Tobin: "Home Court"

1 Jan

You'd agreed to play basketball with Tobin's friends in the morning. It had seemed like a great idea in theory—you want to meet them, especially after all the stories Tobin's told.

But after the long night you'd spent together, curled up in Tobin's arms after setting off sparklers in the yard at midnight, forcing yourself awake feels nearly impossible.

When you finally manage to crack your eyes open, you see Tobin watching you, a soft smile playing on their lips. They sling an arm around your waist, scooting closer. 

They're wearing a faded Nets sleeveless T-shirt that shows off their strong, dark arms,

| *if F!Tobin

and their hair is pulled back in a colorful silk wrap patterned with golden kente cloth.

"Happy New Year my love," they murmur, voice still sleep-rough. "If you want to sleep in more, we can take a rain check on basketball." 

“No,: you say quickly, yawning and rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “I want to meet these friends you've been telling me about.“ You burrow deeper into their warmth. “It's just... your bed's so comfortable."

Tobin laughs quietly, hugging you tight. “That's 'cause you're in it.”

“Smooth,” you mumble into their shoulder, smiling. 

You lie there for a few more minutes, neither of you quite ready to surrender the quiet intimacy of morning. Tobin presses a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then—when you tilt your face up—your mouth, slow and sweet.

When you finally break apart, Tobin's smiling. "They say the first thing you do on New Year's Day is what you'll keep doing for the rest of the year."

You grin, resting your forehead on theirs. "I could definitely do with that."

Tobin laughs, and pulls themself up into a sitting position. "C'mon, we should probably get up if we want to have breakfast before we play."

...

Downstairs, the kitchen is already alive with activity. 

The radio hums low, playing old-school R&B, something smooth and soulful that you half-recognize. Tobin's mom, Naomi, is wearing sports tights and looks like she’s already gone out and done some form of exercise (brisk-walking club, you learn later on).

She stands at the stove expertly flipping pancakes, humming along to the radio under her breath. She's athletic and graceful, her locs swept up in a loose bun, silver threading through the black.

The counters are crowded with evidence of a household that cooks—measuring cups drying on racks, mixing bowls stacked beside the sink, recipe cards or print-outs yellowed at the edges and splattered with use, jars of spices with handwritten labels.

“Morning, lovelies,” she says, looking up as you and Tobin enter. “You sleep okay? I hope Tobin didn't hog all the blankets.”

“What! No I didn't,” Tobin protests, pouring out a cup of <preferred beverage> for you, then a cup of tea with a splash of milk for themself. 

Mrs. Harris slides a fluffy, golden-brown pancake on a plate for each of you. The plate she’d chosen for you has Snoopy on it, and looks like it might’ve been around since Tobin's childhood. “We've got blueberries and bananas to go with the pancakes, if you like.” She waves toward the fridge with her spatula. “Make yourself comfortable, honey. You need anything, you just ask.”

”Thank you. The pancakes look delicious.” You get the fruits out, along with the maple syrup.

Tobin's dad, Marcus, ambles in with a newspaper tucked under one arm. He's tall and lean, with a magnificent salt-and-pepper afro and an equally large smile. His reading glasses are perched on his nose, and when he sees you, he claps you both on the back with easy affection.

"Morning, morning!" His voice is warm and deep bass. ”Hope that guest room bed wasn't too dusty—nobody's slept in there for a while.”

You freeze mid-chew, glancing at Tobin.

There's a brief, loaded pause. You certainly aren’t going to be the one to break it to the man.

Tobin clears their throat, setting down their coffee. “Uh, Dad... <preferred name> slept with me.”

Mr. Harris blinks. “Oh. Right, right.” He processes this, glancing at his wife, then back to Tobin. He’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but clearly still adjusting to the idea of Tobin with… you. Eventually, he manages a, “Well, I trust the bed wasn’t too small, then?” It's clumsy, but sincere; at least he’s acknowledging it. 

Tobin shoots you an apologetic look and mouthes, I'm sorry, I did tell him. You shrug, giving Tobin a reassuring smile before turning back to Tobin's dad. “It was perfect, thank you,” you reply evenly. You hadn’t expected things to click into place immediately, and you get that as new as all of this is to Tobin, it's even more so for their parents.

Mr. Harris nods, then settles at the table with his paper, giving you a small smile. “Did you hear about the upcoming Mayoral elections being delayed?”

| *if major = "Political science" / intelligence > _

Of all the topics Mr. Harris could've chosen, this is a good one. You actually have things to say, and the two of you very quickly get immersed in an enthusiastic conversation.

| *else

"Uhh," you wrack your brain for something intelligible to say about this, but Mr. Harris quickly changes the topic. Eventually, the two of you do find a common topic (comics) that everyone's enthusiastic about. 

...

Soon, Mrs. Harris and Tobin are done making the rest of the pancake batter. Tobin settles into the chair next to you.

The four of you tuck into breakfast, and you feel something in your chest ease as Tobin’s hand finds your thigh under the table. Dinner with Tobin's family last night had been genial and friendly, but this feels intimate and plain and real. You feel like you're being let into a genuine part of their lives.

After breakfast, you and Tobin bundle up and walk to the basketball court near Herbert Von King Park.

The air is bracing but not brutal—one of those rare winter days where the sun's out and the wind shows mercy. The neighborhood wakes up around you: store gates rattling open, someone blasting Biggie from a car, the smell of fresh bread drifting from the Jamaican bakery on the corner.

When you reach the court, Tobin's friends are already there—six of them playing three-on-three, loud and competitive and affectionate in the way only people who've known each other since forever can be. You study them as you approach, slowly drinking in the details. These are friends Tobin's had since middle school.

When they spot Tobin, someone launches a basketball in their direction. Tobin catches it one-handed, laughing, and suddenly everyone's crowding around.

“'Bout time you showed up!”

“Thought you forgot about us!”

Tobin grins, soaking it in, then turns to you. There's a flicker of uncertainty before they swallow, and you see the moment they decide to own it. “Y'all, this is my partner. The one I wanted to introduce you to.”

There's a beat of recalibration. Then someone—a tall guy with a flat top—grins and says, "So this is the special someone.” 

Another friend, a woman with box braids and a Knicks hoodie, whistles. "I freakin’ called it, man.

| If F!Tobin

Knew there ain’t no way someone who could ball like that was straight.” 

| If M!Tobin

Knew there ain’t no way someone with fashion that fly was straight.”  

Laughter ripples through the group. Tobin rolls their eyes. “That’s just a stereotype, Vi,” they say, though there’s no real chiding to their tone. 

"Maybe," Vi says, smirking. "But I'm still right."

The energy shifts—loosens. You and Tobin get subbed in on opposing teams. You throw yourself into it. Tobin’s friends are good, and basketball isn’t really your sport, but you do your best to keep up.

Tobin glides across the court, sinking three-pointers with the same fluid grace they bring to the tennis court. You can see the joy in their face, in their animated gestures and the way they naturally begin to direct play. 

When you pause for a water-break, the woman with the braids subs off as well and joins you at the water fountain. "So… you and Tobin, huh? How’s that going?" she asks, low and direct.

“Really good,” you say, without hesitation. You know there’s a loopy smile on your face, but you can’t help it. “Tobin's just—they're funny, and smart, and kind, and I just...I like them a lot. Sorry. You probably already know that. It’s been really good.“

Vi studies you for a long moment, then her expression softens. “I'm glad. It’s about damn time one of Tobin’s partners gushes about ‘em too.” She cocks a chin at Tobin, who’s laughing and skipping past an opposing player to set up an over-the-shoulder lay-up for a teammate. “I’m sick of watching Tobin give more than they get back. Of loving people who don’t deserve their love.” 

Her eyes find yours again, sharp and assessing. “This time, I get the feelin’ you care as much as they do, though.” A beat passes. “Do I need to give you the ‘if you break Tobes’ heart, I’ll find you and kill you’ talk?” 

The statement isn't aggressive—it's protective. These are Tobin's people, and they're looking out for them. 

You laugh. “I’d be honored.” 

Vi holds your gaze for another beat, then nods, satisfied. A slow grin spreads across her face. “A’ight then, consider yourself warned. C’mon,” she bumps your shoulder, then tips her chin in the direction of the court. “Let’s go save those suckers.”

For the rest of the morning, you play until your legs burn and your hands go numb; everyone's breathing hard and sweating despite the cold. 

The game ends with a beautiful alley-oop that has everyone shouting.

Afterward, you all linger on court, passing around a thermos of something warm and definitely spiked, talking about everything and nothing—college life, relationship drama, someone's terrible Tinder date, the new pizza place that had just opened up around the corner. 

When you and Tobin finally stand to leave, someone calls out: “Bring 'em back, Tobes! They can actually shoot!”

Tobin throws up a peace sign, calling over their shoulder, "For sure!" But the broad grin they flash you is private, meant only for you. 

...

The next stop on the ‘Tobin Brooklyn tour’ is the community tennis court, tucked behind a chain-link fence a few blocks over.

It's clearly well-loved despite its age. The concrete is cracked, the painted lines faded to vague suggestions, but someone has spraypainted a beautiful mural on the brick wall: Serena and Venus Williams mid-serve, powerful and triumphant. 

There's no net, just two rusted posts where one used to be. The tall brick wall on the far side is pockmarked with thousands of ball marks—a palimpsest of hours and hours of practice. 

A small boy, maybe nine or ten, is hitting against the wall, the rhythmic thwack-thwack echoing in the cold air.

“This is where I first learned how to play,” Tobin says quietly, and you marvel at how so much of your lives had run parallel to each other, how much you shared in common. “I was probably around his age. We couldn't afford lessons, and the courts in Prospect Park were always booked solid. But my mom would bring me here almost every day after school. Later, when I got older, I'd come on my own. Hit for hours until my arm was sore and my head was clear.” 

You watch the kid hit—his form's not perfect, but there's determination in every stroke. You can almost picture little Tobin here, whacking ball after ball against this wall. The ball skitters away from the kid on a bad bounce. Tobin moves instinctively, catching it one-handed and tossing it back in a gentle underarm throw. The boy flashes a shy gap-toothed grin at the two of you. 

Tobin turns back to you when the kid resumes his practice. “I loved team sports for the camaraderie. Basketball, especially. But tennis was different. On the court, I didn't have to explain myself to anyone. Didn't have to worry about how anyone else felt.” They pause, leaning against the fence. Vulnerability flickers in their expression. “Tennis was freeing. Meditative. In a way nothing else was.” 

You step closer, close enough to see the way their breath mists in the cold. You nod, knowing exactly what Tobin’s talking about because you’d felt it yourself. “Thanks for bringing me here.” 

Tobin's lips curve into a soft smile. “I’m glad I could.” 

After lunch at an Ethiopian restaurant, Tobin takes you to one more place—a small community garden tucked between two apartment buildings.

It's quiet , and so nondescript that it feels almost secret. Someone's strung fairy lights between the raised beds presumably for the festive season. Though it's winter now and many patches lie dormant, Tobin assures you that in summer this place bursts with life—tomatoes and collard greens and herbs lovingly tended.

Tobin gestures to a bench near a dormant rose bush. “That’s my favorite spot. I used to come here after school sometimes, just to sit and read. There was this lady—Mrs. Patterson—she's been in Bed-Stuy since the '60s. She’d sit next to me and tell these wild stories about the neighborhood—what it was like before, during the white flight, through gentrification.” Tobin shoots you a wry smile. “She was also the first queer person I ever met.” 

You sit on the bench side-by-side, swinging your legs and trading stories from your childhoods, voices low and easy in the winter quiet. 

By the time you start walking back, dusk is settling over Brooklyn.

The streetlights flicker on one by one, halogen stars in the urban twilight. Bodegas glow with fluorescent warmth, their signs advertising the best chopped cheese in the borough, the coldest drinks, the fastest scratch-offs. The air is thick with the smell of dinner cooking—fried fish, jerk chicken, someone's pot of beans and rice.

You walk past brownstones still strung with Christmas lights, their stoops decorated with inflatable Santas and menorahs. It's clear everyone wants the festivities to last just a couple more days.

Eventually, you end up at the Brooklyn Heights Promenade.

The skyline stretches across the East River—Manhattan in all its glass and steel and impossible ambition, lit up against the darkening sky. The Statue of Liberty glows faintly in the distance. The Brooklyn Bridge arcs overhead, its cables strung like the strings of some enormous instrument.

Tobin leans against the railing, then reaches out and laces their fingers with yours. “You liking Brooklyn so far?” 

You smile, squeezing their hand. "Of course. It’s where you’re from.”  

Back at the house, the kitchen smells like heaven.

Garlic and thyme and roasting meat, butter-rich cornbread, the sweet-sharp tang of cranberry sauce simmering on the stove. The turkey rests on the counter, golden and glorious. Mr Harris and Mrs. Harris are moving around each other like a professional tennis doubles pair, so comfortable around each other in the kitchen that it's clear they've done this for years.

You and Tobin chip in with the final preparations, taking trays out of the oven, plating final products, setting the dining table. Mr. Harris hovers nearby, ostensibly for ‘moral support,’ but really he's just trying to sneak bites when he thinks no one's looking.

His wife swats his hand away every time, but she's smiling. At one point, while Tobin and Naomi are busy with the collard greens, he sidles up next to you, trying to make conversation.

Tobin's mother enlists your help for the mashed potatoes, and you realize this is a big deal by the way Tobin's eyebrows shoot up. “That’s Grandma’s Secret Recipe,” they whisper to you. 

Mrs. Harris winks. “I get the feeling this one’s gonna stick around a while.” 

...

Dinner is warm and abundant. The table’s full to bursting with all the food that’s been prepared—turkey and ham, greens and mashed potato, cornbread and biscuits, sweet potatoes two ways, cranberry sauce, gravy.

The longer you spend at Tobin's house, the more it feels as though everyone has gotten used to your presence: folding you into their usual routines and conversations.

They ask you lots of questions, wanting to know everything about you from your family to the classes you're taking this semester; Mrs. Harris is warm, inviting—and it's not hard to see where Tobin had inherited their ability to make others feel at ease; Mr. Harris is curious and intelligent in a simple, unassuming way.

Over dinner, you learn that Tobin’s family has been living here for three generations, and it’s clear just how much they love this neighborhood. 

“When I was growing up,” Mr. Harris says, “this whole block was Black families. Working folks, mostly. Teachers, postal workers, nurses. People who looked out for each other.”

“Still got some of that, but it’s different now, isn’t it?” Mrs. Harris says, her tone turning bittersweet. “I’m not averse to a fancy café or two, but… there are a lot of new faces.”

You listen, absorbing it all. Mr. Harris reaches out to pat his wife’s hand, then turns to you. “We grew up three blocks away from each other. Went to the same schools.” 

“So were you childhood friends to lovers, then?” you ask, smiling. 

“Oh, hell no,” Mr. Harris says, laughing. “Naomi here was Prom Queen and I was just this uncool nerd. I left her a rose in her locker every Valentine’s day for ten years without her knowing who it was. It was only years later that she finally decided to give me a chance.” 

“It’s not my fault,” Mrs. Harris protests, swatting at him. “You never told me it was you!” She shakes her head. “It was only when we started working at NYU at the same time—he was an assistant professor, and I was a counselor—that he finally screwed up his damn courage to ask me out.” 

“And the rest is history.” Tobin grins at you, pointing out a picture hanging on a nearby wall. “That was them. They were cute.” 

Mrs. Harris smirks. “Of course. Where d’you think you got your looks?” 

...

After dinner, you and Tobin head upstairs, full and content.

Tobin’s bedroom is small, cozy—walls covered with posters of tennis legends and basketball stars, shelves crammed with trophies and medals, a corkboard dense with photos and little mementos and ticket stubs and postcards.

You discover a small box on the shelf—when you open it curiously, you find photographs, old love letters, mixtapes labeled in different handwriting. Instead of jealousy, you feel something warm and fond settle in your chest. "Someone was popular with the <ladies/gentlemen>," you tease. 

Tobin laughs. “Yeah, well… Apparently with you, too.” They pull out an old diary from a bottom drawer. “Here, I wanna show you something.” 

They flick through the pages carefully until they find what they're looking for, then they settle onto the bed beside you. “20 August, so…five years ago—I was a high school sophomore.” They clear their throat and read: “Saw J by the lockers today and I swear to GOD—They’re SO CUTE.” They pause, glancing wryly at you. “That’s underlined three times, by the way, and followed by an asterisk with a tiny footnote.” 

They show you the page. There, on the bottom of the page, in tiny handwriting, reads: “am I gay??” with hearts drawn around it. 

You raise an eyebrow. “What did you do after that?” 

Tobin props their head up with their elbow, glancing at you sidelong. “Nothing,” they say, laughing. When you stare at them, incredulous, they just shake their head. “I was in a relationship with someone! I…just. shelved it to think about later.”

“And I’m that ‘later’,” you say lightly. 

“You're the best 'later' that I could've ever dreamt of,” Tobin says, grinning. They’re quiet for a moment. “I guess I didn't really want to think about it then because it felt too overwhelming back then. I built it up to be such a big deal in my head, even though it didn’t have to be.” Tobin shoots you a wry look. “Bit of an over-thinker, as you can tell."

You reach out and take their hand. “Doesn't matter. Lots of things take time.”

There’s that little crease between them that you find so endearing. “I was kinda nervous to introduce you to my family, my friends.” Tobin admits quietly.

You swallow, meeting their gaze. “Yeah? Why?” 

Tobin chews on their bottom lip. “I was afraid they wouldn’t like you, or that you wouldn’t like them. I wanted you to fit. Because…” They reach out, fingers brushing your jaw gently. “I like you so goddamn much. I want my people to be your people, too.” 

You nod, throat tightening slightly. “Did it go okay, you think?” 

At this, a big smile spills across Tobin’s face. “Better than okay,” they say, a smile spilling across their face. “Hell, did you see the sparkle in my dad’s eye when you guys were talking politics and you brought up the prison abolition movement? And my mom told you the secret mashed potato recipe. Vi gave you the ‘I’ll kill you’ speech.”

You laugh, slowly letting everything sink in. Being home with Tobin has given you a glimpse of the pieces that make them who they are. They’re such an open, friendly person that you sometimes forget just how private they are—how closely they guard their heart. This visit has folded you into the fabric of their life, their history, their home—the circle of friends and family that they hold dearest to them.

“Thanks for bringing me into all of this,” you say quietly.

“Thank you for not giving up on me—on us. Even when I wasn’t sure the first time, and even when I was still trying to figure my shit out.” Tobin says simply. “Thanks for taking things slow, and giving me the time I needed.”

Something warm and fierce blooms in your chest. “Of course. It was worth it, a thousand times over.” You lean up and kiss them—slow, deliberate, pouring everything you feel into it. "Is this okay?" you murmur against their mouth.

“Yes,” Tobin says. Their hands slide up your back, pulling you closer. The kiss deepens. Minutes later, when you break away again, Tobin breathes, “I used to think that I had to have everything figured out before I could let myself have this.” 

You curl into their side, head resting on their shoulder. Tobin stares at you, dark eyes rich and warm. “Now I think maybe figuring it out with you is the point.”

You kiss them again, and this time there's no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just the two of you, mapping each other’s bodies in the low light, committing every curve and dip to memory. You kiss their jaw, their throat, feel their pulse jump beneath your lips.

Outside, Brooklyn continues to live and breathe—distant sirens, the subway rumbling past, someone's music thumping bass, laughter floating up from the street.

And inside, you lie together in the narrow bed, Tobin's head tucked under your chin, their breathing slow and even. In the room that has borne witness to every version of Tobin that had come before the one you’re holding in your arms, you begin to drift off to sleep.