Breaking


“You /need/ to tell me what's wrong.”

One thing Cam remembered from a time where he was cordial with Grace Underwood was that that tone, a combination of irritation and dismay, was not to be ignored. Her arms were crossed and she stood an uncomfortable distance from the bench he was sitting at. If they had still been friends, Cam would have felt guilty. /If./

He had ended the friendship with all the tact that could be expected of a socially stunted thirteen-year-old boy. One moment, Grace was his best friend, cooing how she loved his house, his family, and /especially/ his brother. The next she was an enemy. That illusion could not be dispelled. She wanted Nate, the most precious thing in his life, and that was unacceptable. She waved from the car when her father picked her up. Cam didn't return the wave. The next day at school, he found elsewhere to eat his fancy, Hannibal-prepared lunch alone.

Not alone for long, that is. Certain events befell Cam in the next two weeks that drew in the other losers and bottom-feeders of middle school society. As if sensing that he had become one of them, they moved around him now, not avoiding eye contact, even sitting with him in one rare case.

The boy in question was dark-skinned, with his hair cut asymmetrically and dyed aqua. His other lunch companion had been the goth boy who had disappeared from the school not long after someone scribbled 'faggot' on his backpack in sharpie. “What's that?” He pointed one finger at Cam's lunch, only somewhat smooshed from an incident earlier in the day.

“Nicoise salad.” That sparked no recognition, so Cam poked at each ingredient with his fork. “Sweet green beans, herb-roasted potatoes, red peppers, green peas, artichoke heart, butter lettuce, tomatoes, Nicoise, capers, and sliced salmon.” The last was a lie, but he had no idea. The pale flesh on a bed of greens tasted like it belonged in the sea rather than a DMV office. It was all in the seasoning.

“That's so /weird/. Why is everything so small?” The boy sat on the bench with Cam and scooted closer now, that one finger still pointing at potatoes the size of tater tots and miniscule peas and olives.

Cam speared one of those potatoes and popped it into his mouth, shrugging. It was sweeter, probably. Hannibal would tell him if he asked, but these days it was rarer than ever for him to offer a contribution to conversation willingly. He didn't really need to offer any here, either, because the other boy pressed on.

“Can I taste it?”

“...go ahead.” Shifting on a backside that had not completely escaped today's incident, Cam speared a slice of 'salmon' and held it out to the pointing finger, which became an outstretched hand.

Romeo Ortega became a cannibal in that moment, but the humanity was in his next words, not the food he swallowed. “You haven't brushed all the dirt off. That's why they keep snickering at you...just do it in the bathroom or something, so they don't notice.”

Shame filled Cam again at the reminder of the morning's events, and he didn't reply.

“Anyway.” Unlike Grace, Romeo was clearly uncomfortable with long silences, and filled them with nervous words rather than bold declarations. “It isn't half bad. Why do you always bring this fancy shit?”

“What's going on is that I'm eating lunch.” Pulled back to the present, where Grace stood in front of him, Cam snapped.

“Cameron, please.” She looked on the verge of tears. “I don't know what happened, you suddenly wanted /nothing/ to do with me.”

Silence. For Nate, it would have said a thousand words. For Grace, it was a challenge she could not accept. With her arms still wrapped around her middle as if holding herself together, she marched over and dropped down on the bench beside him.

“Is it because of what my brother did? I /told/ you it was an accident...and you said it was okay!”

Phoenix Underwood had caught wind of Cameron's two fathers. He'd gleefully told everyone who would listen.

“Your dads are fags,”people would sneer.

Just one of the many ways that had been uttered. True, Grace hadn't said it, but she had /started/ this whole mess.

Tristan Rucker was the worst, because he wasn't content to hiss an insult and move on. He lingered, watching reactions, which provoked something Cam never knew he contained.

“You must be gay, because your /dads/ are.” He'd said that with a sneer while Cam walked ahead of him, Tupperware of lunch in hand, specifically avoiding Grace.

Instead of walking with his head down like he should have, Cam spoke up. He knew better. The asylum had taught him better. But the words didn't wait for his permission. Probably because in some ways if not others, the other boy's words were true. “So are you half woman, because one of your parents has tits?”

The toe of Tristan's boot connected with his ass moments later. He hit the ground moments later, with a spray of dirt kicked at him as Tristan passed. If they weren't out in the open, things might have been worse. Cam had reminded himself of that fact as he picked himself up, brushing gravel off of his palms, and finding to his relief that the lid of his Tupperware was only partially askew. That was the day Romeo had decided they were both losers. He couldn't find it in himself to resent that, even when Grace was prattling on, breaking up his reverie.

“/Cameron/.” She dropped her voice once she realized she had his attention again. “...I'm just trying to say, I've /seen/ what those guys do to you. But if you hang out with Romeo and no one else, you're not exactly doing anything to stop them from talking...so if he talking bothers you...”

“Talking? /What/ talking?” Testy again, Cam left his last asparagus spear uneaten and pushed his lunch bag back into his backpack.

“About your parents. It's stupid to say that that makes you gay--”

“But I /am/ gay!”

Grace Underwood, once again blissfully silent. All the overlapping layers and echos in Cam's head had also fallen away. No more Romeo, one loser to another, frequently mooching at meals. No more Tristan Rucker slamming a door in his face, leaving gun on his chair, pushing him down when he tried to fight back, leering when he learned better. It was like the world had been careening out of control and for one moment, all was still. Grace sat next to him, at the far end of the bench, and nothing distracted him from looking at her. She looked shocked.

He felt free.

“I'm gay. I'm goddamn, fucking gay. I have been since before I was adopted...since I was born, probably.”

Free. He felt free and Grace /still/ looked shocked, maybe even a little ill, and he'd expected so much better of her...

“/Cam/...”

Finally he followed her gaze, past his shoulder, to a certain brunette with a bad attitude and a mean kick, lurking in the wings, hoping to catch wind of what the faggot's boy and his girlfriend were arguing about.

/He/ looked delighted.

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