the parent trap
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: epilogue
Two very similar boys help their two very different families assimilate into one.
⁂
“Aw, Pa, do we have to?”
Patton—still entirely unused to driving on the left side of the road and therefore relegated to the passenger’s seat—gives Remus a Look through the rearview mirror.
“Even if this wasn’t suggested by the lawyer to clearly illustrate the harm that judge had on your upbringing, yes, I absolutely would have pushed for this on my own.”
“It’s a big upheaval in your lives, anyway,” Janus says, absently reaching over to pat Patton’s hand as he cranes his neck to watch for incoming traffic. “Too right you should have someone to talk to that isn’t related to you.”
“Or Virgil.”
“Or Virgil,” Janus amends. “And before either of you get any ideas, if you absolutely hate it there: fine. We shall find another child psychologist. But if you prank your way out of there, then that means you’re going to another child psychologist and your time in therapy will increase, as pranking the people you dislike is not a healthy way to express your feelings.”
The twins exchange a look.
Patton hopes that look means darn, any potential plan is foiled! but even he can see that there’s still some mischief brewing in those matching heads of theirs.
But any complaints are cut short by Janus pulling into the parking lot; sorry, the car park, he’s still getting used to all that.
Patton and Janus herd the boys in; they shuffle in, all together, to a cozy-looking if slightly bland waiting room, the other three taking up all the seats on the available couch as Patton approaches the front desk.
“Hi,” Patton says. “Appointment for Remus and Roman, under Parker-James?”
“Parker-James?” The person at the desk says, flipping through their agenda calendar. “Remus and Roman Parker-James… yes, I have you right here, he should be ready pretty soon…”
Janus flips through a spare copy of Vogue; the boys play some kind of hand-slapping game they must have learned at camp; Patton pretends to read the magazine in his hands while watching them both out of the corner of his eyes.
“Parker-James?” A voice calls from inside the office.
All four of them stand and make their way into the room.
The room is set up in mostly earth-tones; brown couches, leather armchair, nice wooden bookshelves stocked up with the books chock full of the latest therapeutic breakthroughs, a few plants tucked away in the corners.
The pops of color come from the cartoon decor; little figurines, paintings, a few stuffed animals tucked into strategic locations. Rubber ducks and Disney heroines and plucky child protagonist and superheroes, stretch as far as the eye can see.
And there’s a great tarp set up on the floor and transparent plastic wrapped over the chairs, hanging in front of the bookshelves with their decorations and books, with a variety of incredibly tempting, messy-looking acrylic paints ripe for any child to cause chaos.
“Hello there, boys,” the therapist says with a smile, setting aside his pen and notebook. “I’m Dr. Emlie Picani. I’ll be your therapist. Do either of you enjoy painting?”
The boys exchange a look, this one much less loaded with mischief, but both nod.
“Good!” Dr. Picani says. “Me too. I’d like this first session to be much less formal—and don’t worry if you get a bit messy with it, I’ve got all these tarps laid out and I believe your Dads have brought spare clothes if necessary. And, on that note—Dads, if you’ll take your leave?”
“Be good,” Janus says, smoothing a hand over Remus’s then Roman’s hair.
“Have fun, boys!” Patton says, and they take their leave.
Patton has a pretty good feeling about this.
⁂
“All right, Remus?”
“All right,” Remus says, getting pretty used to the way the British exchange this particular pleasantry. “Uncle Logan’s sent down—”
“Ah, a cuppa!” Grandfather exclaims, taking tray off Remus’s hands. “Now, I’ll be mother—would you like one?”
“What is it?” Remus says.
“Earl grey, looks like,” Roman says, taking his nose out of the book he’s reading long enough to look.
“Yeah, I’ll have one,” Remus says, flopping onto one of the numerous couches in the study. “Thanks, Grandpa Toby.”
Grandfather putters about with the tray for a moment, taking a moment to add something to his—Remus spies the amber-colored liquid in the glass bottle Grandfather keeps in an isolated place where the children can’t reach it.
“Here you are, Roman, bit of honey—Remus, yours with enough sugar to kill me—”
“No brandy?” Remus says, giving Grandfather a hopeful look.
“Certainly not,” Grandfather says, as if he didn’t literally just sneak away a healthy slug into his own teacup. “You’ll stick to your wines, and you’ll have to ask your fathers to indulge in that, besides.”
Remus considers this. “How many years until that wavers?”
Grandfather pauses.
“When you’re eighteen!” Roman squawks.
“Yes, certainly,” Grandfather says with an approving nod to Roman. “When you’re eighteen. That’s the responsible answer.”
Roman nods in satisfaction and returns his attention to his book.
“When I’m twelve?” Remus whispers.
“Certainly not,” Grandfather says, just as quietly.
“Thirteen.”
“No.”
“Fourteen? Fifteen?”
“...Eighteen.”
“Oh, puh-lease, as if you didn’t have moments of underage drinking, you can’t judge me for wanting to try things.”
Grandfather pauses, then waggles his hand side-to-side.
“Knew it,” Remus mutters, and he picks up a section of Grandfather’s newspaper. The sports section—Remus has been told in very certain terms about which teams the Jameses do and do not support, but it’s all gone in one ear and out the other—and pretends to read the articles while he really keeps an eye out to see if they’ve put any of the fun, rude chants in the paper.
(Tragically, no.)
And so they sit in silence, sipping their tea and reading their individual pieces of interest, and neither twin breathes a word to their fathers when their Grandfather cracks open the study window and busies himself with packing his pipe the instant the tea is done and spends the afternoon merrily smoking away.
⁂
Janus had initially been surprised that Patton had so willingly gone along with his insistence on filing a legal custody arrangement, even though they were once again back together.
The Patton he married nearly a dozen years ago probably would have insisted it wasn’t necessary, that they were together now and there was no point in it, but the Patton of today had fervently agreed and pored over the agreement with a metaphorical fine-toothed comb.
A decade without one of your sons was enough to change a person, Janus supposed.
Even if Patton tended to call it the Worst Case Scenario document.
“Okay,” Janus says, examining it. “Each boy returns to their original schooling, if necessary.”
“Even year summers are mine; odd year summers are yours,” Patton says. “The boys spend your birthday with you, and my birthday with me, when possible.”
“You have American Thanksgiving, always, which would mean I would always Bonfire Night.”
“Even year Christmas-and-Boxing-Days are yours; even year New Year’s are mine.”
“And Easters and other minor holidays in which the boys have a break from schooling alternate, with potential to revise the custodial arrangement until the boys are eighteen, at which point they’ll be free to spend holidays as they choose.”
They examine the paperwork in silence.
“Do you think we missed anything?” Janus says.
“I don’t think so,” Patton says uncertainly. “I’m sure Remy will tell us if we did.”
“Yes, that he would,” Janus says.
They stare at the paperwork some more.
“And now,” Patton says. “To file it away with Remy and hope we never need it.”
“To hope we never need it,” Janus agrees fervently, and Patton leans in for a kiss.
⁂
Not to be dramatic, but Remus has been dying from excitement looking forward to this moment literally since the moment their parents decided to send Remus to Roman’s fancy British school.
The fact that he has to wear a suit and tie kind of sucks, though. But it’s kind of nice that he’s going to be in all the same classes as Roman, if solely to spend more time teasing his brother and nothing else sentimental.
The school is smaller than Remus’s public California school; it’s all red brick and ivy, with a SOCCER field out back, a little bit outside of the edges of the city proper. He rides on the bus (also new—Virgil usually drove him to and from school, back home) and Roman escorts him to the office to make sure all of their paperwork is filed, like Dad told him to.
It is—he has to do hardly anything, just carry a form for his new teacher to fill out. He ignores whatever map they’re offering and just falls into step behind Roman.
The teacher meets him in the hall, signs his form, and goes into the classroom to introduce him.
Remus smiles to himself. Excellent. A dramatic entrance.
“Class,” the teacher says. “We have a new student this year—a Mr. Remus Parker, from California, in America. Come in, Remus, we can find a place for you next to your brother.”
Remus walks in, to whispers of wow, Roman has a twin! and American?! unhearing to all of it, his eyes searching the room for one familiar face.
He finds it.
All of the blood has drained from Dick Davies’s face, making him look even more pale and awful than usual. He’s slithered down in his chair, looking moments away from letting out a pathetic, awful whimper.
Remus offers his most bloodthirsty, shit-eating grin.
He does find a spot near Roman—near the back of the room, which is excellent. None of his American teachers would have made that mistake.
He waits until class is underway before he starts making mischief.
Like fucking Spalding he writes on a piece of paper, crumpling it into a ball, which he proceeds to chuck, full-strength, at the back of Davies’s head. Davies picks it up, frowning, and reads.
He lets out a really undignified squawking noise, which gets him giggled at by his classmates and scolded by their teacher. Roman grins sheepishly into his notebook, exchanging a look with Remus.
Yeah, Remus thinks. It’s going to be a fun year.
⁂
Janus loves London dearly.
He was born and raised there; he’s raising his children there. London is like another member of the family.
But Napa was certainly very nice at this time of year.
Janus lets out a pleased sigh at the sight of the sun, hands braced on the balcony railing as he looks over the vineyard sprawling below them.
“You’re like a cat,” a familiar voice says behind him, amused.
Janus smiles, but he doesn’t turn to see his visitor; instead, he simply theatrically tilts his face into the sunrays, taken up by the sweet, simple treasure of his body inundated by the sun’s glow.
“Sitting in the little sunspots and soaking up all the warmth,” Patton continues, pressing his lips to the nape of Janus’s neck; Janus can feel him smiling there.
“The boys are off,” Patton murmurs. “You’ll probably see them galloping out if you stand here long enough.”
Janus grins. “I’m sure Roman’s eager for the excuse to dress up as a proper countryman.”
“They look pretty cute in the flannels,” Patton says, and he wraps his arms around Janus’s waist. “You do, too.”
“It is yours.”
“Ah, that must be part of it,” Patton murmurs, and Janus laughs.
“I’m sure you were probably coming to soak up the sun before you return to the frigidity of London.”
“Well, I won’t lie—that’ll definitely be a nice part of being here again,” Patton says.
“And the other part?”
Patton presses another kiss to his neck, more lingering, more heated.
“Nice big house,” Patton says, “I think we’re the only ones in it” and Janus laughs; even after all these years, Patton can barely bring himself to say anything past the implication of innuendo.
“All right, then,” Janus says, turning to wrap his arms around Patton’s neck. “Bring me in we’ll do our best to keep each other warm.”
And Patton, pulling him along to their bedroom, certainly does.
⁂
“I guess there’s a lot to do on a vineyard this time of year.”
Roman surveys the grape vines, buzzing with employees and tourists alike, from his place tucked amidst the trees, atop Sprout. He is—once again—wearing the full wannabe cowboy outfit: flannel shirt, jeans, boots that Papa got for him practically as soon as they arrived in California, and his truly excellent cowboy hat.
Remus—a more experienced rider and therefore permitted to ride Papa’s Cinnamon—looks over at him with an expression that reads duh.
He’s also in jeans and boots, but he’s wearing a band t-shirt with one of Virgil’s old flannels thrown over the top, and a black cowboy hat. Basically the all-black, goth-equivalent of Roman’s red-and-white, wannabe-cowboy outfit.
Roman decides to read it as fond, reasserting his grip on the reins. “It is nice to feel warm weather, though.”
“Oh, you’re telling me,” Remus says. “I’ve never seen snow like I’ve seen in London—and it doesn’t even stick around very long! All the cars water it down to gray slush—”
“—and Dad and Uncle Logan would not be pleased it you started tracking that inside,” Roman says hastily, lest Remus resume his ideas of dirty snow snowball fights. Roman does not want to deal with slush down the back of his newest jumpers, thank you.
“Yeah yeah yeah,” Remus sighs, waving him off, and turning his face to the Napa sun. Weak as it is, Roman thinks, it’s certainly much warmer here than it is back home in London, where carolers and bell-ringers have set up shop on practically every corner.
It’s not their first time back in Napa since their parents resumed their romance, but they are here for the longest; they’ll be back in London in time for Christmas, Boxing Day, and New Years’ with Grandfather, but the James-Parkers have decided to take advantage of the stretch of much better weather down in Napa while the pair of them are off school.
So: plentiful horse rides in the vineyard, getting up the courage to maybe splash around the much chillier pool, occasional jaunts into nearby cities and towns, baking cookies with Virgil and Uncle Logan.
Roman’s really looking forward to it.
“You know,” Roman says, contemplative. “The last time I was around this spot, Papa was trying to tell me he was going to marry Maddox?”
Remus makes a dreadful gagging noise. “Ugh, could you imagine?”
“I bet we’d be stuffing his Christmas cookies full of cinnamon so he’d choke on them.”
“Stuffing his stocking with dead fish!”
“Wrapping up a list of numbers for divorce lawyers as a present for Papa!”
“Pushing him out on an iceberg with the penguins!”
They both crack up at the memory of Maddox flailing in the middle of the lake.
“I’m really glad our fathers sent us to the same camp.”
“Ugh,” Remus complains, then, “yeah, I guess I am too.”
They sit in companionable silence for a while. There are a few birds, perhaps on their way south for the winter, chirping quietly in the trees. The distant murmur of people in the fields reaches them in a hush. The fields are less verdant than it was in the true depths of summer, but everything here is certainly much greener than anything in London. The scent of wildflowers wafts on the slight breeze, distant but there.
It’s really very nice.
Then:
“Raceya!” Remus shouts, and him and Cinnamon are off like a shot.
“Hey, no fair!” Roman yelps, digging his heels into Sprout’s side, and they speed off after his brother, kicking up dust behind them.
⁂
Logan thinks that Janus has placed a sprig of mistletoe in the doorway leading from kitchen to dining room solely for the purpose of attacking Patton with kisses whenever he goes to get everyone more wine.
Not that Logan is complaining. It works to his advantage, too.
Logan waits, quiet, as the sink shuts off, as the last cabinet closes, and then he takes a purposeful step forward.
Just in time to catch Virgil coming back from washing the dishes.
“Oh,” Logan says. “Look at that. We’ve been caught under the mistletoe.”
Virgil grins at him. “Accidentally, I’m sure.”
“Was I being too subtle? No, I want to kiss you.”
Virgil laughs. “Merry Christmas, Logan.”
“Merry Christmas, Virgil,” Logan whispers back, and Virgil leans in, pressing their lips together, Logan leaning back against the doorframe and wrapping his arms around Virgil’s neck.
They thoroughly fulfill the criteria of kissing under the mistletoe.
⁂
It’s almost weirder to Patton that he isn’t experiencing a ton of déjà vu.
Sure, it’s his second wedding day; sure, it’s in the same place as it was last time; sure, it’s to the same man, but other than that, there isn’t much else that’s the same.
For one thing, their relatives have managed to make it this time, Patton’s dearest regret of eloping the way he did; his sister, Linda, is standing beside Janus’s father, their heads bent together, discussing something very intently.
Their boys, in matching suits of white—Remus with a basket of flower petals, an errant rose probably plucked from a floral arrangement stuck behind his ear. Roman holds the rings, smiling up at Patton.
(They’d considered the boys for the opposite jobs—Roman surely would have liked to be tossing flower petals everywhere—but then Patton thought priceless wedding rings and Remus’s brand of mischief and they’d quickly swapped them around.)
Patton smiles back at his son, reaching down to ruffle his hair, thinking better of it, and instead squeezing his shoulder.
“You ready, Pat?” Virgil murmurs from his rightful place at Patton’s side as his best man.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been more ready,” Patton confesses, adjusting the lapels of his silver-gray suit jacket, mindful not to crush his boutonniere of a tiny, pale pink rose and white alstroemerias. “I should be more nervous, right? I should be nervous, but I’m just really excited.”
A corner of Virgil’s lip quirks up, his eyes straying back toward where Logan is ducking back to see to any of Janus’s last-minute needs.
“Or maybe,” Patton suggests innocently, “all this talk of weddings is maybe leading you to think about…?”
Virgil laughs, a nervous, gleeful giggle, as Remus blitzes down the aisle, pelting anyone and everyone with rose petals.
“What, your wedding could make me think about my potential wedding?”
“Maybe you should,” Patton says, “think about a potential wedding, I mean” and Virgil snorts.
Roman gives Virgil an excited look at the thought of another occasion for fancy outfits, and he has to prodded into remembering his entrance timing by Vendela.
“How about we get through this wedding before we start worrying about another one?” Virgil says.
Patton grins, links arms with Linda—Janus’s father has gone back to join Logan and Patton’s once-groom-now-groom-again—and waves Virgil off on his walk down the aisle.
And now Linda squeezes his arm, rubbing up and down.
“Last chance to back out,” Linda jokes, her brown eyes and tan skin accentuated by the pale rose gown and matching shawl that Janus has put her in.
“Not on your life,” Patton says, breathless and giddy, which makes Linda laugh.
“Ready?” Vendela murmurs and, before he can answer, she says “and go” and suddenly Linda’s walking him down the aisle.
He feels a little awkward with everyone’s eyes on him, but he finds it’s easy enough to tune it out when he smiles and waves to his friends and family—the folks who help him at the vineyard, cousins and aunts and uncles, friends from school and beyond.
He finds it easiest of all when he focuses on the end of the aisle: the officiator, Virgil with his hands behind his back, smiling at him fondly; and his boys, handsome in their not-quite-matching white suits, discreetly elbowing each other.
When they reach the aisle, Linda stands to kiss him on the cheek.
“Love you,” she murmurs.
“Love you too.”
She departs to her seat. Patton takes a moment to once again squeeze Roman’s shoulder and to ruffle Remus’s already-messy hair before he stands at the altar, staring down the aisle.
It somehow takes forever and also just a moment before Janus makes his entrance.
And Patton loses the air from his very lungs.
Janus—handsome, always—seems to have moved from beautiful to ethereal.
He’s stunning, wearing a self-made suit with a tailcoat in all white, from his intricately-knotted tie to his shining white oxfords, except for the soft patch of pink over his heart that denotes his boutonniere that matches Patton’s.
Patton blinks out the first of many, many joyful tears of the day.
Patton can barely notice the way Logan is smiling shyly at Virgil.
(He does notice, in fairness. But it’s very difficult to not be staring at his ex-husband/husband-to-be.)
Janus smiles at him, that familiar wicked curve of his mouth, the port wine birthmark across his cheek, those mesmerizing eyes, and Patton beams back, cheeks aching and sure that he looks very silly, but he can’t bring himself to care.
At last, at long last, Janus’s father kisses Janus on the cheek, gives Patton a very firm handshake, and goes to offer the boys a paternal pat on the shoulders before he finds his seat beside Linda.
Logan ascends, taking a brief moment to give Virgil an unchoreographed kiss on the cheek before he flees back to his place.
But then Janus is standing before him, smiling. He’s so handsome. He’s so incredible. He’s so happy that this is the father of his children, the man he’s married once, the man he’s going to marry again.
Janus offers his hands. Patton seizes them, squeezing hard, almost blinded by his happy tears.
“I love you,” is all Patton can say, murmured under the swell of music.
“I love you too,” Janus whispers back, under the rustle of everyone sitting down again.
He can hear Roman’s daydreamy sigh and can only hope that Remus will suppress the urge to go “UGHHH” at an inopportune time in the ceremony.
“Ready?” The officiator murmurs. Patton and Janus nod, not taking their eyes off each other, and the officiator turns on his microphone.
“Friends, family, and loved ones, we are gathered here today…”
Janus squeezes his hands. Patton smiles at him.
Yeah.
They’re ready.
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