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Ro takes another puff of his stolen cigarette, a slow leisurely drag, and watches as the smoke coils into the night sky. The tendrils of it swirling around him, seeping into his clothes.
Whatever. He doesn't care.
All of his jackets smell like smoke by now, and he's long past caring about his mother's pinched face as she does his laundry. Shaking the smoke out of his clothes one by one as she puts them into the washer. Going through all of his pockets — claiming she's looking for tissues and coins and other bits of litter he forgets to remove — but Ro knows better. She's looking for cigarettes, a joint, anything to prove what she already knows.
She's not going to find them, that's not where he keeps them — if he keeps them at all. He knows better than that, give him some credit. He knows where in his room he can hide his pack where she won't find it. Who he can get weed from, who will share a cigarette with him at parties.
Parties a lot like the one he's currently sitting outside of. He can still hear the thumping of the bass, feel the way it shakes the walls and rattles the windows. Someone will call noise control on them — or the cops — eventually, it's too loud for someone not to. But Ro won't be here for that.
He left. He's in the process of leaving.
Sitting on the kerb, cigarette burning at his fingertips, smelling of cheap beer. He listens to the distant thumping of the music and waits for his uncle Tommy to show up.
He and his uncle Buck had told him many a time that Ro could call them anytime, that they'd be there if he needed them. It took him a little while for him to believe them. But he does, now.
So when Ro rang his uncle Tommy at 2am, half drunk and asking for a ride home from a party — Tommy picked up. Said he'd be there as soon as he could. Told him to stay safe and drink some water. Ro said okay, and listened to the muffled sounds of him telling a half-asleep Buck why he was getting up. He smiles, listens as Tommy tells him to stay right there, and hangs up.
A cigarette on the kerb is close enough, Ro figures. He's not going back inside that fucking party to liberate a bottle of water. So he waits. Scuffs his worn boots against the asphalt, and thinks.
It's kind of funny, he thinks, how his instinct whenever he needs help is to always call Buck and Tommy first. Funny sad, he thinks. But whatever, they're cool. They don't judge. They tell him not to smoke or throw up in their truck, sure, but it never feels like they're shaming him while they do it. Picking him apart and throwing away all the pieces until all that's left is a hollow shell of a boy who doesn't exist anymore.
Not like his parents.
His father would read him the riot act, Ro thinks. While on the phone, and when he arrived to pick him up. He'd pick him up, of course he would, Ro's not saying he wouldn't.
But he'd be a fucking dickhead while he did it. Belittle him and shame him when Ro tries to do the right thing and ask for help. Get out of a situation he doesn't want to be in. His dad would tell him horror stories, of people he's met and things he's seen from his paramedic days. What alcohol and drugs does to a person. Like Ro doesn't fucking know that.
So Ro calls his uncles instead. They're the safer, better, option every time.
Sometimes he wishes they were his dads instead. He thinks about it more, in times like now. When he's addled by alcohol and lets himself thinks about things that are cruel.
What it would be like, if Miles was his brother, and not just his cousin. What it would be like to grow up with Buck and Tommy as parents. Thoughts that he forces to pass through his brain when he's sober. Because that's just what they are — thoughts. He wouldn't do that to Jee, he wouldn't — she's his sister and he loves her. The two of them, against the world.
He's just not so sure about his parents, sometimes.
More often, now.
His train of thought is cut short with the rumbling of an engine, Ro looking up with a start, swaying at the force of it as he strains to read the licence plate. Quickly taking another sharp inhale of his cigarette as he realises that it is, in fact, Tommy's truck. Exhaling smoke as Tommy pulls to a stop in front of him, only barely pulling to the side. Ro's still on the kerb, long legs kicked out onto the road — and it's not like there's anyone behind him, this being a residential street and all.
Tommy locks eyes with him through the window, silently raising an eyebrow, as Ro stumbles through pulling himself to standing. Fumbling over thick boots and baggy ripped jeans that keep slipping down past his heels. He rolls his eyes in return, but complies with his uncle Tommy's silent request. It feels different when it's not his parents asking. Not that he'd fucking smoke in front of his parents, Jesus fucking Christ, he's not stupid.
So he stubs out the remains of his stolen cigarette on the kerb underneath the heel of his boot. Makes sure it's out —he was raised by a firefighter after all — before stumbling over to the truck with a hop. Swinging the door open and collapsing into the seat with a relieved sigh. He's finally fucking out of there.
"You okay, Ro?" Tommy asks, looking over at him with gently furrowed brows, one hand still on the steering wheel. The first thing he says to him. He lets the comment sit, engine idling, waiting for a response. He's good at that, letting comments and questions sit, giving them space. Ro appreciates it. He calls him Ro, too, every time. Never once has he slipped into calling him Robbie, or Robert — or the worst of all, fucking Bobby.
Not like his parents.
"Yeah." Ro eventually replies, fingers itching as they pick at the loose threads at the hem of his shirt. He looks down at his hands, not looking at Tommy as he replies. It's easier that way. "I'm fine."
He's not sure whether he wants his uncle to read between the lines, look into the words he's not saying. That he wouldn't have been fine if he stayed. But he left, and Tommy came and got him, so it's okay. He's fine.
Kyle won't even ask why Ro left the party early, because he's too wasted to fucking care. It's his party, he was telling them earlier — his parents out of town so he planned to party fucking hard. He was gonna have the good stuff. Ro will just lie to him tomorrow and it'll be fine. It was just a party.
"Good." Tommy replies, with a nod, It looks casual, easy, accepting. Not prying, pressing into his words to get him to spill. Giving Ro space to continue that thought later, if he so wishes. Ro's here, in his truck, so he's safe. He's okay. He's fine. "Now, seatbelt."
Ro rolls his eyes with an exaggerated huff, turning away to click his belt into place. He hears Tommy huff out a laugh behind him, Ro pressing his lips together to hide his own smile that starts to creep across his face. Turning back to Tommy, Ro shakes his hands, fingers splayed, as if to say 'ta da!'.
Tommy really does laugh at that, another huff of a laugh, and starts to drive off. Turning to look out the front windshield, driving through the depth of the street light illuminated residential streets. He always looks so serious, and yet so casual when he drives, Ro's noticed. He's good at driving, loves cars, but does not fuck around with car safety. Another firefighter thing, Ro supposes.
Ro uses the opportunity, to really look at his uncle, slumping down into his seat as he does so. The seatbelt digging into his neck. His uncle's wearing an old LAFD Air Ops T-shirt and plaid pyjama pants, looking like he just rolled out of bed. Messy curls and a five o'clock shadow. Because he did. His uncle got a call from him at 2 fucking am, rolled out of bed, threw some shoes on and came and got him. And then he didn't even yell at him for it. He asked if he was okay. Called him Ro. Didn't pry.
If he peered over the centre console, he's sure he'd see Tommy's feet crammed into an old pair of sneakers with no socks. Thrown on in a rush.
It makes his heart clench in a good fucking way. He wishes his parents were more like Tommy. Like his uncle Buck.
At the very least they know how to give their son a normal fucking name.
"You're gonna take me home?" he asks, voice quiet, only slightly slurring over the words. He doesn't want to ask, because he knows the answer. He doesn't want to go home. That's why he goes to parties and to his friends places, and to stay up late dicking around the skate park. So he doesn't have to go home and get fucking judged. He feels his muscles tensing at the thought.
"You know I have to, bud. But we can have a drive first." Tommy replies softly, and Ro lets out an exhale of air. That's something at least. Something he appreciates. He can spend the ride bracing himself, preparing what he's going to say if his parents catch him sneaking back in. They probably will. His mom has eyes on the back of her head and she always uses it for fucking evil. Either that, or his dad texted Buck and Tommy when he didn't come home when he was supposed to, telling them to keep an eye out for him and to bring him home immediately. Ordering him around as if he's their Captain and not their fucking brother-in-law. Jesus fucking Christ. And then his dad will be waiting on the armchair like some Bond villain, waiting for him to cross the threshold.
He knows Tommy won't tell him if he asks if it's true.
Which is kind of fair, he admits to himself. He'd be fucking pissed at his dad if he got confirmation he was using his uncles to track him down like some runaway prisoner. So no fucking wonder why Tommy won't confirm it with him. If it is even true. But like, it probably is. Ro wouldn't put it past his parents.
Ro rolls down the window, letting the wind whip through the truck, ruffling his hair. Leaning on the side of the truck, closing his eyes and letting the wind rush past his ears. Overtaking the soft sounds of the dad rock radio station Tommy had playing. If it were any other time, Ro would make a joke about it. How it's so old fashioned, and not as cool as the hardcore shit he listens to. And Tommy would joke back, treat him like a fucking adult. But for now, it's kind of nice, in the background. The familiar sounds of electric guitar and rough vocals.
His uncle doesn't complain, but Ro swears he can see him turn to look over at him out of the corner of his eye. Probably likes the idea of the fresh air sobering him up. So he isn't a total wreck by the time he delivers him home.
Sighing, he focuses on the wind, and not the sickly churning of his stomach.
Silently, barely heard over the roaring of the wind, Tommy rolls down the driver's side window. The air rushes through the car like a tunnel, and Ro inhales, letting the cool night air soothe his smoke-filled lungs. Whipping away the remaining tendrils of smoke that clung to his jacket.
He inhales, and lets himself melt into the car seat, head only sort-of swimming. Ro's not sure how much time passes like this, how far Tommy's driven, but by the time he comes back to himself Tommy's indicating to pull into the drive through of a burger place he recognises the name of — but not the location. His first groggy half-panicked thought is that maybe he should be worried — what time is it, where is he — but he just as quickly dismisses it. He's with Tommy, he's safe.
He's getting burgers, apparently.
Doesn't say anything, just slumps in his seat and watches as Tommy pulls his truck into the queue. Patiently waiting behind the car in front of them, engine rumbling underneath him. It's quieter now, no roaring of the wind and sounds of L.A night life. Just the soft sounds of Tommy's dad rock radio, and the muffled sounds of the drive through speaker ahead of them.
They're in their own little bubble, in Tommy's truck, where he doesn't have to think about the party, or his parents, or literally anything else. Ro looks out the window and thinks maybe he should. He inhales, taking a deep breath instead, focusing on the now mouth watering smells of burgers and fries emanating from the restaurant.
Eventually, they pull up to the speaker and Ro turns to listen to the still muffled sounds of the server through the speaker — welcoming them, and asking what they can get for them. Ro doesn't say anything — he's not sure he should, plus it's not like he has any money on him — but it turns out he doesn't need to.
Tommy orders two cheeseburger combos — asking if he can replace both the drinks with water. Ro doesn't want to just assume one of them is for him but like, c'mon, Tommy isn't cruel enough to order two and then eat them both in front of him.
He wonders if maybe his dad would, to prove a point. To punish him for staying out late, drinking and smoking. Whatever.
Watching as Tommy confirms to the worker that's it, and then pulls up to the next window to pay —Ro's stomach rumbles. He didn't know he was that hungry. But he is, and he once again mentally thanks himself for calling Tommy, and mentally thanks his uncle for being a fucking good guy.
He sits up, pulls himself out of his slump, head spinning not as much as it did before. Tommy quickly pays, putting his card and his wallet back to where he'd stashed it before the server is back with the two water bottles. Tommy smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners, and thanks them. Wordlessly putting one in the door-side cup holder for himself, and handing the other to Ro.
"C'mon," he starts, shaking the bottle slightly before Ro takes it from his awaiting hand. The condensation is cool on the palm of his hands, and he sighs at the contact. "Chug this."
Rolling his eyes with an over dramatic scoff, Ro pops the lid and wordlessly starts to drink. It's nice. It helps soothing the dryness of his mouth and the whorl in his stomach. He chugs, as instructed, letting the cool water sooth his addled brain.
By the time he pulls the bottle away from his mouth with a satisfied ah, Tommy's got the bag of food on his lap, smell wafting through the truck. It's smells hot, and greasy, and salty and so fucking good. Ro's mouth waters even more, and he watches as Tommy pulls out of the drive through and loops back to the restaurant car park. He pulls into a free space, hood of the truck facing the depths of the parking lot, and puts it into park. Handbrake on, engine off, and everything cuts into silence.
It's a thick, overwhelming absence. Tommy lets it sit, as he does, and wordlessly distributes the burgers and fries between the two.
Ro mumbles out a thanks, fucking duh, and takes the food. Feeling the warmth of it in his hands, the comforting weight of a good fucking burger.
"Eat up," Tommy says with a smile, gesturing to the food in their laps and that's all Ro fucking needs.
He's ripping into the wrapper, unveiling the frankly delicious looking burger — and digging in. Moaning over the first bite, feeling the flavour explode over his tongue. He wants to immediately shovel it all into his mouth — the rest of the burger, the freshly made fries — and he feels the intensity of being the half-drunk teenager he is.
Tommy exhales a laugh, amused, and slowly takes a bite of his own identical burger. It doesn't feel cruel, just friendly amusement, as Ro gets to demolishing his burger. It starts doing its job — filling his stomach and soaking up the alcohol. He's not that drunk, all things considered, but it helps nonetheless.
And then they just eat. Tommy slowly working his way through his burger and fries, periodically handing more fries over to Ro — who continues to periodically demolish his. Consuming in silence, not talking, just listening to the sounds of the L.A night life around them. There's not much, they're not in the depths of the city, but it's a comforting sound nonetheless.
He kind of wants to speak, just to break the silence. Words sitting on the edge of his tongue.
This was Tommy's plan, he's pretty sure, but he's not mad. He's not forcing him, he's just letting the moment sit, and it's up to Ro if he wants to break the silence or not. If he wants to tell all, or make small talk. Slowly can-opening him.
"Kyle's older brother showed up." Ro eventually says, picking at the paper his burger is wrapped in. Breaking the silence, letting the words fall out of his mouth. "The one at college, y'know?"
His uncle just hums that he's listening, and pops a fry into his mouth. Looks at him quickly, but doesn't hold his gaze. Ro's thankful, if he interrupted Ro's not sure if he'd continue speaking.
"Bought a few cases of beer, Let me steal a cigarette or two. Thought he was cool." Ro mumbles with a shrug, resisting the urge to start ripping apart the remains of his burger just so he has something to do with his hands. "Pulled me, Kyle, and Matt aside later. Said he'd let us in on a secret because he though we were cool. Turns out the secret was hard drugs, like, party pill type shit."
"And… you weren't into that?" Tommy prompts, after Ro's words fail him. He's stopped eating now turned to Ro to really listen. To concentrate on what's he's saying. Water bottle back in the cup holder, the remains of his food resting on his lap. It must be warm, greasy, and yet Tommy doesn't complain.
"Nah." Ro finally admits, trying not to screw up his face. He doesn't know what else to say. His friend's brother crashed a party they were all fucking drinking and smoking at — but he didn't want to take it to the next level like a fucking nerd. Wasn't willing to roll hard, pop some unnamed pill that was probably molly or k or some shit. Who knows what it was laced with. Kyle didn't seem to care, it was his brother after all and he trusts him. Ro didn't know what to say then too. "Weed's one thing, but that's another, y'know?"
"And that's when you called me?" Tommy asks, voice quiet and gently prying. They've come this far. He looks down, see's his uncle's hand twitch, as if he's unsure to place his hand on his shoulder or something. He kind of wishes he would, a quiet part of him thinks. "To come get you?"
"Waited until everyone was distracted and slipped out the front door." Ro admits, scuffing his boots along the car mats underneath his feet. He doesn't look up, not even when he feels the weight of Tommy's eyes on him. "So. Yeah."
"Hey," Tommy says, voice soft and calm. And then he can feel his uncle place his hand on his shoulder — the comforting weight he wanted but couldn't let himself ask for. He's almost 17, he's an adult, he can't ask for shit like that. It's nice though. Ro looks up, hands going slack in his lap, eyes wide as he looks over at his uncle. "I'm proud of you, Ro. I'm really fucking proud."
His breath hitches in his chest, voice catching in his throat as he looks over at his uncle. Lets the words sink in. He's proud of him. He's not even his fucking son and he's so proud of him. If anything, Tommy's gaze softens even further as he squeezes Ro's shoulder, hand still warm, Ro feeling it even through the thick layers of his oversized jacket. Eyes starting to mist over, Ro tries to blink any incoming tears away. Tommy's not his dad, but he can't let him see. He can't cry at the drop of a hat like his mother does.
"You realised things were escalating in a way you didn't like, knew your limits, and called someone to come get you." Tommy states, smiling gently. "That's something to be proud of. Thank you for calling me."
"Thanks for coming to get me." Ro chokes out in response, locking eyes with his uncle before tearing them away. Looking down at his food, grabbing his water bottle to clear his throat. He feels Tommy give his shoulder one last comforting squeeze, before dropping his hand. He kind of misses it already. There's a stagnant pause, but it doesn't feel prying like it did before.
A part of him wonders — perhaps uncharitably, maybe — if his parents would've told him they were proud of him if he called them instead. If he woke his mother up in the middle of the night and said I'm wasted at a party, can you come get me — would she have said she was proud? Or would she just silently give him that fucking look that says this wouldn't have happened if you never went to that party we told you not to go to. That look she gives when she looks down on everyone.
But he didn't call her. He called his cool uncle Tommy, who fucking gets it.
"Thanks for the burger as well." Ro tacks on, picking up the remains of it and gesturing with it in his hand. "You didn't have to."
"I wanted to." Tommy replies with a shrug. "You don't want to be going to bed on an empty stomach. Plus, it's not like I wasn't a teen once."
"You party back in your day, Uncle Tommy?" Ro asks, the corner of his mouth curling up into a smile.
"Only a little," he replies with a laugh, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he smiles. It's not much, but it's telling, and makes him seem a lot more human. A lot more real. His parents don't tell him much of their youth. They didn't respond when he asked last time, and now he just doesn't bother asking. "Now c'mon. Finish eating so I can take you home."
"Do you have to?" Ro asks, not-quite whining, the pit of dread forming in his stomach again. At even the mere thought of him going home and facing his fucking parents. His fingers itch, starting to pick at his burger again for something to do.
Tommy's gaze softens. "You know I do. I can't kidnap you forever."
Ro sighs, exhaling breath into the cool night air. He kind of wants to find out what would happen if he didn't come home. But he knows that's never gonna happen. The dread starts to settle into something akin to inevitability.
"Can I ask you something?" Ro says, brows furrowing beneath the shag of his hair as he turns to look at his uncle. Seatbelt pressing into his side. He only just noticed that he forgot to take it off. "Instead?"
"You just did." Tommy says, laughing at his own lame dad joke. "But sure."
"You're named after your dad, right?" His brow furrows and his voice wavers uncertainly when the words come out of his mouth. Eyebrows raising in response, Tommy turns to look at him. It feels so random, Ro knows that, but he's been thinking about it.
He's been thinking about it a lot.
His name, others names, the concept of being named after someone else. His parents have talked about his name a lot, made sure he knew who he was named after, what he did. Hammering the point home so Ro can never, ever forget it.
He wishes he could.
Ro's barely talked to his parents about their names. He knows everyone calls his dad Chimney, and everyone refuses to tell Ro where that name came from. He's not a fucking kid, he can take whatever stupid story sparked it. He knows his mother's actual full first name is Maddie, and it's not even short for Madison or Madeline or something. All because his grandparents are weirdos who don't like nicknames or some shit.
Both fucking weird. No wonder they gave him a fucking stupid name.
"Mhmm, Thomas Kinard Senior." Tommy replies simply, looking over at him with quietly questioning eyes. "I'm Thomas Kinard Junior, technically."
"Did you like it, being named after your dad?" Ro asks, his own voice dipping quieter. Into something more real, as if he's going to break this moment if he speaks too loud. He knows he won't, his uncle's not like that, but still. It feels wrong, to be speaking too loud. Tommy gives him space to speak in his own time, at his own pace, and he wants to do the same in return.
"Absolutely hated it. People wouldn't stop comparing the two of us, no matter what I said." Tommy freely admits, gesturing with a fry before popping it in his mouth. He's casual about it, and part of Ro wonders if it's because he's been living with this name so long, or because Ro gets it. "I was always Tom Junior, always in his shadow."
And oh, doesn't that sound familiar. Haunted by the name of a man much larger than yourself, never your own person, always compared to them. No matter what you do, you can't escape him. A ghost of a boy unknowingly following in much larger footsteps.
It makes him feel better, at the very least, that's not just him. That there are others out there named after people — others that he knows who have found their own place despite the shadow their name casts.
Tommy's found his place, so maybe Ro can too.
"I joined football, and then people just turned around and told me about my dad's football days. I start to show interest in cars, I get asked if I'm going to follow in my dad's footsteps. I start working out more, and they say I'm just like my father." Tommy continues, gesturing with another fry, but Ro can see his brow start to furrow — just slightly. Gently creasing down, his eyes not quite steeling. "Never felt like my own person. Always had a path laid in front of me."
"Y-yeah." Ro say to break the silence, but also because he feels like he needs to say something. It feels a little like his ribcage is being cracked open and exposed, with his beating heart bare for all to see. Everything Tommy says resonates, sinks in and settles deep within him. "Exactly."
There are so many things that Ro wants to say, needs to say, but the words fumble over his tongue. Get caught in his throat, catching on the way up. How does he tell Tommy something he probably already knows? How does he talk about the fact that this shitty thing that his uncle Tommy's horrible father did — Tommy's brother and sister in law repeated without a care. How does he pick his brains about it without being too much, or scaring his uncle into silence?
Ro wonders if his parents knew this about Tommy. Or did they just not care?
He doesn't know what else to say — how to voice how fucking seen he feels, how he relates to everything Tommy says. If he starts talking he fears he might not stop. So he doesn't. For a moment, Ro and his uncle just work on finishing their food in silence.
"Also, my dad was a bigot, and I didn't want to be associated with that man more than I had to." Tommy adds with a casual shrug, breaking the silence, but his mouth twitches into a smile when he catches Ro's eye. He huffs out a small laugh, and takes another bite of his fries.
"Okay, you win." Ro laughs back, before popping the last of his burger in his mouth. He has so many more questions he wants to ask, but the fuzz in his brain is starting to ebb, and he doesn't want to risk it pushing it too far. Pushing away one of the only adults in his life who is actually fucking cool. With questions like did you ever think about changing your name, is that why you go by Tommy and not Tom, how did you and uncle Buck decide what last name to take after the wedding, how did you separate yourself from your father? Maybe he shouldn't push it even more with questions about the presence of his bigot father haunting him.
He doesn't ask. Mumbles out a thank you as he chews, unsure if he wants Tommy to hear or not, whether he wants Tommy to make it more of a thing than it already is.
Ro's of two minds, and his steadily increasing sobriety isn't helping. Before he can decide anything, Tommy wipes his hands off on a napkin, wrappers and containers empty — and tells him it's time to go home.
He wants to protest — to kick and scream and whine that he can't take him back there — but he knows there's no point. Plus, he respects Tommy too much. He's cool, he gets it, he took him to get food beforehand. So Ro sighs, long and drawn out, and clips his seatbelt back in.
They drive to his house the same way they drove to go get burgers — windows rolled down and dad rock playing on the radio. It's even later now, darker, and the light of the L.A night life fades away even more as they head into the suburbs. Ro sinks further down into his seat, ignoring the way his seatbelt presses into his neck. It's going to leave a mark, he knows this, but like whatever.
The city passes them by, and he feels the pit of dread start to form in his stomach. Consuming all sense of calm Tommy gave him, until all that's left is a sucking sort of absence. Like a gaping wound, blood bubbling and lungs sucking it all in until all that's left is the horror of the death rattle.
They pull up to the kerb outside his house. Road silent, no other cars on the road, no sign of life except for them. But the porch light is on and Ro can see the light on in the living room, shining through the windows.
Shit.
His parents are awake. One of them, at least, but Ro bets it's both. They'll go away, gossip to their friends after and claim they were supporting each other through tough times. Like he's a natural disaster and not their son. They're not doing this to be supportive, they're teaming up. Two against one. So they can fucking punish him even harder.
It was one party, god. And he fucking left early.
Groaning, long and drawn out, Ro unclips his seatbelt and lets himself melt into the seat. He doesn't want to leave, face his parents. He's safe here, in the passenger seat of Tommy's truck.
"Tell you what," Tommy says, turning to him, voice soft but still audible over the radio. "I'll talk to your dad tomorrow. Convince him to let you come over next weekend."
"And how are you gonna do that?" Ro asks, laughing a little as he raises an eyebrow. He wants that, he absolutely does — to get out and escape for a weekend — but doesn't quite believe it's going to happen. Like Hell are his parents going to let him out of the house to go have fun. Not willingly.
"I'll tell him I'll make you do manual labour as punishment," his uncle replies with an easy shrug and a smile. Not stressed at all, as if he knows his dad is going to cave. They have known each other for decades. So maybe. "Make you fix up the classic Mustang with me — or do some yard work with Evan — then you can stay the night and hang out with your cousin."
Okay, if Ro's going to be honest with himself, that sounds fucking great. He likes cars, he likes being outside, he likes the way his uncles teach him things without being condescending about it. They're both very hands on, will be there doing it with him, and not like — sitting on the porch yelling at him from afar.
Tommy will be elbow deep in an old engine with him, covered in grease and explaining to him how an engine works and why they're doing what they're doing. Will let him sit in the drivers seat and try and start the engine, will ask for his opinion and listen when he speaks.
His uncle Buck will absolutely make him do manual labour in the garden, but he'll be with him, and it won't be for no reason. They'll be kneeling in the garden together, replanting and shit, while Buck tells him about native plants and ecosystems, and shows him cool weird bugs.
They'll thank him with lunch and homemade lemonade, and then let him go chill in the spare room or hang out with his cousin.
His parents won't make him do that.
"Thanks Tommy," Ro mumbles, dropping his gaze but no less meaning it.
"You're welcome kiddo." Tommy replies, placing a warm comforting hand on his shoulder. "I'll let you know about next weekend, alright?"
"Alright," Ro replies, before taking a deep breath. Bracing himself, letting the cool night air steel his nerves before he opens the car door and steps outside. The curtains rustle in the window, and Ro just knows that it's his parents sitting there waiting for him, peering through the window — and not just the fan they've got going in the living room. They're watching him like fucking hawks.
Closing the door behind him — careful not to slam it — Ro trudges his way up to the front door. He can hear Tommy's truck idling behind him — a comforting sound. His uncle won't leave until he's safe inside, he knows, and it makes him feel a little less alone as he goes to face his fate.
He thinks he can hear something inside — another rustling, a scuff of something against wood — and pauses as he reaches their front door. Digs around in his pocket for his keys — attached to the end of the wallet chain he has hooked to his belt — and takes another bracing breath. There's no point in trying to be quiet, he thinks, no sneaking in like he considered before.
His parents are inside, lights on, waiting to give him a fucking intervention. He tried to do the right thing, get out, and they're going to punish him for it.
So fuck it, he thinks, before unlocking the door as loud as he can and slamming the door open.
The lights are definitely on, and his parents are definitely there waiting for him. But like, whatever, he's here now.
So Ro toes off his boots and kicks them off, not caring if they thump against the opposing wall or where they land. He absently wonders if it'll leave a dent, a scuff mark against the wall, and quietly hopes it does.
The tiled floor is cool against his socked feet, matching the cold breeze that blows through the open door. He looks down at the holes in his socks, the cool tile, very decidedly not looking over at the living room. Over at his parents.
They're hovering in his periphery, right in the corner of his eye, but Ro continues to ignore them. He swears he can hear a huff, a judgy exhale of air as his mother waits impatiently for him to stop fucking around.
Good. He likes wasting his parents time.
So Ro turns to slam the door shut behind him, locking it behind him with a loud jingle of his keys.
Engine rumbling, Tommy pulls away from the kerb and drives off.
"Robbie," he hears his mother call, voice ever so softly raised, and his whole body tenses. He's told them he doesn't want to be called that anymore. It was fine when he was twelve except he's not fucking twelve anymore. He's told her, told dad, to call him Ro. "What sort of time do you call this?"
And because that's not his name, he ignores it. Doesn't turn his head, doesn't look, doesn't respond. They definitely know he's heard them. Saw him tense, the fact that he doesn't have any headphones in as an excuse to ignore them.
Ro doesn't care.
Door locked, shoes off, Ro turns and starts to walk straight past the living room. Past his parents, where he can see them still waiting out of the corner of his eye. His mother, perched in the middle of the couch, wrapped in a dressing gown, eyes wide, concerned and disappointed. His father, stern, brows furrowed, hands resting on his knees from his spot in the armchair. Still dressed in a sweater and jeans, like he hasn't even bothered trying to go to sleep. Like he's been sat there, angry, just waiting for him.
He's not stupid enough to think that him ignoring them is going to work, they're not going to let it go. But he has to do it anyway. Make them wait. Make them work for it. It gives him a smug sort of satisfaction, that he's wasting their time. He's got all the time in the world.
"Bobby," his mother calls again, louder this time, an edge to her words. As if she can make him listen. As if saying that name is going to make him listen. Doesn't she know, that she's making it worse right now? That the sickly coil of nerves that rolls down his spine is because of her? Nausea in his stomach rolling into red hot steel. Curdling the just eaten food, spitting and boiling hot. "Come back here. You don't get to just walk past us."
He's fucking mad.
His mom can fuck all the way off. Of course he's going to walk straight the fuck past her. Why would he listen to her? With her condescending pinched little voice, aiming for concerned and motherly, but falling short.
Sure, it's like 3am, he still smells of cheap beer and cigarettes. But he's home, he's mostly sober, and that's not his fucking name. He's safe and it's like she doesn't fucking care. Not to mention his dad. If he stayed out all night, crashed at Kyle's, and snuck back home first thing they wouldn't have known. And then it wouldn't have been this whole big drama.
What-the-fuck-ever.
Shoulders tensing, hands clenched into trembling fists — Ro continues to push past the tension in the room and head to the kitchen. Chest heaving as he takes steadying breaths, pushing past the nausea anger upset coiling inside his stomach.
He barely takes two steps before his dad speaks. Yells more like.
Typical.
"Robert Nash Han," his father all but shouts, voice stern, as if he's at work yelling at one of his firefighters and not trying to get his own kid's attention. Aiming for commanding and determined — but he just sounds fucking stupid. Does he not hear himself? How fucking dumb that name sounds coming out of his mouth? Does his tongue not stumble over his surname-as-a-middle-name? Trip over the sounds of him calling another man's name? "You respond when your mother calls your name, you hear me?"
"My name?" Ro spits. Whirling to glare at his parents, face contorted into a scowl. Fists clenched even tighter, knuckles sheer white with the force of it. Held carefully at his sides, arms shaking with the tension, muscles pulled taut. He looks at his father and all he sees is red. His dad is standing now — probably pushed off the chair in anger, stepping towards his son and in between him and his wife. Frowning back at him, like an older, angry mirror. Hair greying, lines etching themselves in his skin. Brows furrowed as he stares back at his son. "Do you even hear how stupid you sound? I didn't respond because that's not my fucking name."
"Is now really the time to be pedantic?" His father responds, brow furrowing even further, stepping towards him. Mouth slightly agape, before pressing into a tight angry line. "You lied to us about where you were going, were out all night, and didn't answer your phone! We were worried sick."
"Yes!" Ro yells back, automatically — instinctively — cutting his father off. Voice raising to be heard over his father. He doesn't want to hear what other bullshit is going to come out of his mouth, about Ro disappointing them, or going against their family values — they're a team blah, blah, fucking blah. "It is time to be pedantic because it's about my fucking name! How many times have I told you to call me Ro, and how many times have you ignored me?"
"We're not ignoring you, we're worried about you." His mother chimes in, eyes misty as she gets up off the couch, hand pressed to her chest. Lips red and pouting as she worries them between her teeth. She always says that, and the words turn sour. Concern turned pity turned condescension. "The late nights, the drinking, the smoking. You're only sixteen, don't you know the health risks, the things you're doing to yourself? We just want you to be safe, here with us."
"You're doing it right now! Ignoring me, deflecting so you don't have to face the fact that you don't listen to your own fucking kid." Ro retorts, arm flung out to the side, turning to his mom. He gets it, she was a nurse some decades years ago, fucking hell. She doesn't get to turn around and weaponize that fact when she still calls him Bobby. Brows furrowing as he continues, powering over whatever his mom was going to say next. "You "claim" you're worried and yet you can't even get my name right. I'm not your baby boy anymore, you can't just pick and choose what to call me. I'm not Bobby."
His voice cracks, and he instantly wishes it didn't. It's just another point for them to pick at, another thread for them to pull until they can unravel him entirely. His parents still won't fucking listen to him, even when feigning concern and worry for his well being. He's fucking emotional, of course he is — sue him — inherited from his mom who cries at the drop of a hat.
Well, why should he listen to their concern when they don't respect him enough to get his name right? Ro is not just a nickname. It's his fucking name.
"You'll always be my baby boy, always. Because I love you Ro." his mother replies, eyes watering even further, his name sounding awkward in her mouth. Tongue thick and awkward as she stumbles over the syllable of his name. Stolen away and fractured from his corpse of a given name. She steps closer to his dad, a united front, as she continues speaking. "Because we love you. We named you after Bobby because we love him, and wanted to share his love and honour his sacrifice with you."
"Well I don't fucking want it!" Ro shouts, the words bursting out of him. He absently notes spit flying from his mouth and realises that he doesn't fucking care. "I don't want to be reminded of a dead man every time someone says my name, because that's not fucking love!"
The second he turns eighteen Ro's going to leave home, he's already decided. Change his name into something his own, something without all that baggage his parents cursed him with.
Because that's what he is, cursed.
He thought about changing his name to something Korean —to match his sister, to reflect that part of his heritage. Except he doesn't have any Korean heritage, not like Jee-Yun. The only heritage he has is fucking Bobby Nash.
He's not going to tell his parents, he's already decided that too. If they miss him — fucking whatever — they can go the 118 and stare at his name on the station wall.
Because of course they loved Bobby Nash so much they gave out his name twice — plus a memorial day — and Ro doesn't even get the right to his own name. He doesn't get one thing to himself.
Ro was an accident, a whoopsie baby — his parents let that one slip. And it makes a lot more things make sense. They never wanted him. Not once. So why would they give him his own name when they could use him as a symbol instead?
At least it's not just him named after a dead person — with his sister named after their dead grandmother Jee-Yun. But at least she has the privilege of being named after someone that only their dad knew. His sister gets to reforge the name into something her own. She gets to be her own person. Even more-so now, that she's not trapped under their roof. She's at college, in the dorms, growing into something real.
Ro'd be jealous if he didn't love her so much.
Everyone in his parents life know Bobby Nash. People at both their works, Hen, Karen, Eddie — even uncle Buck and Tommy worked at the 118 under Captain Nash. He can never escape him.
But god, does he want to.
"Hey! Don't shout at your mother!" His dad says, not quite shouting himself, brow furrowing as he puffs himself up in that way he always does. Making himself look bigger, stronger, more important. Blurring the lines between Dad and Captain Han. "If it weren't for Bobby's sacrifice, I wouldn't be here, I wouldn't have gotten to meet and love you."
Ro watches as his dad points at him with an angry finger with one hand, the other wrapping around his mother. Comforting her as her eyes continue to water. Lips wobbling, and hand pressed to her chest as if to soothe herself.
"We wanted to honour that sacrifice, the ultimate gift, and you don't get to spit on it like that." His dad continues, still angry, still almost shouting. But Ro doesn't back down. Not even as he feels his own chest start to ache, his clenched fist start to shake. Emotions boiling out of him, unable to be hidden, ushered away. "We love Bobby in this household, for what he did for us."
"You might, but I fucking hate him!" Ro yells, and it's not until the words leave his mouth, panting, chest heaving — that he realises how true it is. He hates Bobby Nash. He hates his name, what he stood for, what he's done to his family — but most of all he hates the way his ghost never fucking leaves him.
He ruined Ro's life.
As a child, back when he was young enough his parents still called him Bobby, Ro has absent memories of people saying his name and then just looking sad. Down turned eyes, sombre mouth, as if they were looking past him, not at him. Then he got older, and they explained his name, and he understood why. He also remembers not wanting people to be sad. He might have been named after Bobby, but he was a happy boy and he wanted people to like him and look at him and be happy.
That didn't happen. So he switched to asking everyone to call him Robbie.
His school did a segment on emergency management and first responders, and his dad helped organise a field trip to his station — the 118. And of course, of fucking course — his classmates asked why he had a whole fire station named after him.
Ro had wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor as his dad told his whole class that it was the other way round, Ro and the station were named after a hero named Robert Nash. He looked over at his dad's firefighters — some he knew, some he didn't — and they all just looked sad again. Awkward. In pain. Auntie Hen, Eddie, a bunch of the other people in uniform.
Because of him.
Then he got older and he understood the why of it all even more, and his sadness turned to frustration. His dad called him Nash, and all the people at school got confused why his dad would call him by his surname. And he had to explain that Nash while sounded like a surname (because it was, fucking hell), it was actually his middle name.
It just kept getting worse. Every time he tried a new name, every time someone called him something different — Bobby Nash kept following him.
He's being haunted. A shell of a boy, desperately clinging to any sense of self as the spirit of Bobby Nash clings to him, infecting him. Finding all the cavities in his ribcage where Ro tries to find out who he is — and replacing it with Bobby.
If he could exorcise Bobby Nash from his life he would. Change his name, change the fucking station, wipe the memories of everyone his parents know. Make everyone forget.
Sometimes, he wishes Bobby Nash was alive. Only so his parents would shut up about his sacrifice. What he did. What symbol Ro now carries. The living symbol Ro now is. If he had lived, this man he hates — would his parents have named him something different? Something normal?
He doubts it. Bets they would have found another dead person to name him after.
He'll never know.
"I hate Bobby Nash! I hate what he did, and I hate the two of you for naming me after him!" Ro continues, shouting, and he swears he can feel the windows shake with the force of his rage. Pointing at his parents with an angry finger, a mirror of his father. He hates that too. "Why the fuck do you think I'm never home?"
That's another thing that he doesn't quite realise the weight of until he says it. He goes out with his friends because it's fun, and he likes spending time with them. Drinking and smoking and kicking it back. Listening to too-loud music and learning to skateboard. He also does it because the more time he spends out with his friends, getting high — the less time he spends at home getting reminded of a dead man. Or scolded that he's wasting his life. Or both.
He didn't even stay all night, he left the party early, he was keeping himself safe, he got home — and he's still getting punished for it. A part of him wonders if it would have been better had he not come home early. If they gave up and went to bed, slept it off — or if they woke up and found him not in his bed — would they have treated him better?
Is it because it's that weird time where it's not quite night, not quite morning, where they're in their own little bubble of hate. Where his parents call him by the wrong name and expect him to cave to their so-called concern.
He watches as the water in his mother's eyes start to bubble over into full blown tears, and his first thought is here we go again. Every time something stops going her way, every time someone doesn't listen to her shitty advice — his mother cries. It's manipulation, is what it is. Garnering pity and clutching at straws when people don't automatically sway to her side. As much as both his parents like to pretend they do — they don't know everything.
And they definitely don't know shit now. They don't know him. They don't. Ro bets they barely know Jee, when it comes down to it.
His dad immediately falls to his mom's side, arm wrapping around her. Pulling her in tight, squeezing her side, comforting her. It'd almost be cute, if he didn't know the context. If he didn't see his father glaring at him. For daring to "upset" his mom. Fuck off.
"You better watch that tone of yours, young man." His father spits through gritted teeth. Straddling the line between anger and trying to be a calm parent. He doesn't quite make it. Like he's about to yell at his son, or angrily remind him that hate is a strong word. Of course it's a strong word, that's why Ro fucking picked it.
"Or what? Am I not allowed opinions now?" Ro spits back, throwing his arm out as he speaks. His mother sobs again, burying herself in her husband's arms. "You named me after Bobby Nash, now you need to face the consequences of your own fucking actions! Especially you dad."
"Naming you after Bobby was a joint decision," His dad replies, brow furrowed and hand running up and down his mom's side comfortingly. She nods, teary, eyes wide and cloying. Ugh. She clings to him, despite the fact it sounds like he's foisting half the blame onto her. Shoving it off of himself. He was the one who survived that lab. "His sacrifice was a gift for both of us, all of us. You and Jee, too. Your name was a gift, not something that has consequences."
"Of course it had fucking consequences!" Ro shouts, scoffing. Who does his dad think he is, trying to say actions don't have consequences. How stupid, how blind is he that he tries to just brush this off. That he could just ignore this. Ro can feel his whole body shake, angry tremors in his hands, rolling down his spine. "You stole Bobby's name, you stole his job, you stole his whole fucking life! Did you think people wouldn't notice? That I wouldn't care?"
His dad surrounded him with Bobby Nash's ghost, and then turns around and gets mad when Ro acts fucking haunted. Like he's not a symbol of his dad's fucked up theft, claiming of Bobby's life. Of his sacrifice. He's mad now — his dad — face turning red, brow furrowing so hard it looks like the lines in his forehead are going to etch themselves into his skull. If he weren't holding his mom right now, he'd be clenching his fists — Ro has a feeling.
"You're in big trouble, young man, so you better stop talking and listen up." His dad grits out between clenched teeth, deflecting again. Away from him, and all on Ro. Fucking typical. "You come home in the middle of the night, drunk; and then all you do is spit in our faces, and on Bobby's memory."
"We were worried sick, you could have been anywhere, you could have been hurt." His Mom says, voice wavering through shuddering tears. Curled into dad's side still, looking small with wide wet eyes. Maybe she thinks Ro is more likely to cave, with her like this. Small and sad and so upset. She takes the tears approach, while dad yells. Got both corners covered. "You're our son and we worry about you. You're not acting like yourself."
Ro is acting like himself and if his parents can't fucking take it then tough shit. He's like this because of them. Because of what they did. With his stupid name, and dad's stupid station, walking in the shadow of stupid Bobby Nash. They act like they know him but they don't. He's their little doll, their symbol, that they can drag out to prove that 'we loved Bobby Nash more than you, look, we stole his name to prove it.'
And so what? What if Ro likes to go skateboarding and stay out late? Spend all of his time out of the house? So what if he likes to go to parties and drink with his friends? Have fun?
What do they think their stupid 118 barbeques are, if they're not parties and drinking? That's literally all it is. And of course it has to happen in their fucking backyard. 'It's station bonding'. Yeah right, it's just another thing his dad stole from Bobby. Uncle Buck told him about Bobby's famous 118 family barbeques in his and Athena's backyard.
His parents didn't tell him that.
Why is he any different? Just because he's a teenager? He's basically a grown adult. And he's not stupid enough to go for the hard shit, like tonight, not that they fucking care. He didn't tell them, and he's not gonna. There's no point. Uncle Tommy cared. Uncle Buck would care.
When he leaves home, when he changes his name — they're who he's going to stay in touch with. Them, his cousin, Jee.
"This is me," Ro shouts back, the words bursting out of his mouth. "And if you don't fucking like it, why the fuck did you have me? Why the fuck did you name me after Bobby if you don't like the person it made me?"
His dad opens his mouth again, brow furrowed, a yell hovering on his tongue. But Ro continues, hands shaking, eyes starting to blur as he takes a step towards his parents.
"Why don't you think about anyone other than yourselves? I hate the 118, I hate the LAFD, I hate Bobby Nash, and I hate the two of you for naming me after him. For not listening to me when I say I don't fucking want to be called Nash, or Bobby, or Robert fucking Nash." Ro's shaking now, vision blurring with angry tears, voice coming out wavering — but he presses forward, raising his voice. Bile churning in his stomach, rolling with every heave of breath, threatening to make him sick. But he has to say it. He has to let it out, or else it's going to build inside him like bile — hot and sick and bursting to escape. He hopes the neighbours can hear. "His name is not a fucking gift, I don't want to be reminded of his sacrifice every time someone says my name or looks at me weird. I want to be my own fucking person. You let Jee be herself, you love her for being herself, so why don't you love me? Why do you love Bobby Nash more than me?"
Ro doesn't realise until the words are out of his mouth — panting, chest heaving, tension in the air thickening even further — that he truly believes it. They love Captain Nash — the true Bobby — more than him. They love Jee more than him too. He loves her, she's his sister, of course he loves her. But she's the prodigal child, the eldest, the one they brag about at parties.
Ro is the perpetual fuck up, the self fulfilling prophecy.
He just wants his parents to love him for him, and not just what he can do for them. He wants to be their son, not a reminder. He wants them to listen when he talks.
He feels empty inside, now that he's said it. Hollow and aching. Ribcage constricting his chest, squeezing his insides. Struggling to gasp for breath, hot tears rolling down his face. He can barely see his parents, if his mom is still crying, if his dad still looks like he's about to pop a blood vessel.
Hands shaking, pulse thundering in his veins. Ro can feel the adrenaline coursing through him, he can feel it start to leave his system in one fell swoop, leaving him tired and angry and falling apart in the middle of the living room.
"Go to your room," Ro hears his dad say, but it's not the anger from before. It's not the familiar rage. His dad sounds colder, almost detached, sad, and Ro doesn't have enough energy or empathy left to unpack it.
So he doesn't.
He doesn't look at his dad, or his mom. Doesn't look at their expressions or try to decipher how they're feeling. What would be the point?
"Fine." Ro spits angrily, the word constricting his throat as he says it. Pushing past the ache, and the pressure building in his chest. The burn of finally letting those words out. And he turns, scowling through tears, and thunders his way down the hall away from his parents. Where he'll be trapped, but at least he'll be alone.
It's a petty sort of satisfaction, stomping his feet as walks — wishing he were still wearing his boots so he could make an even louder noise. He wants them to hear him. He always wants them to hear him, wants them to listen.
But they don't, so he slams the door to his bedroom shut behind him. Sound reverberating through the house, echoing down the hall.
He takes a second. Holds his breath as he waits. Listens.
Except Ro can't hear anything, can't hear his parents yell, or cry, or shout after him. There's nothing but agonising silence. There's just Ro and the ghost of Bobby Nash, pressing down on his shoulders. He's encompassing him, smothering him until there's nothing of Ro left.
Maybe Ro's cursed. Poison. Rot.
Now that he's alone he finally lets his face constrict and warp as he starts to sob, face pressed to his bedroom door. Pushing his fists into the wood, knuckles white with the pressure. Ro tries to focus on the feeling the solidness of the door beneath his fists. The wooden floor underneath his socked feet.
It barely keeps him upright, legs weak and knees buckling.
So Ro lets himself sink into the floor, and cries.