Tommy
Tommy really wished he'd been a bit more careful, Bret really hadn't needed to know about what had happened when he'd first arrived in New York, especially since he seemed so angry about it. Tommy wasn't, really, it was just a statement of fact and one that he could ignore with Bret's declaration of love; he blushed and held Bret's gaze. "I love you too." He murmured, and was about to say more when Mark spoke up and Tommy's eyes turned to him, hard and incredulous, even though he was still talking to Bret. "And I'm not going to let them get in the way of that, even though they're trying so hard to control me, and, by the way, they did fight over who had to take me. What was it, Mark? You had Papa and your job and Marijuana had a wedding to plan?"
Tommy ignored the fact that Marijuana was looking increasingly murderous, although had a tinge of guilt in his eyes. He ignored the fact that Glibt was looking increasingly disgusted at what was going on around him. He continued to focus on Mark. "I'm surprised, Mark, at how faulty your logic is. You sit here and talk about my maturity level when you walked in here beaming with the thought of hurting your son. And of course I knew none of you, save Papa, would react well, if I had told you at any point of the relationship. And you've proved my point, there's a donkey in the kitchen and Marijuana's gripping the switchblade he has in his pocket."
Tommy turned to Marijuana for a moment, his gaze still hard and cold to cover the fact that he just wanted to burst into tears. "Bret is a registered member of the Marijuana Party. By how you view mortals, that makes him my property. Take your hand out of your pocket." Glibt finally spoke again, leaning forward, his gaze fiery and protective. "He's also gay, Marijuana, and you could probably beat Thomas in a fight, but are you sure about your ability to best me?" Marijuana, only slightly chagrined, placed both palms on the table, the tablecloth starting to singe and smoke beneath his skin before he raised his hands to clasp them together. Satisfied, Tommy turned back to Mark. "No, me misrepresenting the situation doesn't mean I knew I was in the wrong. I was never in the wrong. Just because you don't like something, Mark, doesn't make it wrong."
Tommy's lips pursed, his hands started to shake even harder and he shoved them into his lap as he continued. "You're not acting like you love me or want me to be happy. And, really, I was fine in Peoria, before Malcolm found me. I was working for my Party and studying for my LSATs. That was the start of my life and neither of you even felt me come into formation. I'm not a child and I'm making this decision for myself." And then the issue of grounding came up and Tommy rolled his eyes. "No." He said simply. "I'm not grounded. You can have Marijuana take away my television, but neither of you can force me to stay in my apartment. I mean, you could try, physically, but I would fight back and you'd probably have to knock me out. And as morally repugnant as both of you are acting right now, I think you're still just a tad above abuse."
Sighing, Tommy rubbed at his eyes. "I don't want to be here anymore. Or put up with this." His eyes turned back to Bret pleadingly. "Bret, can we go? Somewhere? Anywhere?" Marijuana sat up straight, his lip curling back into a snarl. "No, you can't." Marijuana thought quickly; tugging Tommy out of the restaurant, if the boy fought, would seem like abuse, but there were other weapons he could use. After all, Tommy toked regularly. Marijuana smiled, looking overly full of himself. "You're going to fall asleep and then I'm going to take you home." Tommy looked over at him, confused and scared. "What-" And then he felt it, Marijuana battering his way into his mind through the THC in his system and Tommy swayed in his seat, feeling higher than he'd ever been, his terrified eyes turning bloodshot far too quickly. Marijuana continued to push; if he could get through the too-high phase, the anxiety attack phase, everything would turn out alright.