off the table.   “Whoops!  Jeez!  Just the thought of that makes me want to gag.”

“Exactly.”

Patrick’s expression sobered a bit, once more, and he held Larson’s gaze.  “So, alright.  I’ll put the sad face away, and I’m not pitying you, or anything, I promise.  I’m glad you’ve got your Gran, and if you say you’re fine, then I believe you.  But your life- just…wow.  That’s fucking nuts.”

“Yeah, believe me, I know.  I can probably attribute my tendency to be a snarky bastard to some of the stuff that happened when I was a kid, but, all things considered, I think I’m probably about as well-adjusted as the next person.  Maybe even more so;  I mean, at least I have a legitimate reason for being an asshole.”  Larson’s grin was wry.

“Okay, asshole.  Can I order some cake, before we get the check?”

----------

A/N:  I do apologize for not posting anything, last weekend, but I had attempted to write around last week's slash pile prompt, and had gotten about halfway through the chapter before deciding that I absolutely hated the direction the boys were taking.  Fortunately, this week's prompt lit such a fuse under my ass that I was able to crank out an entirely different chapter in just a couple of hours.