Chapter Text
April 3rd, 1975
Denver, Colorado 2:02 PM
"Fucking move, asshole!"
Vance - god forbid he ever gets anger management - slammed through the sea of bodies as school let out for the weekend. Shoving a few upperclassmen out of his way as he stomped through the side doors to fidget with his zippo. The sun blaring down on his mane of sun-kissed blonde hair, he had no idea that across the front yard was Bruce Yamada.
On any other day, Bruce would immediately linger by him, and they'd talk about which member of Zeppelin they'd rather jam out with.
Today was different, though.
Bruce took a breath, ears tuning out his teammates' voices as he eyeballed Vance's quick exit. Excuses piling up in his brain - Fake being sick? No, shit, Micah can tell. Uhh- pretend a teacher needs me? Detention? Shit, how do I -
"Bruce?" Micah's voice snapped him out of his daze. Bruce slightly flinched, "Uh, yeah? Sorry.. just tired."
"Alright, man.. see you next Monday?"
"Yeah.." Bruce replied, mind already elsewhere as his feet hit the pavement. Vance's back to him as he strides towards his car. Bruce yelled out softly at first, "Vance!" and got nothing in reply. He tried again, "Vance! Wait!-"
Vance spun on his feet, "I'm not doing a fucking project with you."
With how quickly he moved, Bruce stammered, wishing his ears weren't visibly burning. "Not that, Jesus! I was just asking if you're okay."
Vance huffed, exhaling smoke through his nose as his eyes wrinkled shut briefly. "I'm fine. What time should I come over to study tomorrow?"
"My mom and dad have church in the morning. So.. noon? Maybe one." Bruce replied, scuffing his shoes. "What, do you not go to church or?-“
Bruce looked up to reach Vance’s eyes as Vance softened slightly. He didn’t answer, however, turning heel and leaving down the street. Bruce remained at the corner sidewalk, tossing sunflower seeds into his mouth.
Those legs, damn.
He shook the stray thought. It wasn't his fault, right - those legs, legs, legs that should be considered walking hazards - in those jeans? God, I need to kill myself. Bruce thought loudly as he watched Vance disappear into the distance. As he turned to the right to bike home, Griffin's missing poster fluttered to the ground in the spring heat.
April 4rd, 1975
Denver, Colorado 9:29 AM
Church in Denver was always an absolute shitshow of people — mostly middle-aged — in a silent competition of who can feel the most guilty. Luckily for both boys, that meant sitting across from each-other at the congregation, dressed in their Saturday bests (—or worsts, if you’re Vance).
Colleen Hopper was never particularly religious til the death of her sons’ father, Tyler, when Vance was 4 and still wearing little brettes. And if you asked her such, she still mostly, if at all, isn’t religious.
But it’d never hurt to pray for a world that accepted her son.
Across the chapel sat Bruce with his parents, Irene and Hiro Yamada. The two unknowingly gave Bruce anxiety about his future — although, regardless, they love their son. Even if that meant continuously arguing over which league to apply to come fall, just to get ahead of the curve.
Then, because of the disappearance of Griffin back in '73, Denver kids suddenly had to attend church every weekend as if that'd keep whoever was snatching boys away.
Irene gently flicked Bruce’s hand away from the cookies. “Not yet, pumpkin.”
Bruce exhaled, “It’s been four hours, Mom-“
His father, Hiro, gave a look from his conversation with a choirman. Bruce stiffened and looked around for another distraction. After twenty minutes of being told off repeatedly, Bruce slugged into the bathroom. Pushing the door open as Vance also exited a stall.
Both boys paused.
Vance froze in the doorway, eyes slightly widened like a deer caught in a tarp. His breath ragged, “Wh- What!?-“ He snapped.
Bruce threw his hands up — Fuckfuckfuck — “No it’s cool, it’s!-“
Both boys exchanged glances with each other in that moment. Vance, making note of the countless times Bruce refused to use a urinal, change in the locker rooms. Vance had assumed – what? – Maybe he was insecure?
Bruce assumed the same in the moments he saw Vance get into fights, throw weights, or refuse to cut his hair a certain way. How Vance’s explosions happened whenever Moose called him ‘Pretty boy’.
In that moment, both clocked the other. Vance rushed to wash his hands and mumbled an excuse — Bruce moving aside to let him.
However, Bruce, being a little shit, called after him. “See you this afternoon!” Without turning around. Ducking his head as he slipped into the stall next to it.
What he didn’t see, however, was Vance’s smug grin as he stalked off. The chapel echoes with every step of his. “FUCK OFF!”
April 4rd, 1975
Denver, Colorado 1:45 PM
For a boy who stood 5'10" and held back twice, Vance was a dick in Bruce's eyes at first. Overcompensating, never showered, drowned in hair products and combs. God forbid he find some guy to fight - Bruce was irritated enough most days while being Vance's... friend.
Is friend even the word? Bruce thought to himself, chewing mindlessly on some taffy. He's... like a stray dog. Barely eats. Won't shower unless you hose him - Can he be hosed? Does he look g- NO. NO! BAD THOUGHT!
The sound of a transmission backfiring brought Bruce out of his thoughts. He bolted to his window - witnessing the giant Vance is - step out of the car. Uncharacteristically kissing his mother on the cheek through the driver's window and dragging a bag along with him.
Bruce's chest felt hollowed out, then began to fill. Strangely warm- Aw, he's a mama's boy? - like just hours ago, when they exchanged silent looks about being that.
Transsexuals.
Jesus Christ, he passes great. Bruce stared before realizing Vance had made eye contact from outside. Bruce yelped, immediately ducking out of the curtain view. Get it together! You play baseball, Yamada-
Downstairs, however, was a different story. Irene found herself opening the door to Vance Hopper, who had sneakily stubbed out a cigarette he definitely shouldn't have had. Vance spoke first, "Hi, Mrs. Yamada, I'm here to study with Bruce."
Irene smiled softly, nodding. "Come in, baby, you staying for dinner tonight?"
"No ma'am," Vance replied, taking a look around once inside. Treading as light as a mouse - admiring the various clay pots and cups designed by Irene or Hiro. Placemats along the dining room table were woven or stitched from cloth. Two ashtrays - one in the kitchen and one in the living room. Mr. Yamada stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, while washing. "Hey, Vance! Gwen sent you here for Amy or-"
Vance spoke up softly, "Bruce and I got partnered." And I kind of wish we weren't!
Hiro nodded gently, "He's upstairs. Keep it quiet alright? My program comes on at nine."
As he climbed the steps — Vance found himself glancing back and forth between rooms as Bruce suddenly fisted his shirt. The door slamming behind them both with a loud rattle, the plant tipping over in a blur.