Chapter Text
“There’s a new family moving in near me,” Palomo mentions, offhandedly as he works on the bracelet surrounding Smiths' wrist. “Miss Kimball told me about them, some couple up in Bloodgulch, been a while since we had anyone new. Oh, and I got a new game it’s--” He continued on, not noticing his friend drifting off.
Smith nods along distantly, not paying much attention to his friends' ramblings, though he was a tad interested in the new family, not many folks come to their humble town.
Chorus, Oregon is a small, quiet close-knit town known mostly for its hidden lakes and Donut’s famous cupcake, confusing he knows. Located near a large forest the town is home for less than fifty people.
Smith loves his town, he really does, though sometimes it feels like he’d be stuck here forever.
“You’re not even listening.” Palomo pouts, pushing leaning his cheeks against his hands, discouraged.
“I’m sorry Palomo, I’ll listen I promise.” He tries to look sincere, offering a smile.
Palomo gives him a suspicious glint before restarting the talk. This time he does pay attention, as much as he can offer at least. Laughing when Palmo makes a joke he doesn’t realize Smith doesn’t get, nodding when he got more into the plot of the game.
Eventually, a comfortable silence fills the small space of Smiths pickup truck. Smith falling back into his thoughts, and Palomo focusing on the friendship bracelet.
“You wanna go check it out?” He breaks the silence, looking up at Smith who cocks an eyebrow up.
“We’re not going to go watch your new neighbors unpack boxes. Aside from it being creepy, it also sounds boring.” He said strictly, putting on his best stern face.
“Please?”
“No.”
“Pretty please?” Smith knew better than to fall for Palomo's puppy dog eyes, but once he made his lip (fake) quiver he couldn’t help but put the keys in the ignition. Sue him.
[★]
The ride to Palmos street was short but fun. It consisted mostly of listening to Smith's phone, which mostly had oldies but goodies, but some 2000s hits that could get anyone up and dancing.
Once they got there Smith was quick to pull over to the side, pausing his music and giving a tap at the glass, knuckle pointing to a white, dirty house.
“That it?” He asked, leaning forward to turn the AC on.
“Yeah! They just got here today, I didn’t look much, but they’ve been unpacking for a while.”
“Ah,” squinting his eyes he could vaguely make out Palomos' new neighbors.
Two grown men were standing around a green jeep, seemingly arguing as a much younger boy grabbed another box out of the car, stiffening up when it slips from his hand.
Smith bit his cheek, leaning forward on his elbows before nudging Palmo, “We should go help. If you establish good ties with your neighbors now it’ll help in the future.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, turning the car off and hopping out, making a quick jog across the street, smiling when he hears Palomo following close behind.
“Hello, Sirs! My name is John Elizabeth Andersmith, and this is Charles Palomo! We’re your neighbors... Or well, he is.” He fades out for a moment before starting up again, “We would like to assist in your unpacking.”
The shorter of the two gives a shrug, “Less work for me, grab a box. I’m Dexter Grif by the way, and this is my ex-boyfriend, Richard Simmons.”
Smith’s mind immediately jumped to what questions he could ask, was Grif his real name, why did they move to Bloodgulch, why was he moving in with his ex-boyfriend?
Though the engine that was his mind was quickly put to rest as the other man spoke up, an annoyed tone, “Grif stop saying that. I’m his *husband* and this is our son, Antone.” A quick smile etches itself on Simmons' face as he holds out his prosthetic arm, giving Smith a tight handshake.
Smiths' eyes fall on Antoine, who has no real resemblance to either of his fathers.
Grif is a heavy man, though the contours of muscles were present in his arms. He had long wavy hair that was pulled into a loose bun, causing stray hairs to fall over his face. His face had a slight discoloration to the right, a stark paleness to the almost golden brown skin. For a second Smith wonders what injury would have caused such a wound.
Simmons, on the other hand, is a tall, though lean man with dark red, almost brown, messy hair. His pale skin had a plethora of freckles dusting over his face, drifting past the collar of his shirt where it’s safe to assume is more. The most distinguished thing about him was the complex, robotic prosthetic arm.
Bitters looked like a stranger compared to the two, or a very distant relative. He had dyed orange hair, four facial piercings and what seemed to be a stick and poke tattoo on his right shoulder. His brown skin had freckles spread here and there but was mostly blank aside from the beauty marks on each side of his mouth.
Smith shook out of his thoughts, grabbing a box and following the men inside, ignoring the burning gaze at the back of his head.
The inside of the house was, well, messy. Boxes littered the ground, random furniture spread throughout the large living room. Palomo squeezes past him, setting a box down before making a soft wheeze. He’s never been big on physical stuff.
“Goddammit Grif! I told you to put the bedroom boxes in the bedroom!” Simmons chastised, grabbing the box with a crude drawing of a bed and carrying it to the (assumed) bedroom.
Grif sighs before resting a hand on Bitters' shoulder, “What can I say, the big man always trying to put mavericks like us down.”
Antoine gives an amused smile, quirking up a delicate brow, “I don’t think being lazy makes you maverick, dude.”
“Hm. Maybe. Naahh. That ludicrous, I’m a true maverick. Just like you.” There’s a certain way that Grif smiles, playfully, that brings a comfortability between the two. One Smith is almost Jealous of.
It’s not that Smith isn’t close with his dads, he is! Though his relationship with his father leaves some to be desired.
“Uh. You. John? Would you mind hanging some of the photos, don’t worry about placement, I have to go set up the kitchen, and reaching causes Simmons leg to act up.”
“Of course, Sir!” He grabs the box of photos, along with the hammer and nails, hanging each one up with meticulous care. Once he finished he allowed himself to study the photos, pushing down the guilt of prying into the intimate parts of these peoples life.
The first one was a picture of Grif and Simmons in two adorning tuxes, surrounded by red roses. If Smith had to guess they were at their weddings, judging by the elderly man holding a bible in the back.
The next was a group photo, the two men with a group of color-coordinated, holding a young boy with a bright grin on his face, the banner in the back read ‘ Happy 9th Birthday Jr! ‘
“It’s creepy to come into someone's house and look at their photos, just so you know.” Antoine’s voice startled the taller man, making him visibly jump.
“It’s very rude to sneak up on someone.” Smith frowns, setting the empty book on the ground.
“It’s very rude to look at photos that don’t belong to you.” He shoots back, though his tone suggests a lack of caring, it still makes Smith feel ashamed.
“I-- apologize. You’re right. They weren't mine to look at if you’ll excuse me--.”
He quickly stopped by Antoine who lets out a patronizing snort, “Dude, calm down. I’m not actually mad. If they weren’t meant to be looked at they wouldn’t be in the living room.”
“I know but--”
“Save it.” Antoine tsked, before holding out a fist, “I’m Bitters by the way.”
Smith can’t help but think that name is suiting.
“I thought it was Antoine?” He questions immediately, not fast enough to catch his own mouth.
“Oh, it is. That’s my first name, Bitters is my last. That seems to be a recurring thing in this town. The last names thing.” he trailed off a bit. “And you’re John?”
“Andersmith actually. Or Smith.” He fist-bumped the other, rather hesitantly. He wasn’t use to the action. His dad always called him an old soul.
They spent the next minute talking, mostly about which school Bitters would be attending, how Chrous was much different than Bloodgulch, random things that made Smith yearn for more time with the boy, though conversations were cut short.
Simmons eventually needed help and pulled Smith away to help, considering he was the tallest and strongest in the house.
He ended up staying for around five hours, he’s always been a dutiful man, not walking away from something unless it was a hundred percent finish. Helping Simmons hang things, along with moving the furniture around and packing the cupboards left him exhausted by the time night time hit.
“Alright Palomo, let's go.” He cracked his back, wiping the sweat from his face.
“Thank you for help John, here let me pay you.” Simmons brought out his wallet, only to be shut down by Smith,
“It’s alright Mr.Simmons, it was the right thing to do, you don’t need to pay.” He smiled, holding his hands up.
“I’ll take it!” Palomo chimed in, letting out a whine when Smith elbows him, “Ow!”
“No Palomo. It’s fine Sir, really.”
Simmons frowned, but nodded, putting the wallet back into his pocket. “We need to repay you in some way… Why don’t you and Palomo stay for dinner? Would your parents be okay with that?” He asks, before yelling for Grif, “Get dinner started!”
Palomo gave Smith a glance, “It’s up to Smiths dads, I’m spending the night at his house!” He said excitedly, giving his hands an enthusiastic flap.
“I’ll call Samuel. Give me a second.”
He excused himself to the next room, pulling out his phone before clicking his dad's number.
After two rings a gravelly voice picked up, sounding tired. “Smith? Are you alright?” the anxiety hidden in his voice his hard to catch, but Smith had known him long enough to catch him.
“Hi, Samuel. I’m fine, is it okay if Palomo and I eat at his new neighbors?”
Smith heard a small shuffling noise, then the click of a pen, “What’s their address, names and phone numbers?”
Samuel Ortez had always been an anxious man if Smith had to guess it was part of his mysterious past, that only his Husband Michael knew about. It was something He’d grown accustomed to.
“4110 Alpha Street, Dexter Grif and Dick Simmons, and I don’t know their numbers. I can ask?”
“No, no. It’s fine. You can stay, I’ll tell Michael you’ll be home late when he gets home. Have fun...son,” The last part is pushed back, but Smith appreciates the sentiment.
Samuel, unlike Michael, was not his biological dad. He only entered Smith's life four years ago, after dating his dad for a year, then proposing the next, but he tried his best to treat Smith like his own flesh and blood.
“Okay...Thank you...Samuel.” He quickly hung up, pushing the phone in his pocket, they weren't at the stage in their relationship yet where he called the other dad.
Walking back into the dining room he gave a smile, resting his hand on Palomo's shoulder, “They said it’s fine. Please, let me help you set the table.”
“No, you just sit down. You did enough John. Bitters, grab the plates, you on the other hand..well. You sure are taking after Grif.” Simmons didn’t sound angry, he sounded a bit amused, shooting a smile to his son.
“Wow. No need to insult me. I’ll help, I’ll help.”
With his short time with the Grif-Simmons family, he quickly learned the dynamics. There was a certain comfortability with Bitters and his dad's, a casual friendship between the two though there was certainly a family sense to it. He kind of wishes him and Sam had that.
“Turning my own son against me. Cruel Simmons. Cruel.” Grif tsked, pulling his hair out of its bun before tying it back up, much tighter this time. “We’re having nachos.”
“My son too, dumbass.” the insult was proven void when he immediately went in for a loving kiss, pulling back with adoration in his eyes.
In the fifteen minutes it took Grif to make dinner Smith had asked how the two met and when they got married.
“We met over.. Twenty six years ago? In middle school gym class. The teacher was making us do some tall walk and Grif here used me to get out of it. We got married ten years ago, adopted Bitters five years after that.” He twiddles with the necklace around his neck before taking it off, sliding it over to Smith who grabs it with delicate hands.
The ring is fairly simple, a gold hand that looked excessively cared for. On the inside of it, written in cursive, were the words ‘Dibs’ to Smith it seemed silly, but it probably held sentimental value to the lovers. Simmons put it back around his neck.
“Enough about the past, dinners ready,” Grif instructed Bitters to sit down before making everyone's plate for them, taking a seat next to his husband.
The dinner was actually fun, Grif and Simmons argued about which superpower was worse, The power to freeze objects, but only if they’re frozen or the power to control appliances, but only small kitchen appliances.
The freezing one won by the vote of the teens.
Once dinner was ready Smith helped wash dishes, much to this disdain of Simmons, before bidding his adieu, not without receiving Bitters phone number.
He ignored the way his stomach flipped when he did.
The ride back to his house was uneventful, Palomo was tired, clearly trying not to pass out.
Parking the car on the street, as to not obstruct Sam's car in the driveway, he made his way in, Palomo close behind.
Sam is on the couch, messing with Michaels' hair sweetly as he reads off his phone. He jumps up a bit at the front door opening, turning his head to Smith. “Welcome home.” He greets, waving at Palomo before turning back to his book, “I washed your binder for you. On the bed.”
“Thank you.” He went to the back of his house, grabbing the binder before Palomo threw himself on the bed, rolling to the wall side, making a noise of protest when Smith hits him on the leg. “Shoes off!”
“Ugh--” he sat up, sliding them off before laying back down, passing out immediately
Smith rolled his eyes, taking his shirt off and unhooking his binder, throwing both in the laundry basket before hanging up his clean binder. Shimmering out of his pants he grabbed a tank top, pushing it over his head.
He climbed into bed, giving a quick glance to Palomo before pulling out his phone. It was late, and Bitters was probably asleep, but it wouldn’t hurt to send a text.
To: Antoine Bitters 10:01pm:
-Hi, Bitters. This is Smith. Just texting so you can save my number. : ). - Andersmith.
From: Antoine Bitters 10:03pm:
-oh hey, dude consider itself saved. what are you up to
To: Antoine Bitters 10:04pm:
-I’m in bed with Palomo. I guess packing tired him out. He fell asleep immediately. -Andersmith.
From: Antoine Bitters 10:06pm:
-if you can even call what he did unpacking sure. i’m pretty sure i saw him drop a box of plastic cups
From: Antoine Bitters 10:08pm:
-wait dude do you have a text signature? geeky
To: Antoine Bitters 10:09pm:
-He’s not the best at physical activities. And there’s nothing geeky about wanting to people to know who I am. -Andersmith.
From: Antoine Bitters 10:09pm:
-whatever you say geek -bitters.
To Antoine Bitters 10:11pm:
-Now you’re just mocking me. -Andersmith.
From: Antoine Bitters 10:11pm:
-Me? Never. -Bitters.
To: Antoine Bitters 10:12pm:
-Identity theft is now a joke, Bitters. -Andersmith.
They spend nearly two hours just texting on the phone, most of the messages are random, jokes Smith doesn’t pretend to get, which was better Law & Order or CSI; Miami, though as time passed the talk got a bit deeper.
Talking about futures and pasts with someone you’ve only known for six hours was a slippery slope, but it came easily with Bitters.
Eventually, Bitters had to sleep though, something about keeping with the schedule his dad made. Smith said his goodnights, plugging his and Palomo's phones in and turning to bury his face in his pillow.
He knew what he was a feeling, an emotion he hadn’t felt for a long while, at least romantically. He had a crush.
His dreams were filled with Bitters dark brown eyes.