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2008.
“Older adoptees present unique challenges,” says the sympathetic woman with cat-eye glasses from the adoption agency. “And adopting as an unmarried couple is an environment into which we’re hesitant to release a child.”
“Unique challenges? He’s a person, not a potted plant,” Feryn replies irritably. “And we’re—” Not a couple, he was about to finish, when a sharp kick under the table stops him.
“Engaged,” says Oscar Wilde from his side.
Feryn does his best not to react at all, rather than let his expression flourish into the shock, confusion, and maybe (definitely) rage that’s blooming in his chest. It works, sort of, because the woman says, “Oh! Well, this changes things, certainly.”
The grin on Wilde’s face is, for all intents and purposes, a slightly-askew Cheshire cat.
Here’s the sitch: it’s 2008. Barret Rackett has, finally, been considered an unfit parent, been taken into police custody, and his son Brock has been officially placed into foster care. He spends a lot of time at the University of Prague, though, because his cousin Sasha has just started a Master’s program there, and she’s been dragging him away from Barret as much as humanly possible. Sasha, despite her engineering focus, took Wilde’s ‘Words, Plays, and Wordplay’ course, and has decided that the English department is the safest place for her eight year old cousin.
Enter Wilde’s flatmate, Feryn Smith, who liked city life more than his family’s farm and carpentry more than herding sheep. He never would’ve met Brock if Wilde could drive, but he unfortunately (fortunately?) cannot, which meant Feryn was confronted with an eight year old in the English office much too early in the morning.
With Sasha’s blessing, over a year of foster homes later, Feryn and Wilde managed to start the adoption process. Slowly. Very, very slowly. And this is just the latest roadblock, as they’re politely ushered out of the office.
Feryn whirls on Wilde the moment the door closes. “What the fuck are you thinking?”
“About what’s best for our son?” Wilde tries loftily, heading for the exit.
“We don’t even have a son yet!”
“Well, I’m trying very hard to acquire one, Mr Smith, and I would appreciate if you did the same.” Somehow Wilde manages to sound aloof and warm at the same time, and Feryn wants to punch him in the nose.
“I’m going to strangle you,” he grumbles, catching up.
“I’d like to see you try to reach my neck— ow!”
FERYN AND OSCAR’S HOUSE RULES
- One night stands are one NIGHT and cannot stay for breakfast
- Laundry duty switches weekly according to schedule. If your socks are gone they’re gone
- Both of this house’s residents reserve the right to make the other sleep in the office if they have been particularly irritating
- Both of this house’s residents reserve the right to sleep in the office if they need some fucking alone time
- CALL 999 IF THERE IS AN EMERGENCY. DO NOT WAIT. WE WILL HAVE NO REPEATS OF THE SPAGHETTIOS INCIDENT.
- Any and all boyfriends must be pre-approved to have no friendship, kinship, or positive interaction with The Dishonorable Bertrand MacGuffingham
- fucking take care of yourself asshole
2008.
So they get married. They talk through it, like adults, and decide that between tax benefits and the ability to adopt Brock, there’s very little reason not to. A lot of people like to be “in love” or whatever before they get married, but those people are not Feryn Smith and Oscar Wilde. People get married for all sorts of reasons, and these may be a bit out there, but at least they’re solid.
“My parents are going to kill me,” Wilde sighs, languid, as he adjusts the fur collar of his coat against the biting wind. It’s a brisk November day that’s wreaking havoc on Wilde’s hair, and both men have their jackets drawn tight to keep out the chill.
Feryn makes a noncommittal noise as he burrows deeper into his scarf. When he glances sideways, there’s real trepidation on Wilde’s face, real fear. “We don’t have to do this, you know,” he hedges, on their way to Town Hall to get their marriage license. “The other way’s a bit tougher, but there is another way.”
“If it’s not you, it’ll be someone else,” Wilde says, and his tone is light but his eyes are stormy. “And if it’s not this, it’ll be something else; you know— a long-term boyfriend, or a household with two fathers, or— or whether or not my father pushes me into a church for Confession the moment I visit home—” Wilde lets the wind catch the rest of his sentence, lets the word fade into anonymity.
“If I never officially got my gender marker changed, does that make this better or worse?” Feryn asks, which gets him a short laugh and a sad smile.
“It doesn’t really matter.” Wilde’s dropped the act, now. “They’re old-fashioned Irish Catholics and God, yes, I love them, but—” He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Things can be… difficult.” Feryn stays silent a moment, and Wilde brushes hair out of his eyes. “‘Why won’t you keep your hair short, Oscar?’ ‘Why would you ever wear a skirt, Oscar?’ ‘Why would you think that it’s anything apart from sinful to enter this loveless marriage—’”
“Come on now,” Feryn interrupts, trying to keep the worry from his voice. “Loveless?”
Wilde shoots him a look and picks up the pace, which is fairly rude, considering he’s half a foot taller than Feryn. “You know what I mean.”
“Hey.” Feryn snags him by the elbow, whirls him around so they’re facing each other. “Fuck that. I will be the most loving husband you’ve ever had.”
Wilde pats his arm. “You’ll be the only husband I’ve ever had, Feryn,” he says, but some of the tension has leaked from his shoulders.
“Well, shit,” says Feryn, folding his arms. “Good.”
Google search: baby proof a house
Google search: baby proof a house for an eight year old
Google search: new parent essentials
Google search: my baby is not actually a baby but he IS new
Google search: is an eight year old a baby?????
2009.
The day they bring Brock home is eventful. The good type of eventful, mind. Feryn and Wilde get in an hour long argument about carpet texture (don’t ask) and are almost late to the goddamn adoption agency, at which point Wilde realises he’s forgotten a jacket and Feryn absolutely refuses to go back and get it, but it is January, so Feryn ends up chucking his two-sizes-too-small coat in Wilde’s direction so they can just get inside already, holy shit.
It turns out fine. It does! They manage to pull themselves together and be on time, which is important, because the adoption lady didn’t really seem like she wanted to let Brock go home with them in the first place. Which is quite rude, frankly. They’re good parents. Or will be. Definitely.
Brock doesn’t talk much as the papers are signed, looking warily at the adoption agency officials over his shoulder until Feryn lifts him into the backseat. The two of them discovered, the first time that Brock ever went to their house for dinner, that Brock loves it when Feryn picks him up. They’re not sure why, because he won’t let Wilde close enough to touch, but as long as it’s Feryn, there are piggyback rides and tussles to be had galore.
(It takes them a while to realise it’s because Feryn is Sasha’s height and Wilde is Barret’s height and while one of those has a good association, but the other’s is very, very bad.)
Once in the car, though, Brock speaks up right away. “Am I your kid now?” he asks cautiously, and Wilde twists around from the passenger seat to grin at him.
“That’s how adoption works,” Wilde says, “so that’s a resounding yes. Want ice cream?”
“Oscar,” Feryn says warningly, and even though he’s driving, Wilde can feel him glaring at the steering wheel.
“Yes please,” says Brock, ignoring Feryn. “Do I have to call you ‘dad’?”
“Only if you have a phone,” Wilde replies, and Feryn makes a noise in his throat that is part-groan and part growl.
“I will divorce you right now.”
“Think of the children!”
“Yeah, Feryn!” Brock chimes in, leaning forward. “What about me?”
“Put on your seatbelt!” Feryn says, and then, for the first time but absolutely not the last, “Both of you, sit down and be quiet. I will turn this car around.”
“Ooh,” says Wilde, under his breath. “Someone’s in trouble.”
“You’re in trouble, Oscar. It’s you,” Feryn replies, and Wilde flaps a hand carelessly in his direction.
“Aw, you’re fucked,” says Brock from behind them, cheerfully.
Wilde starts. “Language!”
Oscar Wilde: do we have milk
spowse: I think so, why?
Oscar Wilde: he’s a growing boy
spowse: Mate I love you
spowse: But have you EVER met a child
Oscar Wilde: look i googled it ok
spowse: I am so concerned about your search history
2009.
“You what?” Zolf sputters over the phone, and Feryn figures that maybe he should’ve planned this better. “Feryn, you— what— when did this happen? And why? And how? Also, I thought you were never getting married?”
“I’m still aromantic, Zolf, people can be platonically married,” says Feryn, deliberately calm. “You know, for tax benefits.”
“Or for adopting a child,” Zolf says, sounding strangled. “Also, you married Wilde? Really? There are so many other people in the world, and you picked him?”
Wilde leans into the receiver. “I can hear you,” he says cheerfully.
“Good!” says Zolf. “You’re insufferable!”
“Is this about the time I broke into your flat?”
“Yes!”
Wilde rolls his eyes. “Feryn gave me the key.”
“I just walked into my pitch black kitchen to find you stealing my gruyere like some sort of cheese gremlin!” Zolf cries. They’ve had this argument before. Like, a lot of times before. “Because you’re incapable of letting me have nice things!”
“In my defence,” Wilde says, “I was hungry.”
“That is not in your defence!”
“Aaaaanyway,” Feryn says, sliding the phone away from Wilde, “you wanna meet the kid?”
Zolf sounds a little bit offended. “I’ve met Brock!”
“Is that a no?”
“I didn’t say that either,” Zolf says, audibly frowning.
“Who’s that?” Brock asks, peering around the doorway.
“That’s your Uncle Zolf,” says Feryn, and Zolf curses softly, with emotion. “Please don’t teach the baby swears.”
“I already know swears,” Brock chimes in, and Feryn gives him a Look. “What?”
“Be nice,” says Feryn, handing over the phone, but it’s not too clear to whom that statement is aimed.
“Hey, kiddo,” Zolf says, as Brock takes the phone off speaker, “blink twice if you need me to come rescue you, alright?”
Brock checks to see that Feryn’s out of the room, then shuts the door. “What, do you think I’ll need to?” he asks, dropping his voice. “‘Cos I’ve only got three knives, which could work in a pinch, but I didn’t really think they were dangerous—”
“Woah, woah, no, that was a joke,” Zolf says. “You’re safe there. Really. Always.”
A pause. Then— “You mean it?” Brock whispers, casting another look at the closed door.
Zolf smiles into the phone. “Promise.”
FERYN AND OSCAR’S HOUSE RULES + Brock!
- One night stands are one NIGHT and cannot stay for breakfast
- Laundry duty switches weekly according to schedule. If your socks are gone they’re gone
- Both of this house’s residents reserve the right to make the other sleep in the office if they have been particularly irritating
- Both of this house’s residents reserve the right to sleep in the office if they need some
fuckingalone time - CALL 999 IF THERE IS AN EMERGENCY. DO NOT WAIT. WE WILL HAVE NO REPEATS OF THE SPAGHETTIOS INCIDENT.
- Any and all boyfriends must be pre-approved to have no friendship, kinship, or positive interaction with The Dishonorable Bertrand MacGuffingham
-
fuckingtake care of yourselfasshole:) - Brock gets everything he needs from this home, not everything he WANTS
- Nightmares don’t care about the hour of night. If you need someone, wake someone up
- Make sure to mention that we are running out of Eggos BEFORE we run out
- This goes doubly for cereal
- BROCK IS NOT ALLOWED TO SAY FUCK
- stop spoiling brock, oscar
- Stop being mean to brock!!
- im not being mean to brock
- Parents Are Not Allowed To Argue On The House Rules List
- Do not steal from your classmates
2009.
Sasha is sitting on Brock’s bed when he walks inside. His face splits into a grin at the sight of her, and Brock springs into her arms, landing with a heavy, “Oof!” Sasha effortlessly spins him onto her shoulders and Brock plants his hands on top of her head, messing up her hair as he gets his balance.
“You’re getting your baby fat back, eh?” Sasha says, patting his leg as she nods. “That’s good. Means you’ve got more to eat.”
“Baby fat?” Brock echoes, frowning. “I’m not a baby.”
Sasha laughs. “‘S just a word, Brock,” she says. “You’d be fat if you weren’t a baby.”
“I’m not a baby!” Brock whines, and Sasha leans backwards, dumping him onto the mattress. “Hey!”
She flops beside him and they both stare up at the ceiling. It’s a lot like it used to be, but they’re not in danger anymore. They’re on top of the bed this time, not cowered beneath it, and the window is open to let in the breeze, not as an escape route.
Brock frowns suddenly, his newly round cheeks crinkling up. “Am I fat?” he asks.
Sasha stretches out a hand to squish Brock’s stomach. “Not yet,” she muses, “but I reckon you’re on your way if you keep eating like that. You were a fat baby, you know.”
“Nice,” says Brock contentedly, fist bumping the hand that’s poking his belly. Sasha adjusts, then fist bumps back.
“To getting fat,” Sasha says, grinning.
“To getting fat!”
De Profundis, by Oscar Wilde, 1905.
Ab Excelsa: An Apology, by Oscar Wilde, PhD, 2010.
For Brock. For Feryn. For Cyril, Vyvyan, and Constance. For history, and for those trying to do better.
2010.
Pros to having an insomniac father: he is awake at the oddest hours of the night, which means that when Brock has nightmares at the oddest hours of the night, Wilde is already there to calm him down.
Cons to having an insomniac father: there’s no chance of screaming quietly.
The door to Brock’s door creaks open slightly and he curls up in bed as Wilde knocks. As if that means anything. He’s already caught Brock being pathetically weak. Just because he hasn’t been hit yet doesn’t mean that can’t change, and after all, neither of his new parents have seen him like this. Neither of them have seen him cry, and of course it’s the cruel irony that the one who looks like Barret will see it first.
“You in there, little lad?” Wilde asks, silhouetted with the doorway. He doesn’t look intimidating, like he usually does, just— tired, his hair tied back at the nape of his neck and the light of the hallway glinting off of wire-rimmed reading glasses.
Brock glowers. “Where else would I be?”
Apparently the fury in his tone is lost - or ignored - by Wilde, who merely says, “Is it alright if I turn on the light?”
“Do whatever,” Brock mutters, wrapping his arms around his knees.
“Would you like me to leave?”
“Actually?” Brock sniffs and looks up at him. “Yeah, Barret, I would. I would like you to get the fuck out and not come back.”
It’s only after the door shuts that Brock realises his mistake. That he— oh, God. Oh, no, now Wilde’s going to be angry with him for the slip-up, and maybe if he can shimmy out the window faster than the belt, everything will be fine— Brock has started crying, like the weak, useless child that he is, and he’s not fast enough, because the door opens again soon enough. “I didn’t mean to call you Barret!” Brock yelps, reaching under his pillow for one of his knives, just in case. “We don’t have to— I mean— if you’ll let me explain, I can make up for it, I can—”
“What?” Wilde manages to look miffed in the pitch black. “No, I just made tea.”
Wait.
What?
Brock pulls out a knife. “Turn on the light?” he asks cautiously, and Wilde sets something down before flicking the switch.
He’s holding a mug. And there’s another mug on Brock’s dresser. He brought tea. That’s all he did.
Wait.
What?
“It’s peppermint,” Wilde offers, running a hand through his hair as if he’s forgotten that he put it up, and then messing it up quite badly. Brock giggles, a bit. “Oh, come on, don’t give me that. Do you want tea?”
“Yes,” says Brock, because he does. Wilde brings him one of the mugs, keeps the other for himself, then pulls a chair beside Brock’s bed and re-does his hair. Brock watches him, fascinated, notices the grey that usually hides at his temples. Barret would never let Brock see this. Barret never brought him tea, either. But to see someone so similar to Barret in stature, in the careful craft of his daytime smiles, plop down at his bedside without a second thought is— weird.
It’s very weird.
Wilde raps on the wall like he’s asking for entry. “You in there, lad?”
“Oh.” Brock takes a sip of his tea. It’s good. Wilde makes good tea. “Yes, I’m— fine.”
Raising a brow, Wilde says, “Alright. I won’t press it.” Brock eyes him suspiciously, but Wilde actually doesn’t, instead sipping at his tea and humming softly.
“What’s your game?” Brock asks suddenly, frowning.
“Hm?”
“What do you want?” Brock asks, and Wilde looks over at him. There is no secret on his face, which feels wrong, because shouldn’t there be? Shouldn’t Wilde be keeping things from him? Isn’t that just how things go?
“I’m— I’m not Barret,” Wilde says, without reaching out to brush hair off Brock’s forehead from where it’s fallen in his eyes, because he knows Brock doesn’t like that. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“Why are you doing this, then?” Brock presses, because it’s still not right. There’s a piece missing. Something doesn’t add up.
Wilde smiles softly at him, one corner of his mouth lifting higher than the other. “You might not see me as your father yet, or ever,” he says, “but you’re my kid. And that won’t change.”
Missed call from menace at 3:06 am
Missed call from menace at 3:07 am
Missed call from menace at 3:08 am
Missed call from menace at 3:09 am
Not That Oscar Wilde, 3:09 am: WHAT
menace, 3:10 am: dads asleep will you get me ice cream
Not That Oscar Wilde, 3:10 am: give feryn his phone back and go the heck to bed
menace, 3:11 am: :p
menace, 3:15 am: :(
2011.
“Happy birthday, Brock!”
“What the hell are you doing?” Brock yelps as Aziza sets down a cake in front of him. She’s a family friend close enough to gain the ‘Auntie’ title, after an incident way back when with an opera performance and lives saved. No biggie.
“Language!” Wilde scolds, frowning. “What’s wrong?”
“Why’s she got all these explosives on it?” Brock asks, alarmed, taking a distinct step back towards Feryn.
“Those are candles,” Aziza says.
“Why are they so small?” Brock asks warily, and Feryn puts a grounding hand on his shoulder as Brock bumps into him.
“They’re birthday candles,” Aziza explains, grabbing the package and shaking a few unlit ones into her hand. “Aren’t they always on your cakes?”
Wilde shoots a warning look towards Aziza as Brock shakes his head. “We usually don’t do fire,” Wilde murmurs, and there’s a dawning look of horror on Aziza’s face.
“Feryn, why’s she put that there?” Brock asks again, and it is suddenly very easy to remember that he’s only eleven and that no one knows the extent of what the hell Barret did to him before the arrest. “Why’s she— are you sending a message, Aziza?”
Aziza might not have known previously that this was a bad idea, but she picks up on it incredibly quickly, winking out all the candles in seconds. “I’m— it’s a tradition, Brock, just for birthdays. I didn’t know that it— that it meant something different to you—”
“—if you want the firing squad, you didn’t have to do it on my birthday!” Brock cries, and Feryn leads him by the shoulders into the next room. Brock obliges without argument, which is concerning, and he’s trembling as he swears, “My fucking birthday, I mean—”
Feryn nudges Brock into an armchair and squats down in front of him, raising Brock’s chin so their eyes meet. “Hey. Look at me.”
“I thought Aziza was — I thought—”
“Aziza’s not trying to hurt you,” Feryn says, softly. “Candles like that mean something different here.”
Brock whimpers, “What else could they mean?” and as his voice cracks, Feryn knows with an absolute and sudden certainty that if he ever met Barret Rackett, he’d be able to strangle the man where he stood and never break a sweat.
“It means that we’re celebrating you, Brock,” Feryn says, gentle. “We’re celebrating you, and your birthday. But we don’t have to do it with fire. Not if you don’t want to.”
Brock is looking at him like he’s just asked a question with two wrong answers. “I mean it,” Feryn says. “Not if you don’t want to.”
Clarification: No, I’m Not A Historical Figure From The 1800s, a YouTube video posted by DrWildeLit, with Feryn Smith, 2011.
Jane, No! The Brontes for Struggling English Students, a Youtube video posted by DrWildeLit, with Azubuike Nso, 2012.
2012.
“Ugh,” says Wilde, walking into the living room and picking Brock up from where he’s sitting on Wilde’s favourite armchair, setting the boy on his knee. “I’ve got to work tomorrow; isn’t that ridiculous?”
“Is it Venn Diagram Day?” asks Brock, grinning widely. “And can I come if it is?”
“You can come if you go to the University,” says Wilde, and Brock groans. “It’s only another five years.”
“You never did a Venn Diagram for me,” Brock complains. “Do you know how long I spent confused the first time I heard that Oscar Wilde died in 1900?”
Feryn plops down on the couch with a knowing grin. “Is this about Venn Diagram Day?”
“It is!” Brock says, instantly appealing to his other father. “Dhaid won’t make me one, and I really want to see it!”
“It’s for my students,” Wilde says with amusement, ruffling Brock’s hair.
Brock flops completely over Wilde’s lap and slumps to the floor. “I’m your son!” he cries. “I’m your only child, Dhaid, doesn’t that make me your student in life?”
“He gets that from you,” Feryn says with a snort of laughter, raising a brow as he and Wilde exchange a look.
“Hey!”
“I don’t need to draw you a picture,” Wilde says, pulling Brock back up onto his lap, “for you to know that not all Irishmen are the same, Brock.”
Under his breath, Feryn mutters, “More like ‘not all gay, Irish authors with a penchant for the dramatic and a ridiculous capacity for wordplay’ are the same, but alright.”
“The elder Oscar Wilde never had a doctorate,” says this one, in a time-worn argument. “And I don’t write plays, I write academia—”
“And books,” says Brock, and Wilde looks at his son like Brock has stabbed him through the very heart.
“A novel, Brock, there’s a difference!”
Feryn cuts in, “And how many novels did the first Oscar Wilde write, hm?”
“I’m divorcing you,” Wilde says irritably, but there’s no malice. “And besides, I’ve never had a partner as bad as Douglas.”
Feryn throws up his hands, points to the wall where their house rules are tacked. “Bertie!”
“Bertie was a posh idiot,” Wilde corrects. “Douglas was an emotionally manipulative—” He covers Brock’s ears, “— bastard—” Uncovers them, “—who doesn’t deserve the time or words that we’re wasting on him.”
Feryn sighs knowingly. “Are you rereading—”
“Profundis, yes, I am!” Wilde says defensively, and Brock giggles. “You know I teach it every fall; Wilde is a good place to start!”
“Mmhm.”
Wilde glares for a moment, and Feryn grins rakishly at him, and Brock pats Wilde’s arm and says, “Will you please make me a Venn Diagram now?” and the three of them burst out laughing.
There is a lot in the middle of the Venn Diagram comparing Oscar Wilde to Oscar Wilde. It’s kind of ridiculous.
SMITH-WILDE HOUSEHOLD RULES
- Be nice
- No swearing unless you’re above 30 and there are NO children nearby
- Brock is allowed to say
- BROCK, SPECIFICALLY, IS NOT ALLOWED TO SWEAR.
- Put your dishes away
- Clean your room (YES this applies to you Feryn)
- Take care of yourself!
- Brock must be ON TIME to therapy
2013.
Brock is fucked. He knows he’s fucked - not because of all the decisions he’s made, but because he got caught. Brock is utterly, totally, and completely screwed, because Wilde’s mouth is pressed into a thin line and Feryn hasn’t spoken to him beyond a basic greeting. Brock knows he’s done for, because his parents have never been this angry with him at the same time, and he is already thinking about the quickest way to Zolf’s place.
This is a whole new level of angry. Brock didn’t see it when he broke Wilde’s favourite vase, or when he tried (operative word being ‘tried’) to sneak out of the house to go to a party, or when he drove unlicensed for three months in Sasha’s car. Then again, Brock has never lied to his parents to… edit his curfew, per se, has never needed to do that, but sometimes Brock has to resolve his own problems, even if they land him in hot water.
With his parents. Who are furious. Right.
Fuck.
“Brock,” Feryn says finally, turning to where he’s sat fiddling with a pull in his sweatpants. “I’m going to make you a cup of tea. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very angry, but— you look like you’ve had a long night. Are you hungry?”
Brock nods, so Feryn opens the fridge and starts rooting around for some leftovers. Maybe he’s not angry beyond repair, then. Wilde’s assessment yields little, though, except for smudges in his makeup and the fact that he’s done away with mascara altogether. Feryn nudges his elbow as he reheats a bowl of soup and Wilde’s answering smile is tiny, lopsided, like he’s been—
Crying. Don’t be an idiot, Brock tells himself, but he’s watching Wilde like a hawk.
“You said you were going to Sam’s,” is what Wilde says eventually, his words measured, and it’s not even that he sounds angry, he just sounds wrong. He sounds clipped, lilting, like someone has superimposed the wrong filter over his voice. “You said you were going to Sam’s at five PM. I dropped you off. Cleo said that you never even walked in the door. Do you know what time it is, Brock?”
When Barret would say this, it usually meant ‘I am about to answer this question myself, and better than you could,’ so Brock stays quiet.
“Hey.” Wilde’s not choked up or anything, so that’s not it, but the wrongness hasn’t left him. “Are you listening to me?”
“It’s like, eight in the morning,” Brock mumbles, picking a bit more intently at his sweatpants.
“It’s ten,” Wilde corrects him, which makes Brock jolt, a little. He’d been off by two hours, which meant he’d been gone for — “Seventeen hours missing, Brock. You disappear into a big city on a Friday night for seventeen hours. If you weren’t home by noon, Feryn would have made a missing persons report.”
Brock’s stomach plummets. “What?”
“I wanted to do it earlier. We already called the police once,” Wilde says, and those lines in his face aren’t anger, it’s worry. Brock, to his credit, finally puts two and two together and realises that no, his voice isn’t distorted with emotion, it’s stripped of pretense. He doesn’t sound off, he sounds Irish, and— Brock knows that he was born there, raised there, but he never put together the idea that Wilde’s careful RP was anything but the truth.
Feryn puts a hand on Wilde’s shoulder, and Brock can see something warning in it, but he’s not sure who for. “Where did you go, Brock?” Feryn asks, sliding him a bowl of soup and a spoon. “No one could find you.”
“Had to sort out some stuff,” Brock mutters, clinking the soup spoon in the bowl. He doesn’t like this. Barret didn’t care if Brock was out seventeen hours or forty, and he certainly never called the police.
“No, see, that’s not going to fly,” says Feryn, and Brock realises abruptly that he was mistaken about the good cop aspect of this routine. “You just lied to us. You involved Sam in this, even though they’re not even in town. Your actions have gotten the attention of both of us, your friend’s parents, your Uncle Zolf, Sasha, Azu, and three police officers, minimum. This isn’t something you walk away from, kiddo.”
Brock turns over the idea of lying in his head. Saying he wanted to go drink, or smoke, or something. But the way Feryn’s looking at him tells him that lying might not be possible right now. “There were a couple kids at school,” Brock says after a long, swelling pause. “They, uh. You know.”
Silence.
“I don’t know, Brock,” Feryn says, and Brock puffs air out of his cheeks.
“Got — bullied, okay?” he spits, his posture tight and defensive. “Like a freaking— kid in a bad move, or something, and they wanted— I don’t know, to use Barret’s name to get something else, something probably illegal, but — it doesn’t matter, I resolved it on my own, so. You don’t have to — you guys can be fine.”
Feryn and Wilde exchange a parent look, which Brock hates. “We’re not the ones being worried about, here,” Feryn says, and Brock feels sick. He fucked up. He made this whole situation more stress, not less, and they’re going to realise what their mistake was in adopting him six years ago. “We’re okay, Brock. But we’re always going to worry. No matter what.”
Brock’s throat seals up. “W— why?”
“We’re your parents,” Wilde says, sounding a bit more himself. “We’re always going to worry.”
“And you can tell us,” Feryn adds, a furrow in his brow, “if there’s something going on, kiddo. We’re not gonna be mad.”
Brock looks at them with wide, searching eyes for a few moments, thinking up a response, and then bursts into tears. And even when he’s useless, Feryn puts an arm around his shoulders and reassures him that he’s okay, that this family isn’t a trade deal. “That doesn’t mean you can lie to us,” he chides, and Brock sniffles. “Just that you should feel comfortable telling the truth, eh?”
Brock finishes his soup and his tea, and goes to bed, and he’s asleep by the time his head hits the pillow.
(What he does not hear is Wilde finishing his panic attack once Brock is situated, safe, and sound. What he does not hear is Feryn repeating, “He’s safe. It’s okay, he’s safe,” in a quiet, measured tone that does as much for him as it does for his husband. What he did not hear was the loss of control in Wilde’s native accent, the horror in his voice as the loss crystalised. What he did not hear was Feryn’s pleading voice on the phone, asking to process the missing person form as fast as possible.
What he does not hear is Wilde’s voice breaking, resolve cracking, saying, “We could have lost him, Feryn, he could have been gone—” And what he does not hear is Feryn’s hitching breath, the whisper of tears on his cheeks, because Wilde could have been right.)
To: untitled-recipients
From: [email protected]
Subject: Upcoming Classes
Hello all,
I apologise for troubling you with family matters, but a recent emergency has required me to cancel all classes on Monday the 5th. Your one-page reflections about Pride and Prejudice may be turned in on Wednesday. Thank you for your understanding.
Best,
OW
Oscar Wilde, PhD
Associate Professor
University of Prague
English Department
2013.
“Well,” says Wilde, “this sure is something.”
“Be nice,” Feryn scolds, flipping through the program of the night’s choral concert. “It shouldn’t be too long.”
“Who’s the rude one now?” Wilde mutters, leaning in towards Feryn’s shoulder when they get a stern look from some of the other parents. “I’m right.”
“If you have nothing nice to say, keep it in your pants,” Feryn murmurs right back, and Wilde snorts.
“Are you suggesting—”
“I am not.”
“You didn’t even know what I was going to say,” Wilde complains, turning to the front of the auditorium as the class of 13 year olds files out onto a bunch of risers.
“Didn’t need to,” Feryn replies. “Now, are you gonna pay attention to our kid long enough to compliment him on something or just make innuendos all night?”
“You started it,” Wilde says petulantly, and Feryn rolls his eyes.
“Go do your job.”
“What job?”
“Your Dhaid job, obviously.”
Wilde looks affronted. “Am I not doing that?”
“The more we talk to each other instead of listen to them sing—” Feryn checks the pamphlet, “ ‘Come in From the Firefly Darkness,’ the longer we’re failing as parents, yes.”
“Speak for yourself,” Wilde snips, folding his arms over his chest.
“I’m joking.”
“Sure.”
The concert isn’t awful, really, despite the mass of adolescents trying their best to keep a tune. They’re succeeding, mostly. Brock is in the first row, because he’s so short, and he looks like he would love to fade into the ground. About halfway through, Wilde shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and Feryn nudges him. “You feeling alright?” he whispers, and Wilde nods unconvincingly.
“Fine.”
“You look a bit queasy.”
Wilde clears his throat. “Look,” he says, “where’s the lavatory in this place?”
“Through the back door, take a left,” Feryn says, as Wilde stands, carefully stilling his hands. “Oscar, are you— are you alright?”
“I just remembered something,” Wilde hisses through gritted teeth, “and it’s stressing me out. I’ll be right back, okay?”
“Okay?” Feryn says, and lets him go.
“The Legacy of Queer Writing and Wishful Invisibility,” by Drs Oscar Wilde and Hamid al-Tahan, 2012.
“Additions to Wishful Invisibility,” by Drs Oscar Wilde and Zolf Smith, 2013.
2014.
“Hey, Mister Ceiling,” Sasha says, and Brock groans, his face going bright red as he scrabbles up Sasha’s roof.
“Please don’t call me that.”
“What, are you too cool for Mr Ceiling now that you’re fourteen?” Sasha asks, nudging his shoulder.
Brock buries his face in his hands. “I just wanted to be Spider-Man,” he whispers dramatically. “I just wanted to be Spider-Man, Sasha, please don’t do this to me.”
Cackling, Sasha says, “That’s such an awful superhero name.”
“I know!”
“Three years, Brock,” Sasha says, staring out wistfully over Prague. “Three whole Halloweens you wasted.”
“I was promised tea,” Brock huffs, kicking a rock in Sasha’s direction, “and advice, and all I’ve gotten is a scrape on my knee from climbing this roof.”
Sasha kicks the rock back at him. “I’ve got some advice for you,” she says, unable to hide a smirk. “Don’t make your next Spider-Man rip off have ‘sticky brain powers.’”
“Fuck off!” Brock cries into the city night, and Sasha starts giggling again.
“What’s the deal, though, really?” Sasha says, pulling a set of red dice out of her pocket. “We don’t usually play dice on roofs anymore.”
Brock sighs. “‘M worried.”
“Do you need me to take care of someone for you?” Sasha asks, her face darkening as she shakes up the dice.
“No-- no, it’s… it’s, um--” Brock sighs. “I don’t know. Dhaid’s been-- weird? Ever since I ran away?”
Sasha scrunches up her nose. “You tried talking to him about it?”
“What? No!” Brock exclaims, as Sasha rolls the dice. He leans in, squints at the results of the roll, and groans. “Shit, is that four of a kind?”
STORYTIME! MY BRAIN WAS STOLEN, a YouTube video posted by brockisintheceiling, 2009.
comment by DrWildeLit: Brock, you had a mild concussion. I appreciate your creativity, but I’m afraid it’s been a while, and you still haven’t developed superpowers.
comment by brockisintheceiling: DHAID ITS BEEN LIKE FIVE YEARS WHY ARE YOU JUST NOW COMMENTING ON THIS
2014.
“Dhaid! Pap! Over here!” Brock’s waving them over, a wide grin on his face, and his backpack almost dwarfs his entire body. He’s just come back from a school camping trip, returned with a patch of sunburn peeling off his nose and his freckles, so much like Sasha’s, popping out on his face. They’re not related, but between Brock’s dark hair and speckled face, he looks a bit like Feryn.
Wilde frowns. “Did we pack him sunscreen?” he asks, leaning in towards Feryn.
“I’m sure; it’s very possible he just never wore it,” Feryn replies, starting to push through the crowd. “You know how Brock is. We told him to, so he probably didn’t. Are you still feeling off?”
“A bit,” Wilde admits, and Feryn puts a hand on his arm as they walk through the crowd. “But I’ll be fine, Feryn, there’s— there’s no need to worry.”
“Let me know if anything gets worse?” Feryn asks, reaching down to squeeze Wilde’s hand. “It’s been a while since you’ve been really okay, Oscar—”
“It comes and goes,” Wilde says dismissively. “I’m fine.”
Feryn doesn’t look convinced, but Brock shows up to babble about how excellent the camping trip was, and soon enough Feryn is trying to dissuade Wilde from taking Brock out to ice cream (as per usual) and Brock is trying his very hardest to dissuade Feryn from dissuading them, and life is good.
It is.
To: untitled-recipients
From: [email protected]
Subject: Class Cancellations
Hello all,
I truly loathe to do this twice in the same semester, but unfortunately I haven’t fully recovered from whatever had me out last month. Unless you receive a last-minute update, Tuesday’s class will be cancelled, and I discourage you to count on Thursday’s class being held. I will email on Wednesday night. If you have any questions about your research papers, please send a message, as I will not be in my office.
Best,
OW
Oscar Wilde, PhD
Associate Professor
University of Prague
English Department
2014.
“Feryn?”
It’s late. Really late. Feryn’s asleep, which— obviously, he’s asleep. Obviously. Wilde shouldn’t have—
“Oscar?” The sheets rustle and Feryn sits up in bed, feeling around for the light switch. “What’s wrong?”
Wilde clears his throat. “No, sorry, it’s late—”
“Which means something’s wrong.” Feryn levels him with a look and Wilde feels that slick wave of terrified nausea pass through him, even though it’s just Feryn, even though they’re married, but what if he hates him and— “Oscar?” Feryn frowns at him. “Are you feeling alright? You look a bit… pale.”
“‘M fine,” Wilde croaks, which is so unconvincing that Feryn gets out of bed to check on him. “Wh— Feryn, you really don’t need to—”
“No, I definitely do,” Feryn says warningly, teaching up to press the back of his hand to Wilde’s forehead. “You’re a bit warm, and you — have you been sleeping at all?”
Feryn’s angry. Feryn’s definitely angry, and Wilde knows it, and he’s messed everything up, and he was supposed to be better than this, supposed to keep Brock safe, supposed to keep his family safe and home and here . But he didn’t and now everything is so much worse and Feryn is angry with him and he can’t sleep and he’s been sick to his stomach for at least a month and he was supposed to be better than this— “Wilde,” Feryn’s saying, sharp enough with the fury Wilde can’t be imagining and soft enough with the concern that Wilde can’t hear to cut through this haze. From the look on his face, he’s been saying it for a while. “Oscar, look at me.”
Wilde tries, he really does, but the only good thing that happens is that Feryn catches him before he hits the ground.
Oscar Wilde wakes up in a hospital. There’s an IV drip in his arm and he’s hooked up to a heart monitor, which starts beeping more quickly the moment he returns to consciousness. “Feryn?” he asks, the word thick and heavy in his mouth.
There’s no answer. “Feryn?” he calls again, and there’s a bit more fear in it, because what if Feryn dropped him off here and left or what if Feryn didn’t want to stay because he’s angry or what if Feryn decided it was about time Wilde stopped being so goddamn needy and—
“Sir, can you please look at me?” comes a woman’s soft, soothing voice, as if she’s trying not to scare off a wounded animal. “Sir?”
Wilde hadn’t even realised she was there. The woman — Muriel, apparently, by the name tag on her scrubs — repeats the question once more and smiles. It’s gentle. Kind. Not angry. Wilde looks at her.
“Can you take a few deep breaths for me?” Muriel asks, and it’s not until the monitor slows that Wilde realises that the rapid beeping was the pace of his own heart. “That’s very good. Thank you. Were you looking for someone?”
“Is there a Feryn Smith here?” he asks, clearing his throat. God, he— he sounds awful.
Muriel nods. “He was the one who brought you in, Mr…” She checks his chart. “Mr Wilde?”
“None other,” he agrees, and Muriel looks a bit sheepish.
“I’m sure you get this a lot, but— Oscar Wilde, like the author?” she asks, and she’s right about one thing: he does get this a lot.
He tilts his head on the stiff hospital pillow and asks, “Who?”
“...I’ll go get Mr Smith,” Muriel says, hiding a grin, and leaves the room.
There are a few moments of silence. Then Feryn comes in, his face drawn, with no Brock, and there’s something about it that sets Wilde on edge because— “Dropped Brock off at Zolf’s,” Feryn says, like he’s read Wilde’s mind. “Just told him you’re not feeling well.” He clears his throat, takes a chair beside the bed. “Speaking of— what’s going on, Oscar? How did— look, I’m so sorry for letting it get this bad; I should have noticed, but— what happened?”
Wilde opens his mouth to respond, closes it. If he tells Feryn, Feryn will be angry, if he’s not already angry enough already. If he doesn’t tell Feryn, Feryn will be angry, because he wants to know, and there’s no way out of this, no way out, no chance, nothing. “I’m going to be sick,” he says weakly, reaching for the bucket that the nurse left him, and for some reason he can’t manage to put together that people who are furious with him usually don’t rub circles on his back when he’s ill, the way Feryn is doing now.
Which raises another question. “How— what— are you vomiting blood?” Feryn asks with something that might be shock or accusation.
“I wasn’t at first,” Wilde says, clearing his throat and leaning back.
“At first?”
“Feryn, it’s fine—”
“It’s very much not fine!” Feryn says sharply, and Wilde flinches. “Sorry. Look. I’m not trying to make this worse, I just— I’m scared out of my mind, you know that, right?”
Wilde just looks at him. “Right?” Feryn prompts, suddenly sounding much less certain.
This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. Feryn was — is — angry with him, or should be, considering how useless he was in the whole deal with Brock and how useless he’s been ever since. “Why?” Wilde asks, and realises with a start that he’s slipped back into his natural accent. He doesn’t know when it happened, only that it’s happening, and only that he doesn’t know how to stop.
“Wh— why?” Feryn sputters. “Because I love you, dumbass!”
“You what?”
“Oh, my God.” Feryn grabs Wilde’s hand and holds it between both of his own. “We’ve been friends for fifteen years. We’ve been flatmates since 2004, and we’ve been married for six years. Christ, Wilde, yes, I love you. Quite frankly, I’m offended that you’re surprised.”
“You’re—” Wilde swallows. “You’re not angry?”
Feryn blinks. “Why would I be angry?”
“Because—” The words sound tinny, hollow. “Because— when Brock ran away—”
Feryn’s whole demeanour changes, but not into the fury that Wilde was expecting. “That was six months ago, Oscar,” he says. “And you didn’t do anything wrong. I was worried; you were worried; we handled it the best we could. Is that— is that what this is about?”
Wilde trains his eyes towards the stiff hospital sheet in his lap. “Oscar,” Feryn says again, “the hospital’s been running tests for the last few hours; I— I had to give consent on your behalf. And they’ve been coming back negative, one after the other. Nothing’s— nothing’s wrong, exactly, not that they can figure out, and— I don’t know, but if you can—”
It’s not like ‘I thought I failed my family’ is something that Wilde can just say out loud, but Feryn seems to understand, because he sighs. “You can’t just— you can’t just make yourself sick like this,” he scolds, but there’s nothing in it except worry. “How long has this been going on? Ever since…?”
Wilde nods, and Feryn sighs deeper. “You don’t have to make me feel worse, you know,” Wilde says petulantly, and Feryn flicks him in the nose before kissing his forehead.
“You’re stupid.”
“I know.”
“And if you die via anxiety a la Victor Frankenstein, I’ll kill you myself.”
“Love you too, Feryn.”
“We recommend counselling,” says Muriel with a kind nod, looking between them. “Strongly.”
“Right,” says Feryn, his face stony and firm. Wilde puts a hand on his wrist and Feryn can feel how thin it is, the butterfly of a pulse underneath. “Absolutely.”
“There’s not much more that we can do here,” Muriel explains, “and we don’t, unfortunately, have the psychological treatment required to treat anxiety as severe as this.”
“We completely understand,” Feryn says. Wilde makes a noise like something of a dying animal in the back of his throat and his grip tightens around Feryn’s wrist. “What?”
Wilde swallows hard in a way that Feryn’s only seen once before — during what was the worst panic attack Feryn had ever talked him through, when no one knew where Brock had gone and the hungry darkness of city nightlife was truly starting to set in — and he instinctively angles his body like a shield, asking Muriel, “Can we have a minute?”
“Of course.”
The door closes, and for the first time in — not ever, but certainly years — Wilde bursts into tears.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Feryn says as Wilde curls up into his own hands, pulling him into an embrace and carding a hand through his hair, letting him sob in a manner unlike anything Feryn’s ever known. “I thought we agreed this was a good thing.”
“It— just — just because it’s a good thing doesn’t mean I can do it,” Wilde chokes into Feryn’s shoulder. “I— I can’t, Feryn, I’m not— I— I’m absolutely terrified, there’s—”
“You keep this up, you’re gonna die,” Feryn says, and he’s not joking as he starts tracing circles onto Wilde’s shoulders. “And I don’t want that to happen. Part of the whole ‘marriage’ thing, you know.”
“Feryn—”
“You’ve lost almost ten kilos because you were too anxious to eat,” Feryn reminds him, and there’s no threat or blame in it, just worry. “You tore the lining of your esophagus open because you keep food down. You’ve missed more work in the past six months than the past six years, because you’ve been so sick, because you haven’t been sleeping, because you’ve been too anxious to sleep; Christ, Oscar, I— I know that you can take care of yourself, I know, but if you don’t feel— if you don’t feel comfortable telling me these things, at least tell someone else, alright? At least—”
Feryn breaks off, buries his nose into the crown of Wilde’s hair, takes comfort in the man he’s comforting, the familiar smell of his stupid, posh shampoo. “At least tell someone else.”
“Dhaid!” Brock barely refrains from flinging himself across the room to hug Wilde, who has two novels next to him and a stack of student essays just out of reach (Feryn wouldn’t let him grade and instead bought the first three books on his reading list to keep Wilde company in the coming days of prescribed bedrest, both in the hospital and at home). Wilde puts down Lincoln in the Bardo and grins, opening his arms for a hug. Brock looks to Feryn. “Can I?”
“Course you can, kiddo.”
Brock, for maybe the first time in his life, doesn’t spring into Wilde’s lap like an excitable puppy, just goes in for the embrace, big and wide and trusting. And young. For all that he talks, Brock looks young, and he is. “Pap said you were sick?”
Wilde ruffles Brock’s hair. “Something like that.”
Brock pulls back a little, readjusting until he fits into the crook of Wilde’s arm. “He said you were going to therapy?” he asks, a bit hesitant, and Wilde nods.
“I asked him to tell you that, yes.”
Face darkening, Brock asks, “Did someone hurt you?”
“God, no.” Wilde squeezes Brock’s shoulders tight, like he can unwind everything Barret’s done if he can just find the place where the proverbial knot was tied. “This was all me, I’m afraid.”
Brock’s gotten taller, at fourteen. He’s gotten a little gangly, with a little more acne and a bit of a scratchier voice, but he still finds the time to process what Wilde’s said and curl a little tighter into his father’s side. “We can go together,” he says, and Wilde smiles.
“That we can.”
SMITH-WILDE HOUSEHOLD RULES
- Be nice
- No swearing unless you’re above 30 and there are NO children nearby
Brock is allowed to say- BROCK, SPECIFICALLY, IS NOT ALLOWED TO SWEAR.
- Put your dishes away
- Clean your room (YES this applies to you Feryn)
- Take care of yourself! (YES THIS APPLIES TO YOU OSCAR)
- Brock must be ON TIME to therapy
- We will ALL be in bed before midnight
- Buy more vegetables
- Use common sense! Yes, YOU!!!
2015.
“Hey, Aunt Aziza!” Brock, who is at the phase of teenager where his phone has become his first love, is eager enough to see Aziza walk through the door that he actually stands up.
“Hey, kid!” She tosses down her carry-on and fixes her hijab. “How’re you doing?”
“Fu— freaking amazing,” Brock says, hastily correcting himself as Wilde walks into the room. “Hi Dhaid, Aziza’s here.”
“Surprisingly, I’ve noticed,” Wilde says wryly, bending down to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
Aziza socks him in the shoulder. “Have you gotten taller?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“‘Unfortunately’ my ass,” Feryn grumbles, hefting one of Aziza’s suitcases over the threshold. “Is six three not enough for you? Would you like to not fit in doors?”
“I would like a bit of your height, personally,” says Aziza, at four foot six. Feryn gestures to her in agreement, and Wilde rolls his eyes.
“You guys are so embarrassing,” Brock mutters, and Wilde leans over to ruffle his hair. Brock scowls at him, and sticks out his tongue for good measure.
Aziza claps her hands together. “I heard it’s date night! Which means you and I have got some time together, Brock. Whaddaya say— crepes?”
“One, it’s not date night, it’s therapy,” Feryn says. “Two, do not spoil my child; Oscar does it more than enough.”
‘Crepes are great,’ Brock mouths around Feryn’s back. Aziza gives him a thumbs up.
“We’ve got an appointment to keep, Feryn,” Wilde says with a wink towards the pair of them, linking their arms together.
“Everyone in this house is conspiring against me,” Feryn mutters without malice. “Everyone.”
“Yes, yes. Are you going to drive me or what?”
spowse: WE NEED MILK
Not That Oscar Wilde: I just got milk
spowse: would you believe me if I said Brock finished it
Not That Oscar Wilde: I JUST got milk
spowse: Brock had friends over
Not That Oscar Wilde: FINE
2016.
“And then we stole the dog,” Sasha finishes proudly, her fork clanging as she slaps it triumphantly against the table. “Absolute menace, stupidest thing I’ve ever met, but we had good times with Brutor, didn’t we, Brock? That rich prick deserved it.”
Aziza whoops. “Good fucking riddance!” she trills. “Take the whole man out with the trash. God, he sounds exactly like someone my brother went to uni with.”
“Doesn’t it?” Zolf asks, exchanging a look with Feryn, who seems torn between laughing and breaking down in tears. “Sounds a bit like someone we know, too. Considering I knew Hamid back then, it, er. Could’ve been the same person, really.”
Wilde suddenly becomes very interested in a slight divot in the table, and Feryn decides on laughter. “Oh, no.”
“What?” Sasha says, perking up. “‘M I missing something?”
“Oscar,” Feryn says, barely restraining his amusement. “Would you like to ask, or should I?”
“Ask?” Sasha’s nose crinkles, and her eyes ping back and forth between the pair of them. “Also, Zee, pass the salt, wouldja?”
“Gladly,” Aziza responds, grinning.
“And, er. Paprika?”
Aziza blinks. “Why would you put paprika on salad?” she asks flatly, her fingers skirting around the spice bottle from where it has been specifically set out for Sasha.
“I had a very difficult childhood,” Sasha says, as Wilde glares at Feryn. “Hand it over.”
Aziza sighs but finally does so, and Wilde tentatively says, “Sasha?”
“Yeah?” Sasha asks off the cuff, in the thick of sprinkling her lettuce leaves with paprika and red pepper.
“The man,” Wilde begins, clearing his throat. “The one you-- pickpocketed.” Sasha snorts and mumbles something about ‘ruining his whole damn life’ under her breath. “What was his name?”
Sasha’s just stuck a bite of incredibly spicy salad into her mouth when she processes the question, her eyes going wide with thought. “Uh,” she says, then chews and swallows. “Uh, Brian-- no, uh-- Brock, help me out with this.”
“Bernard?” Brock hedges, helping himself to more pasta.
“Bertrand!” Sasha exclaims, thrusting her fork into the air. “Bertrand, that was it! Bertrand MacGuffingco, or something--”
“MacGuffingham,” Brock corrects, and Sasha snaps triumphantly in his direction.
“And he inherited that stupid knighthood from his father, er-- Sir Bertrand MacGuffingham, that was it,” she finishes, grinning at Wilde. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, fucking hell,” Wilde groans. “He was… my ex.”
“He was what!” Brock yelps, and the table explodes into uproar.
Were They Gay? The Important Things About Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, a YouTube video posted by DrWildeLit with Sasha Gusset-Nso, 2016.
comment by Aziza al-Tahan: YES YOU INCLUDED JUSTINE AND ELIZABETH THEYVE BEEN GAY THE WHOLE DAMN TIME
comment by whosaskingus: youre welcome
comment by DrWildeLit: We aim to please. :)
2017.
“And there’s the tie.” Wilde smooths down Brock’s lapels and pats his shoulder “Don’t mess up.”
Brock rolls his eyes. “I’m seventeen, Dhaid,” he says. “I can tie my own tie.”
Sasha and Azu are getting married today, and who else is there but Brock to be ring bearer? He has the fakes in his pocket - Sasha made sure Brock would have decoys; it’s a leftover paranoia that he completely understands - and the real ones tucked between his shoe and his sock. Wilde smiles at him with the sort of smile that understands exactly what’s going on.
Brock is far from the nine year old they adopted so long ago. He’s barely a kid - Christ, he can drive, he’s held a job at Bi Ming’s store for the past three years, and he knows more maths than Wilde could possibly understand. Seeing him dressed up like this is more than Wilde expected.
So he hugs him. Pure and simple. Nothing special about it, just a rush of emotion and the need to keep time in a jar.
“Dhaid, my hair,” Brock protests half heartedly, but he’s already squeezing back.
“Wow,” says Feryn as he steps out of the restroom of the wedding venue. “Nerds.”
“Shut up, Dad!”
Wilde laughs, fuller than Brock’s ever heard it, and Feryn bumps Brock’s shoulder. “Just don’t trip, kiddo.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Brock grumbles, grinning as he turns away.
“Knock ‘em dead!”
Azu and Sasha are radiant. Sasha is sleek and sharp and smiling and Azu is soft and strong and steadfast and they, by all the gods that accept prayers or offerings, are radiant. It’s midwinter and the force of their adoration for each other could not only melt the snow, but bring spring again in the process. And they are radiant.
“Sasha,” says Azu, her voice already thick with emotion as she brings one of Sasha’s hands to her mouth, pressing a light kiss to the back of it. She is the gallant princess, and Sasha the swooning knight. “Sasha, my love, I-- I know that you aren’t one for large displays. I know you, um-- remember what you were teaching me?”
Azu drops their joined hands and straightens her shoulders. Sasha looks at her with a mixture of awe and confusion, which, for Sasha, is a big thing. She can predict almost anyone’s next move with ease, but when Azu begins her vows in sign language, Sasha’s mouth almost drops open.
The venue is so quiet Brock can hear the sound of the fans in the vents. Azu’s eyes are filled with shining tears and her fingers waver, but she doesn’t falter, not once. Sasha is so openly adoring that Brock realises why they only hired one photographer.
“Azu,” Sasha whispers, and her voice is dirt-rough and filled with the purest love. “Azu, I-- no markets, no scales. Hm?” She grabs Azu’s hand again, traces a circle on the knuckles. “Azu, you’re-- Rome and the half-shell and desert rain and rooftops. Alright? And I--” Sasha takes a deep breath. “I love you.”
Azu bursts into tears.
STORYTIME! I ALMOST GOT MURDERED AT AN OPERA! a YouTube video posted by brockisintheceiling, 2010.
comment by Aziza al-Tahan: you know i have a lot of regrets
comment by Aziza al-Tahan: this is not one of them
comment by whosaskingus: It Should Be
comment by brockisintheceiling: IM BLOCKING ALL OF YOU. I GET CYBERBULLIED ON YOUTUBE BY MY EXTENDED FAMILY. FUCK OFF
comment by DrWildeLit: Language.
2018.
“FUCK!” Brock yells. He’s home for winter holiday, and his first year of university has been going pretty damn well. The family is watching the new StarKid show, The Guy Who Didn’t Like Musicals, while waiting for dinner to finish cooking. They’ve seen every one since Wilde sat Brock down with A Very Potter Musical when he was adopted in 2009. It’s a bit of a tradition.
Feryn pokes his head from the kitchen into the living room as Brock hastily stops the video. “One, language; two, I told you to pause it!”
“It was the good part!” Brock says, looking like he’s going to throw his orange juice at the television in protest.
Wilde shrugs from beside Brock on the couch. “It was the good part.”
“I hate both of you,” Feryn says, swatting at Wilde’s leg as he plops down next to them. “Move over. What’d I miss?”
“Charlotte just got her guts ripped out,” Brock relays cheerfully.
“I liked Charlotte,” Wilde agrees, scooting aside.
“Both of you are traitors and I’d feed you to the goddamn musical zombies,” Feryn grumbles, resting his head on Wilde’s shoulder.
“In another life, I was a bard already,” Wilde says, pressing play. Feryn and Brock exchange a look, and Feryn thinks that his son’s eye roll couldn’t be more warranted.
Dear Smith-Wilde family,
You are cordially invited to the union of Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan and Zolf Smith. We hope you will attend this celebration of life and on Saturday, September 28th, 2019 with friends, family, and former enemies.
Please RSVP no later than August 4th, 2019.
Yours,
Zolf and Hamid.
PS - you guys had BETTER be there OR ELSE :) love, z
2019.
“Are we doing this again?” Brock asks as tilts up his head for Feryn to do his tie. “You guys pretending that I can’t tie a tie?”
“You can’t tie a tie,” Wilde snorts, and Brock conveniently scratches at his head with his middle finger.
“I can tie a tie fine! I’m good at tying knots! If there’s anything I learned in my childhood, it was that!” Brock huffs.
“Hold still,” Feryn admonishes, frowning.
“Do you know how to tie a tie?” Brock asks warily, squinting down at him. Feryn straightens the aforementioned thing and glares pointedly - up, this time, because Brock is almost six feet tall and it’s not fair.
“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you,” Wilde says, sweeping by the mirror as he applies lip gloss. “Especially not at your uncle’s wedding.”
“Can I bite the hand that doesn’t know how to tie my tie?” Brock asks, grinning, and Wilde reaches out to ruffle Brock’s carefully styled hair. “Dhaid!!”
“Hm,” Wilde says. “No.”
“Thanks, Oscar,” Feryn says, because he might be the shortest person in the goddamn room, but at least he’s got help.
Wilde winks at him. “Anytime.”
And, strangely enough, they both mean it. Entirely.
“Just because we’re at another wedding doesn’t mean you guys have to be all sappy,” Brock complains, and this?
This, well. Brock doesn’t mean that at all, but his parents understand. They all understand.
Entirely.