Breeze (The Mighty Queertet: Story 3)

Chapter 23: Laws of Nature by Star

Dedication: To the word ‘Argh’ and to Vic, for letting me Argh at her. Also, to Sid the Wylie Chapter Gnome and Keeper of the Argh.

Notes: I know nothing about law. I had to ad-lib. Don’t hate me. Email me if I’ve made any heinous mistakes and I’ll correct them.

Note the Second from 2014: Yeah, so Bombay was a litigation lawyer, and now practices family? Seriously, self, wtf?

Portman’s POV
Bombay’s office is huge and very scary. Everything’s so perfect and carefully decorated. It’s terrifying. One entire wall is a window, I wonder if Bombay ever gets dizzy looking out of it, we’re really high up.

Fulton looks the epitome of calm. How can he be so calm? I’m a wreck and it’s not even my life that we’re going to be discussing.

Bombay’s secretary comes in with drinks for us, explaining that he’s running late but will be with us shortly. I suddenly understand how Taz feels when she gets hyper.

I make a mental note to try to be a little more understanding towards her, and try to restrain myself from throwing her out when she annoys me.

“Are you ok?” Fulton asks in a hushed tone. I guess this big office is unnerving him too.

“Fine. More importantly, are you?”

“Fine.” He takes my hand with shaking fingers.

I’m not sure why we’re so nervous. This is Coach Bombay, we’ve known him a couple of years—well, Fulton’s known him longer.

“Hey guys, sorry I’m late. Meetings, phsss!” Bombay walks in, I expected him to be wearing suit in this kind of office, but he’s just wearing jeans and a shirt.

He takes a seat behind his desk and leans forward. “So, what is it that you wanted to talk to me about?”

Fulton shifts awkwardly in his seat but doesn’t speak. I squeeze his hand encouragingly, but he still doesn’t say a word.

“Fulton, talk to me,” Bombay says in a soft tone. “This is obviously very important.”

I wonder if I should say something, but it’s not my place. This is about him.

“My parents,” he says in a choked voice. “They don’t…” He sniffs and wipes his eyes. Every time he thinks he’s done crying over them he finds he has a few more tears left. My heart goes out to him. I hate to see him like this.

“They don’t want a gay son,” I say softly. “He hasn’t been back since Thanksgiving.”

Bombay’s eyes widen. “You haven’t been home for five months?”

Fulton shakes his head. “It’s not my home. They beat me and threw me out. Said they’d do worse if I went back. I’ve spent the holidays with Portman.”

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Bombay asks with concern.

Fulton shrugs. “I really don’t know.”

“Fulton, you can’t keep staying with Dean’s parents.”

“Why do you think I’m here?” He snaps.

I squeeze his hand.

“Sorry, didn’t mean…” He sighs. “I’m really sorry.”

Bombay shrugs it off easily. “Not a problem. Do you have Godparents?”

Fulton shakes his head. “No, I’m not really a church person.”

“Do you have any relatives that you would be happy to have as your guardians? If you don’t, that’s ok, there are plenty of options.”

“Um, there’s my aunt and uncle, they live fairly local. I don’t know how they’d feel about me being gay though.”

“I can talk to them if you want,” Bombay offers. “I can do it now, or later.”

“You don’t have to, I can do it.” He says, the look on his face tells me he doesn’t relish the idea of calling his relatives and telling them first of all he’s gay, and secondly, he’s homeless.

“It’s the least I can do to help. I’ll help out with the paperwork—if you all agree. Unless your parents decide they want you back it should be fairly straightforward, if somewhat lengthy, process.”

“Thanks, Coach,” he says gratefully.

Bombay allows himself a smile. “All this time and you all still call me Coach,” he says to lighten the atmosphere. “When are you going to start calling me Gordon?”

“Think we’ll stick to Coach,” I say. It would be weird calling him anything else.

We talk awhile longer, Fulton agrees to call Coach with the phone numbers of his aunt and uncle, then Coach drives us back to the dorms.

“Thanks for today,” Fulton murmurs as we lie in bed.

“I didn’t do anything.” I say, feeling slightly guilty. I’m not sure what else I was supposed to do, but I didn’t really say much.

“You were there for me. It meant a lot.”

“I love you, I wouldn’t have been anywhere else,” I say honestly.

“I love you too.”

The Girl, Official stalker of Carla, Tangible Muse and Bod Who Generally Fixes the Mean Nasty Coding That Makes Carla Cry (After Having Broken It In The First Place)

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