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🌼Yellow flowers grow in the sun🌼
Buck had his bad leg stretched toward Eddie's space and his good one uncomfortably cramped when Eddie said “I hate these things.”
Buck nodded sympathetically. He was already feeling warm in his button up and slacks. “I'll pull the fire alarm, cover me.”
It was a testament of how much they truly despised the End of Year Celebration that they both were tempted to really pull the alarm. Every year Christopher's school held way-to-many after-Hours events. Which would be fine, of course, if it wasn't so boring.
Buck tried at first, he really really did. He loved that he was invited to the first one way back, bugging Eddie on what exactly he should wear.
Now, six going on seven years later and dozens of times placing his ass onto the uncomfortable seats for hours at a time, Buck knew.
Really, it was the only downsize of the Diaz clan. He even tried getting out of a few, but each time Eddie showed up and dragged his ass to the truck, not believing the sudden flu or work injury.
One time he really was sick and Eddie brought a baggie and a fuck-ton of nyquil. “If I'm here you're here.” The man had said as he monitored Buck drown half the bottle.
(Eddie was a bit insane. It was slowly becoming a thing for Buck.)
Buck would feel guilty for hating them but- God, these events were so BORING! Just, teachers who praised kids that weren't Christopher most of the time, kids that weren't Christopher doing this or that.
Buck didn't care if Billy Bob got a 4.5 GPA or how Sally Mae got an attendance award, like seriously.
(There was something about the very familiar auditorium that made Buck petty over the years. He's shallow enough to admit it.)
Eddie grumbled. His arms restlessly shifting, crossing and uncrossing. He kept elbowing Buck. “Last one, then he's in high school and we never have to deal with these things ever again. Maybe.”
“Maybe.” Buck agreed, smiling. He dropped his hand into Eddie's lap to hold one of his. Another kid, no more kids. Buck wasn't worried. He had all he needed.
Ten minutes later the lights dimmed. Buck slumped in his seat and leaned his head against Eddie's body. It was not comfortable, but at least he would be able to sniff Eddie's cologne as a reward for suffering.
“I hate this.” Eddie whispered as the principal walked on stage. Buck kissed his shoulder.
Principal Farrah grinned wide into the microphone. “Good evening everyone!”
She paused for a second. Buck, and a few others in the audience, groaned.
“Good evening Principal Farrah.” Everyone in the auditorium repeated back.
Principal Farrah gave a fake laugh. “It's like you've all done this before!”
I hate your guts Buck thought. It had been a long ass time since he lost the "As A Firefighter I Get To Choose Who Lives and Who Dies" mentality, but Principal Farrah made him reconsider his ethics everytime he saw her.
Eddie wasn't any better. He didn't pretend to want to participate, glowering at the principal. Buck loved him so much.
“We have an exciting night planned!” The principal went on. Her teeth were so bright Buck could them from all the way in the back. “Performances from each grade, honored mentions, awards for…”
Torture.
The whole event was plain torture.
The night went on with kids that were not Chris singing and kids that were not Chris getting attendance awards and kids that were not Chris talking about the history of L.A..
Buck has literally died. He's been physically, legally, spiritually dead, and yet nothing was more soul-sucking than school events like this. It was like being outside on a hot humid day waiting for lunch, or being at a work orientation on your first day, or fuck- watching paint dry. Buck would rather watch paint dry then listen to a poor sixth graders badly read their way through an essay about the industrial revolution, a topic that's usually fascinating.
About an hour passed by, each second more excruciating than the last. By the time the brief intermission started Buck was sure his legs would fall off.
He stood up when the lights came on, stretching his arms up toward the ceiling. He felt -and heard- his back pop.
Eddie stood next to him, his own back cracking like bubble wrap. “Baby, I'm gonna need you to rub me down later. I can't feel anything.”
“Only if you dip me in a tub of hot wax.” Buck groaned. “Seriously, I feel like a slinky.”
Eddie tilted his head. “Why?”
Buck shrugged. “I’m all squished up in these seats. I need to be stretched like slinky going down the stairs, ya know?”
“I actually get it.” Eddie agreed. He spread his legs got into a deep squat, mindul of the parents on his other side. “We’re old slinkies. This is our life now. Thirty-three and slinkies. ”
Buck laughed, reaching down to haul Eddie's ass up. “You can tell Bobby that.”
Eddie kissed his jaw. “ You can sleep on the couch.”
“A threat ?” Buck gasped. “How dare you.”
Eddie grinned, toothy and lovely and pretty (and a lil scary). “I'll show you a threat.”
“It would be bad to ask you to marry me in a school auditorium right?” Buck asked. “Because this is giving me major marry me vibes.”
It was an inside joke that also… Wasn't? It was just sometimes they'd joke about asking the other to marry them in random places. Buck once asked Eddie in front of acne cream at the store, simply because Eddie remembered what he used.
However, the way Eddie would sometimes get cagey if Buck saw him staring at a married couple certainly made him think it wasn't a joke anymore.
Eddie frowned. “If you ask me to marry you here I'm getting a divorce.” He blinked. “You'd get me in the divorce.”
Buck kissed his forehead. “I promise to not propose to you on school grounds.”
“You're so good to me.” Eddie nodded.
They both groaned as the lights flickered.
“You survive this.” Eddie muttered after they sat down, pulling Bucks bad leg over his own. “I'll propose to you in Trader Joes.”
Buck grinned. God I love you.
The second half of the show was for the upperclassmen. With each student it just made Buck more bitter that it wasn't his kid.
When it was the eight graders Buck tried paying a little more attention. Some of Chris's friends -Dylan Higgins, Patrick Lemens, his almost love of life Jessica Glock- were being recognized.
But as soon as some random kid went on, Buck went back to his place at Eddie's shoulder.
Eddie was steadily falling asleep. Buck felt his head leaning more and more on his. They were going to be so sore later, twisted up like damn pretzels.
It wasn't until Mrs.Young, Chris's home room teacher, came on that they both sat up straight again. They liked Mrs.Young, she never droned on at parent-teacher conferences and let the kids finish their homework during first period (according to Chris and Dylan).
Mrs.Young smiled wide toward everyone. She was in a pretty red dress, and the bright lights made her glitter eyeshadow sparkle like water. “Good evening everybody! I promise you, we're in our last stech of the night!”
(There was lots of applause from both adults and children.)
She laughed, and Buck felt it in his buttcheeks. “I get it! Trust me, I do. So.”
She clapped her hands together. “Four months ago I assigned my class to write a quick 500 word essay, replicating what their college admissions essays would be about. For those not aware, college essays will most often ask students something they never think about: themselves. What makes you you?"
You you you echoed around the room.
Mrs. Young smiled. “As teachers, we don't get to sit down and talk one on one with each child as much as they deserve. This assignment always grants me a incredible insight to my students. Their proudest accomplishments, their darkest moments, or even some facts I've never known.”
She lifted a hand to her heart. “So with that, I would like all of you hear from one of the most beautiful essays I've had the pleasure of reading, from one of the-” she sighed. “- funniest kids I've met. Please welcome Christopher Diaz.”
He felt Eddie jolt besides him. His hands dug into Bucks arm and Buck turned. They were both grinning like idiots.
“Did you know?!” Buck asked, jiggling Eddie's hand.
“No! Did you?!”
Buck shook his head. He gripped onto Eddie's hand, almost vibrating from excitement.
Chris normally never gets any of these things! Not that Buck cared, no not at all. Buck was perfectly fine with Chris mostly-honor roll worthy grades (not including history, he just finds it so boring) and his apparently average attendance (which Buck didn’t think should have counted. His father dies like every other week for crying out loud.)
As Buck watched Chris march across the stage, it suddenly made every boring second of this goddamn soul-sucking hellhole worth it.
Eddie squeezed his fingers tighter, so giddy that Buck could cry for him.
Christopher smiled, the stage lights glinting off his red glasses. He tapped the microphone, three little buh buh buh bouncing off the walls, before leaning in. “My name is Christopher Diaz. Here's my essay.”
Buck's knee was jumping. He felt electricity all down his veins. Look at him! That's their kid! The most handsome, kindest, and funniest boy in the whole wide stinking world!
Was he going to talk about his experience with cerebral palsy? Was he going to recite the history of Los Angeles? Oh! Oh maybe he was going to sing! It would be just as off key as the first few dozen children, but that was fine! It was fine fine fine because it was going to be Chris doing it!
Buck felt himself beaming in his seat. He was just so damn proud of this kid. Look at him go! Look at what he's been allowed to help in raising!
(Buck might break his promise and propose in a middle school auditorium.)
Up on stage Christopher cleared his throat. Buck squeezed down on Eddie's fingers harder, his heart racing in anticipation. Oh my god-
Chris opened his mouth-
Oh my god oh my god oh m y god-!
“Dear abandoning dead mom.”
Buck's jaw dropped. Oh god.
The silence in the audience was deafening. Chris stood there, clearly waiting for someone to laugh. No one did.
“Oh god.” Eddie whispered.
Four Months Earlier
“Can I write about my cat?”
Mrs. Young gave Missy a look from where she standing. “Are you your cat?”
“No.” Missy said. “ But she gave me a really cool scar when I was little, and now I have a decent tiktok following talking about feline care because of her.”
“Well. Yes then, as long as its about you. ” Mrs. Young said. She smiled at them all, the glitter from her green eyeshadow dropping on her cheek. “All your essays are to be about you, and what you think could be your most defining moments.”
Luke Fisher raised his hand. “What if you have more than one?”
“Then combine them all, if you can.” Mrs. Young answered. She tapped the smartboard where the guidelines were listed. “I don't want you all to think too hard about it. When I say ‘defining’, it could be something as simple as holding a door for a stranger at the store.”
“Like teaching my brother how to tie his shoes?” Autumn across the room asked. Mrs.Young nodded.
“Anything! The only requirement is that it has to be-” she pointed to the board. “-500 words exactly. If it helps, you can think of this as a creative writing assignment. I don't want you to stress over the format."
"Can I do a poem?" Leslie asked.
"As long as it's 500 words."
She let them all break off into groups to think of ideas, letting them talk to one another as she sat at her desk, setting up some lofi music through the speakers.
As the soft beats echoed through the classroom, Chris looked over at his best friend, Dylan Higgins. Dylan's hair was flopping in his face but it didn't hide the stress.
“I haven't done anything cool in my life.” Dylan said, staring down at his blank pages. “I'm fourteen years old and my most defining thing is being born. ”
“How about the time you almost choked to death?” Chris helped. He was currently writing tendons in his notebook, right next to pet a sting-ray and tsunami (not related).
“Oh great. My most defining moments are being born and choking on a sandwich.” Dylan put his head down. “I'm so boring.”
Chris patted his shoulder. “Missy is writing about her cat. You can write about your mom's ferret?”
In front of them, Missy whipped her head. She glared at Chris. “I'm not writing about my cat, it's about my educating others about cats. Get it right Diaz.”
Chris raised his hands. “My bad. Jeez.”
Missy turned fully, looking down at Dylan. She leaned over and knocked on his desk. “What about your science grades?”
Patrick Lemens kicked their desk from the side. “Or about the time you painted the bathroom stalls a really cool space themed?”
It was a truly epic piece. There was so much trash-talking on the stall doors that when the mural was put up, no one wanted to ruin it. Dylan Higgins brought peace to the toilets.
Dylan turned his head. “I would if they ever found out it was me.” he said sadly.
“I've seen the mural.” Missy said. “You wouldn't get in trouble.”
Chris narrowed his eyes. “How have you seen it?”
“Jacob showed me a picture.” she said, then turned forward. “I think it's really pretty.”
Chris hummed. He looked down at his own list- he's not really sure if petting a sting ray actually changed his life. Maybe he could connect it to Steve Irwins death? Like Oh I survived but he didn't, and that made me think about life.
He made a face. If he was gonna do that, he might as well write about the tsunami. But he also doesn't want to think about it to much.
He sighed. "I don't know what to write about, either.”
Next to him, Dylan snorted. Chris glared at him.
“My bad.” Dylan said flatly. His brows were furrowed. “What can the kid who's had, like, eight surgeries write about.”
“ Four." Chris said back. “Get it right Higgins. Besides, everyone already knows about cerebral palsy. That's not really a defining moment.”
“Says the kid who's already getting college letters.”
Chris waved him off. He's still not entirely sure those college letters were a scam or not. “Cerebal palsy is boring.”
“ Oh!” Missy said in front. “Fighting the odds and proving adults all around you wrong everyday is boring ! We're so sorry, your majesty. ” She turned back around, looking slightly confused. “Is it ableist if I say you're full of crap on this one?”
Chris took his crutch and knocked into her chair. “Since you're mocking me for not being proud enough of myself, no.”
“Okay. Cool.” she narrowed her eyes again. “But seriously, it's not boring.” She looked at Dylan. “Neither is writing on the bathroom walls.”
“Graffiti is not getting me into college.” Dylan said. Then he made a face. “Wait, there are art degrees.”
They spent the rest of the period jotting down ideas in their notebooks. Unfortunately, cerebral palsy and all his surgeries were some of Chris's more interesting ideas, along with skateboard and a crossed out my dad dated a woman who looked like my dead mom and lied about it.
Mrs.Young had come around. She peered over Chris' notebook. “Hmm.”
He looked up at her. “What?”
“Nothing.” She tapped section under his cp list. “I just don't usually hear you talk about your condition. It would give colleges- and me- a more clinical look into your story, especially if you're going to be describing the effect it's had on your life."
Chris made a face at his lists. “Would that be… is that alright?”
Mrs. Young nodded. “Yes! Of course it is, Chris. It would he wonderful to see how you feel like it's affected your life, positive and negative. But-" she leaned down and tilted her head, a flake of glitter landing on his desk ans smiled. "Is that what you would like me to know?”
As she moved on to take a look at Dylan's page (“Yes Dylan, I promise not to ‘rat you out’ if you're going to choose to write about graffiti.”), Chris frowned.
A clinical look. Is that what Chris's defining moments were? Clinical?
It wouldn't be bad, really. Medical jargon and whatnot would probably give him a decent grade atleast. He could go on about his early milestone delays (that he really didn't remember or care about), how he caught up.
Really, he should just suck it up and stick to what he was familiar with. What was the point of even having a disability if he couldn't use it for the greater good?
(The greater good being his grades, of course.)
It was the dream assignment. Quick and easy.
Somehow, as he stared down at his notes, the idea didn't make Chris feel better.
Later that night in his room sitting at his desk, Chris was still looking over his notes.
The thing was, Chris didn't want to write about cerebral palsy. But if took it out all together, all he had that was mildly interesting was surviving the tsunami, and all he got from that were nightmares. Not very cool.
(Dad, Buck, and his therapist had told him that yes, it wasn't cool about the nightmares. But he survived, he didn't need to be okay. He was living, and that's all he needed to do.)
It's not that he's embarrassed of having it- Chris had always had fairly high confidence. But cerebral palsy wasn't a personality trait, or something that Chris even really thought about. It's just his life.
The only way he could explain it to his friends when they ask about it is turning it around and asking them to see out of their elbows. They couldn't, same way Chris couldn't participate fully in gym.
He understood where his friends were coming from, of course. He supposed that if it was one of them who had cp and all these operations, he would be proud of them and want them to be proud of themselves too.
And yes, obviously, he was proud of himself. But it's different when it's your disability!
Chris sighed, revisiting the urge to kick out. What he needed was some motivation, and motivation came in the form of string cheese and leftovers.
Quietly, Chris stood up and padded down the hall, careful to avoid the squeaky bits to not wake anyone up.
When he had his modestly plate-sized serving of mostly warmed Shepard pie, he made his way into the living room to sit on the couch and play YouTube. Yet he was surprised to find it already occupied.
His dad was on his back, stretched out along the couch. Buck had his face in the guys neck, limbs thrown all around him. They were both sleeping, snoring in tangent and drooling.
Chris made a face. He wasn't sure if he was more grossed out by seeing them like this, or more annoyed that he couldn't sit on the couch.
But, he'd be lying if he said wasn't happy.
Happy for his dad. He had just came out almost eight months ago, right when Chris came back from Texas. Dad sat him down and said Chris, I'm gay.
And as they hugged Chris said Women around the world are cheering.
Seven months ago, Dad sat him down and said So. I'm in love with Buck.
And Chris said At least he knows your red flags.
Six and half months ago, Dad and Buck sat him down and said we're dating.
And Chris had said Denny's mom has a bet for when you guys are gonna get together. Who do you want to win?
For a moment Chris almost wished he could write a 500 word essay on their lives. Like, look at his dad. Teen parent, two tours, widowed, a shooting, watched the unknown love of his life die, blow up his life, got therapy, came out, and got with his love of life.
Or even Buck! Donor baby, raised by his sister, toured the country, leg crushed, tsunami survivor, watched the unknown love of his life get shot, die, donated a baby, came out, and got with the love of his life.
Chris was just so thankful to be Edmundo Diaz and Evan Buckley's son-
Oh.
The hand holding the plate of leftovers stiffened, clenching uncomfortably onto the heavy glass.Oh.
Because he wasn't just their son. Legally, legally he wasn't Buck's at all. Not until his father died at the nice and safe old age of one hundred seven.
For all intents and purposes, Christopher Diaz belonged to Edmundo Diaz and Shannon Rodgers.
And that was where his most defining moments have come from.
***
One A+, a gentle meeting to talk about his feelings, and Mrs. Young informed him that she would think about this essay at home later, and saying yes only if Mrs.Young agreed to call him funny as she introduced him, there Chris was.
Standing in the back of the stage in his nicest clothes, talking himself down from running away back to Texas.
“You'll be fine.” Dylan told him. He was wearing a very ugly green suit.
“Easy for you to say.” Chris said. He already felt stuffy in his own dark blue suit. “You only had to accept an award for your art. I have to talk. ”
Dylan went to open his mouth but then the audience started to clap.
Instantly Chris’s heart fell into a pit. It was his turn next- and in that moment he realized that he hated every single word he wrote.
Like- seriously? Seriously?! He wrote this? His essay was garbage! Absolute trash! And now he had to read everything he wrote to a room full of people!
Oh god, oh god he dumb. He was smart but he was so dumb. Maybe he could pretend something was going wrong with his body..? It wasn't like he wrote about cp, no one would know he'd be lying out of his butt.
He could feel his arms locking up, and he had to take deep breaths to calm him down before he had a complete body muscle spasm.
Although…if he did… he wouldn't have to go on stage. Even though he agreed to it.
But three weeks ago felt like such a long time! He didn't think how he would feel about public speaking in the present!
Dylan's hand landed on his shoulder. He squeezed tight, grounding him down. On his other shoulder was Patrick Lemens, who had accepted an award for best soccer ball kick. Neither of them said anything.
Chris closed his eyes and took deep breaths. The whole ordeal was making him emotional, because he was suddenly hit with such affection and appreciation for his friends that he laughed.
No matter what, Chris would always be thankful for coming here for school. “Thanks guys.”
They all watched Mrs.Young get on stage. Chris took another deep breath, finally feeling like his head was squarely on his shoulders again.
Patrick and Dylan walked with him to the edge of the curtains, giving him one last hard squeeze before they let go. He appreciated how they knew he wouldn't want them to walk with him, how embarrassing.
As he walked across he found that the lights were doing a good job of blinding him. He had no idea who or what was in the audience, only knowing where the first half of the show's students were sitting. He supposed that it was a good thing.
When he was in the middle of the stage he took one more breath. Come on Diaz, get it together. Do it for the extra credit.
Chris smiled. He tapped the microphone a few times before he leaned in. “My name is Christopher Diaz. Here's my essay.”
Then he lifted his chin and with confidence he said: “Dear abandoning dead Mom.”
Chris paused for a moment- truthfully he was hoping someone would laugh. He actually cracked himself up for almost ten minutes when he first came up with the line.
(When he texted it to Dylan, Dylan said he was awful with the crying-laughing face emoji.)
Unfortunately, no one in the audience had his humor. Which was fine. Only mad him second-guess everything he wrote, but it was fine.
He took a deep breath and held it for a second, letting all the air escape before he went back. He looked down at the wrinkled paper, sides gone soft from how many times he had had clenched his hands around it in the past ten minutes.
His heart slowed down. Get it Diaz.
“I don't like Blues Clue anymore. The movie was alright- I think we would have enjoyed it together.”
He kept his face down. His cheeks felt red from how his voice echoed around the theater- god is that what he sounded like? When was puberty going to do something good for him?
“Bananas are no longer my favorite fruit- the spot has been taken by oranges. Blue is still my favorite color.”
He did glance up, over to the left where he knew they would be. “I got my teeth fixed. Braces came off a few months ago. I've been told my goofy smile is missed. I can finally run. But I'm not making it to the Olympics with that one.”
He finally got the audience to laugh- although not as many he would have hoped. But it's fine. It's fine.
He smiled. Alright, alright he can do this. He didn't have to read from his paper for the next part. “A few years ago I was even able to skateboard. I wasn't able to walk on my own until I was almost three, but there I was. Skateboarding.”
“And if I stuck to it I could have gone to the Olympics. Maybe.”
Oh there's the laughs! Finally. He thought the audience was a bunch of duds.
Chris turned his face slightly to (makesureJessicaGlockwaslooking) the right. He lifted his chin. “I got another surgery. You weren't there when I woke up to hold my hand and tell me you loved me. But that's alright- you were holding your own dying, dead mothers hand.”
“I survived-” the lights suddenly felt warmer. “-a tsunami without you.”
Everyone in the auditorium was silent. Chris heard his own deep breath bounce around the place, richoteching off walls. The sweat at his neck started to slide down the back of his shirt over his spine.
“The ocean that we used to talk about at bedtime came up and tried to take me, but I survived. You weren't there.” He said.
“I survived my father being shot without you. The worst moment of my life, and I did it without you. I get up everyday and eat breakfast without you. I don't think about you until midday sometimes. I think you would want that for me. I know you'd want me to heal.”
He took a moment to breath, close his eyes. He could practically feel two sets of eyes zeroing in on him, waiting to see if he needed to be fire-man lifted off the stage.
(Something he would never ever ever ever forgive them for.)
“Dad was able to heal from his trauma and his past.” Chris continued on.
This was one of the parts he had to cut down- turned out he was more proud of his father then he thought. Even with everything that happened in the past year, his father was still there. He was working on himself, everyday.
“He smiles more, talks to me more.” He said with a grin. “We have open honest conversations. He loves me so, so much. More than I know, I think. He's a really good dad- one of the best.”
He paused again. The paper was clutched in his hand. He didn't necessarily need it for the last part, but it made him feel better to hold something real.
“So. Dear Dead Abandoning mom, whose name was Shannon Rodgers and who loved banana cream pie and wanted to be a librarian in Hawaii so you can watch the sunsets everyday, who used to dance with me to Blues Clue and held my hand after my first surgery and kissed me goodbye.”
He took another breath. He's never said this next bit out loud before, not even when he and Dylan would practice it in studyblock.
“I forgive you.”
His gaze was focused on the glowing exit sign to the right. He didn't feel a weight lifted off his shoulders. There were no birds singing or something magically being softened inside his guts or anything.
But he liked saying it. He liked being able to say the words to both classmates and strangers and his parents.
Chris lifted his chin. He folded the paper into a rectangle, placing it in his shirt pocket close to himself. “Because if you hadn't left, or if you did leave and gave us a number to call or a mailing address or even a picture to let us know you were happy, my dad and I would never have moved to L.A.”
His eyes stung, words caught in his throat like a million rocks had lodged themselves in there. For a moment he panicked, not knowing if he'd be able to get the words out properly.
Focus! Chris closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head. He counted up to three , refusing to let this moment fall flat like his jokes. This was to important for him to mess up- the world deserved to know. Chris wanted them to know.
He opened his eyes.
“We never would have met Evan Buckley.” His voice was strong. “My best friend, my second father, my Buck. ”
Chris swore he heard a soft gasp from the side.
“Buck who makes sure my dad comes home everyday. Buck, who built me a skateboard. Buck, who swam and swam and saved my life.” He said.
“Who-” He broke off. The tears were hot, spilling onto his cheek before he could have any say.
He smiled as he reached a hand up to wipe them away, only to assure them that he was fine. “who loves me like you did, who loves me maybe more.”
His voice cracked on the last words. He had to apologize, turning away to wipe his cheeks a little more viciously.
No one had ever diminished his mother in front of him, so he really didn't have anything to base it on. Other than the fact that he knew his mother for four years, and he's known Buck for seven.
He only got four years with his Mother before she left. Then he had a month.
Over the years, his memories of her dimmed. He couldn't say what color her eyes were, but he remembered that she smelt like vanilla. He can't tell anyone how tall she was, or what her voice sounded like, but he remembered her hand in his.
He remembered her kissing him good-bye and hugging him hello.
Then...nothing.
Maybe she did love him so much but- but. Chris deserved to think about what he feels without worrying about her.
He turned back to the microphone. He leaned forward, deep breath in and-
“Who shows me that blood doesn't start or end a family, who-” Chris smiled wide, cheeks hurting. “-showed a kid with a goofy grin that was left behind, people can stay .”
Stay, stay, stay richoteched throughout the auditorium.
“I hope that when you watch over me you know I'm living a good life. I hope you are resting peacefully with your own mom, and telling her the things I wish I can tell you.”
One last time, he spoke into the microphone. His voice echoed in the auditorium. “Dear abandoning, dead Mom. I'm happy. I'm healthy. I'm loved. Sincerely, your son.”
He backed away from the microphone to let out a deep breath. His heart was going nuts inside of his chest.
A moment passed.
It was one of those moments that no one was breathing, not even a squirming baby (seriously, who brings those things to a Student Performance night?).
It was quiet long enough for Chris to think should I go? and then it… wasn't.
Like a wave the audience stood up, thunderous applause booming so loud he felt it in his chest.
Chris blinked in shock, mouth parting as he took a step back from the influx of attention. Oh jesus- this was not what he wanted.
He just wanted to say his peace, get the extra five points of credit because he was competitive and wanted, for once, to go to one of these things and not sit in silence for two hours because Dad always makes him go. That's it!
Yet…He couldn't say fully he hated how loud everyone was clapping for him. Especially since, for once, it wasn't because he blew his nose on his own as a kid with cp.
No, this had nothing to do with the outside and all to do with his writing. And his abandoning dead mom.
Chris, despite his face being in flames, smiled. Alright. I got it.
***
Christopher Diaz would like it noted and bragged that, aside for the ending of the whole show, he got the loudest applause thank you very much.
Yet as soon as the curtains closed and he heard the audience muttering to themselves, he got his head in the game.
Chris knew he had exactly forty seconds to ask Jessica Glock to FaceTime later before Buck came for him. He was sure he heard the sound barrier break as the man (probably) started running for it.
As quick as he could, Chris made his way through the flux of classmates in the main hallway. Unfortunately, he's spent the majority of the past four years convincing these people he was a normal fellow student, so no one immediately parted and offered him a hand like he was a baby child like some family coutnined to do.
(It was one of the biggest disagreements him and his grandparents had over the summer. Thank God Dad got the therapy he very much needed, else Chris was gonna run away to the freakin Buckleys.)
“Jessie!” Chris yelled, spotting her in her pretty dress up ahead.
Jessica Glock turned around and, wow. Wow. The most beautiful girl in the world, with her dark blonde hair and her blue eyes. One time Chris watched her punched Spencer Ralms in the face and Chris fell in love. Probably.
Jessie smiled. She had on a pretty white shirt and reddish skirt. “Hey Diaz. I really liked your essay! I didn't know you liked the Blue's Clue movie.”
“What?” Chris said, slightly out of breath. He shook his head. “I, I'm not like watching it every night. Or week!” He added on hurriedly.
It's one thing to tell his dead mom about the movie, but a whole other to have his friends think he was watching little kid shows.
She shrugged. “I'll watch Bluey, I not saying anything.”
You know what, Chris didn't know what he was talking about. It was so cool that he, at fourteen years old, would watch little kid cartoons. He's certain he saw a meme on Instagram about how that meant that he was very in-tounched with his feelings and mature for his age. Probably.
“Bluey, huh?” He said, leaning against the wall, painfully from where his crutch was digging into his elbow. “I've never seen it before.” (A lie.) “How about we watch it together. On FaceTime. Later?”
“Facetime?” she asked. “Why don't you just come over?”
OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY -
“I would.” His voice squeaked. His palms felt very sweaty. He cleared his throat and pushed off the wall. “Uh, I would. But-”
“ Chris!”
“I have a feeling I'm gonna be busy.” He said. He stepped a little farther from the wall.
She tilted her head. “Doing what-”
Before she could finish her sentence Chris was engulfed by some large arms. His face was buried into an armpit.
He peeked over Buck's bicep. “Facetime?”
Jessie grinned. She had a gapped tooth smile. “Yeah, I'll text you when I'm good. Hi, Buck!”
“Hey Jess.” Buck said into Chris' hair. “Congrats on the perfect attendance award.”
“Thank you! Chris, I'll talk to you later.” She said, walking off.
Chris sighed, not even letting himself feel the intense mortification. He knew it was going to happen.
He relaxed in Buck's arms, wrapped his own around the man.
“I love you. So much.” Buck murmured into his forehead. He kissed it.
Chris nodded, not at all grimacing at the show of affection (he was a good son). “I know. I love you too, Buck.”
That was the thing. Chris knew Buck loved him. Buck loved him so, so much. As much as his father did and that's a lot.
Eventually his dad found them. Still. Hugging.
Chris knew Buck Was going to force him into one- what he didn't count on was Dad joining. They were two and half men, hugging in Chris's school hallway.
He sighed, but leaned into the hug. Thank God he was graduating soon.