Chapter Text
Yelling. They’re always yelling at him. Zane remembers a time where he had to be the loud one to get attention. Now? His actions speak louder than words. And he gets what he wants. Though not being thrown in jail is a bonus. He’d rather not get that much attention. Just from his parents and peers will do.
“After all of this time, and money, and time!” his father furiously shouts, pathetic pacing filling the living room, “And this is what I’m repaid with!?”
Zane reclines back on the couch, watching his sperm donor with utmost satisfaction.
“Maybe we should have let them haul your ass to prison! Maybe then you’d finally learn some gods damned respect young man! I can barely believe it! We raised you better than this, Zane! You’re lucky we paid all of that money, because you certainly don’t deserve it!”
Mom, an angry, idle bystander, steps in, “Dear, maybe you should cool down a bit.”
“Zianna!” he exclaims, aghast, “Do not tell me you’re defending him—”
“I am not!” she snaps furiously, “And do not take that tone with me Garte!”
Garte groans, rubbing his face in exasperation, “Irene above. Why can’t you all just act like Garroth?”
Zane’s satisfaction and enjoyment dies on the spot, hit at 250 miles per hour dead on by the fucking asshole train. He shoots up to his feet, sneering in his father’s face, “No thanks, I rather like having a brain.”
Garte scoffs, “If you had a brain, we wouldn’t be here ri—” he pauses, squinting at Zane, “What in the hell is on your face?”
Immediately taken out of it, Zane blinks once, twice… “Huh?” there’s not really a lot of face out in the open for something to be on so what does he—
“Is that makeup!?”
Oh. Right.
That.
When he started wearing it, his peers tried bullying him, and in return he just ruined their lives and made their year miserable. And was backed up by the Jury. Simple. If only he could do that to his father. And he doesn't even have those idiots anymore after they got arrested. Staring at his dad, he doesn’t exactly know what to say in this situation. Should he deny it? That’d be stupid. Should he be confident? He always felt confident wearing it— Well, after he got over the initial learning curve and then also the all consuming shame he felt in those first couple of months. That idiot hadn’t even noticed it till now.
Hm. There’s always one method he can trust to fall back on. Mock him.
“Wow, your priorities are so in order,” and then shame his favorite thing, “I almost feel bad for your pathetic company. They must be agonized having to compensate for such a clumsy boss.”
Zianna’s eyes go wide, and she braces.
Shock, then rage floods Garte’s face, which subtly turns a ridiculous pinky shade of red. He grits his teeth, large frame going rigid with tension.
Yeah, do something. Pussy.
Except, he doesn’t yell, just shakes with rage, gritting out, “Go wipe that shit off, and go to your room.”
I’m eighteen years old, stupid fart. He hates how this idiot’s worthless words cut him so deep. It isn’t shit. I… It’s cool.
“Hm, enticing argument,” he turns and begins heading for the kitchen, “I’m good.”
“Zane!!!” ah, there’s the yelling, “Get back here right now young man!”
Humming lightly to himself, he peruses the pantry. What sounds good today? Chips, crackers, toaster strudel, ramen? Barbeque?
“I swear!” he hears distantly, “We raised a freak! He’s gonna become a psychopath when he gets older!”
“Garte you’re overreacting!”
“This is because you coddle him!”
Mom’s horrified gasp, “How dare you!” it’s nice, even while hating him, Mom still vouches for me. Even if at the end of the day, she will always take his side.
Tangy barbeque sounds good.
Depositing the entire unopened bag on his desk, he meets his gaze in the small mirror on his desk. He pauses, staring back at the loser. He’s always had a love-hate relationship with how he looks. His freckles made him look like a pathetic baby. He’s always liked his hair. It’s his mom’s. And then his eyes — his dad’s eyes. Piercing, cold, unloving. Maybe Garroth did him a favor by taking out one of them. Maybe that’s why he started wearing eyeliner. Not a soul will ever hear this and he will probably bury this realization deep down for the rest of this life. But, maybe the eyeliner was his way of taking such a disgusting part of himself, and making it pretty. Making him feel good.
Also because it looks badass.
He groans. Gross. Feelings. He needs to snack. Maybe that will help them.