Chapter Text
Movies tell you your High School experience is underage drinking, wild parties that has you ending up at the station, losing your virginity in ways you never thought imaginable, and making decisions that will either ruin or life or have you looking back at them fondly.
But that’s what movies tell you, and for the past years High School has been nothing like that.
Unless your name is Miles Upshur, but the last time Waylon checked, his name wasn’t Miles. Granted, Miles would occasionally attempt to drag him into his life of semi-popularity and getting laid every other day, the only problem was Waylon’s inability to skip studying in favor of socializing without a fair share of guilt. It had a way of putting any such activities to a screeching halt.
His grades were of greatest importance if he wanted to get into a good college – but even that was more like desperately groping in complete darkness, with today’s economy. A degree didn’t guarantee a job, which made things all that much shittier. At least he knew what he wanted to get into, and there was a high enough demand for computer programmers in modern society, what with the digitalization of pretty much everything.
He had, at the least, a glimmer of a future.
Miles, on the other hand… Well, he did keep making jokes about becoming a pornstar and actually receiving pay for sucking dick on the breaks, but Waylon much doubted he was being serious. There was one vague memory of him mentioning getting into reporting, and it didn’t seem like such a bad idea, considering the way that he somehow managed to know everything happening to everyone in school.
In general, it wasn’t all that bad. You had your standard bunch of weird teachers - and Mount Massive High had plenty of those – your social cliques of popular, less popular, and not popular kids. Dropouts, delinquents, jocks and nerds all alike. Waylon was pretty sure he’d seen some goth kids around, too.
Waylon himself didn’t really fit into any of those categories, at least not in his own opinion. He was more like a bystander that went along with his business and didn’t delve too much into other’s. Not an outcast – there were people he could talk to, even if they weren’t necessarily friends – but more of a wallflower. He was good at watching people.
If only he was good at watching the hallway while retrieving things from his locker. Then maybe he wouldn’t have to be taken off guard when a hand pressed against his back and gave a mighty shove forward; straight into his own locker. As his nose collided rather painfully against the back of it, the sound of it slamming shut echoed in his ears.
It was to no surprise when the mocking laughter of one Jeremy Blaire resounded from outside the locker, and Waylon could do little but give him a tired look through the grates of the locker. The bully slammed a fist next to the grate – a lame scare tactic, most likely – and grinned at him.
“See you in class, nerd,” he said, and there was absolutely no possible way for him to be more cheesy. Waylon wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry in despair from the amount of second-hand embarrassment he felt for the simple soul. He said nerd. Nerd.
Once he was done questioning his faith in humanity, Waylon realized that he was locked inside an uncomfortable dark space, again, and unless he wanted to wait for the off-chance that someone were to walk by, he would have to text Miles to come get him out.
Swearing softly, Waylon somehow managed to fish his phone out of his back pocket, despite how cramped it was in the locker. He nearly dropped it, but through some sort of miracle he managed to bring it up to his face – not without being blinded by the light of the display screen, first – and bring up Miles’ number.
He quickly sent the text ‘I’m stuck in the locker again. Come get me out’ and managed to somehow wiggle around enough to slide down to sit on the bottom as he waited for his rescue.
After about a minute, his phone vibrated in his hands.
[Miles Dickshur:]
1:23 PM - ‘ur a fucking loser’
Ever so supportive, Miles. Pierced right through his heart, that one. At least it meant he was on his way, which was something. Sighing, Waylon replied with a reminder of just how much of an ass Miles truly was and stuffed his phone away. If he was late for class because of this, he would seriously consider finding a way to get back at Jeremy. Probably not a good idea, but he was really fucking tired of going through this same scenario every other week.
It felt like the entire afternoon had passed by when finally the sound of approaching footsteps came like a Heaven’s blessing. It probably hadn’t been more than a couple of minutes, but time really seems to drag on when you’re trapped in a locker with no better entertainment than the shitty games on your phone. He heard quite an audible sigh and the cluttering noise of fingers fiddling with the padlock, and he was drenched in light when the locker door opened.
“Back here again, are we?” said Miles, sounding ever so pleased with himself to have Waylon even further indebted to him. “Might as well sign yourself up as apparel; you seem to spend most of your existence in lockers.”
“Shut up and help me up,” Waylon grunted in reply, thrusting out his hand at him to further emphasize his demand. Miles rolled his eyes and grabbed the offered limb to pull his friend up, clicking his tongue as he did.
“That’s what I get? No ‘thank you Miles’ or ‘I’m so happy to see you, Miles’? And here I thought we were buddies.”
“Only because you’re just slightly better than Jeremy.”
He made a pouty face at that, feigning hurt.
“Ouch.”
Waylon just smacked his shoulder and proceeded to re-adjust his tousled clothing; his shirt had slid halfway up his back from his sitting down in the locker.
“Only difference between me and him is that he’s got a massive stick up his ass while I’ve got-“
“I know, Miles. I know,” Waylon interrupted, not exactly feeling in the mood to listen to Miles’ sexual frivolities. “You’ve got class now, right?”
“20 minutes ago, actually. Not that I care if Steve writes me up as absent anyway.”
“It’s like you want to fail all your subjects.”
Miles shrugged nonchalantly, which earned him a frustrated sigh from Waylon’s part. The idiot just couldn’t be made to care about things he didn’t find interesting.
“Well, I gotta get to Trager’s class now, and I don’t wanna be late,” Waylon said, shrugging his backpack onto his shoulder. “Thanks for getting me out.”
“You’re welcome.”
Right when he passed, Miles thought it appropriate to plant a nice, resounding smack right across Waylon’s buttocks. It didn’t even phase him anymore, which could be both a good and bad thing, so he just turned on his heel. “Miles,” he said, exasperated, but the perpetrator just shrugged at him with an expression that suggested he had no idea what he was so upset about. Waylon could only half-glare at him as he swaggered away like the leather jacket asshole he was.
“This fucking child,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he continued down the hall.
It didn’t take long to get to Trager’s class, fortunately, and Waylon soon found a seat conveniently placed to the left in the middle row, from the teacher’s desk. Trager himself didn’t seem to be there, yet, and the classroom was full of idle chatter and students loitering about in groups, looking and sounding like any regular class would.
The relaxed atmosphere was broken when Trager more or less glided into the room – there was no other way to describe his walking, it was like he was just sliding across the floor – smartly dressed and donning a particularly hideous pair of round glasses. His hair looked like it had given up on staying on his head long ago, what with the bald patch at the very top, and was pulled back into a lazy ponytail.
Not a moment before taking his place behind the teacher’s desk did he toss what looked to be an arm onto it.
"Okay kids, see here, this is the arm of the last student who came in late.” Almost immediately a generous portion of the class started to give each other mildly concerned looks. “Nonono, I'm just joshin’ ya; it’s just a chimp arm. I like how quick you guys are reacting though, good sign." He sounded like he was bored by the world and entertained by his own self at the same time. By the way he kept babbling so nonchalantly, he probably just liked to hear himself talk.
“If you kids could take your seats so we can start slicing some flesh, that’ll be spectacular.”
Out of all the weird teachers at Mount Massive High, Trager took the cake. The upside was that his ridiculous manners kept your attention, the downside is that it could just as easily lose your attention. His way of speaking was monotone, in a way, and if you didn’t watch yourself all the sentences would meld together into one resonating mush of syllables, vowels and consonants that eventually wasn’t even that and just a single-toned hum. That would be the part where you looked out the window and wondered when you could go home.
Most of Trager’s classes were like that; you either paid full attention, or none at all. If he had a body part with him or not didn’t seem to matter in that statement, since Waylon already felt his mind drift away from the classroom and out over the Colorado mountains.
Waylon was in the midst of putting together a new line of code in his head when he became aware that people were starting to pack up their things all around him. With dread he realized that he’d missed the whole lecture. Waylon blinked around sheepishly, as if the answers to what he’d missed would lie within the body language of his classmates, until someone approached his end of the classroom and stopped in front of his desk.
Waylon looked up at them with raised eyebrows.
It was a guy he’d seen around here and there, but never actually spoken to. The sides of his head were shaved like your everyday typical Instagram hipster, and it looked like his shirt would rip if he as much as flexed. Waylon would’ve called it poor judgment, but the fact remained that he actually managed to pull it off in some manner of attractiveness.
Attractive? Get your shit together, Waylon.
“Hey,” he said, and the whole situation was made all that more awkward even without Waylon thinking of him as good looking.
“Uh, hi?” Waylon tried feebly. As far as he knew, he didn’t have a beef with this guy, and he hadn’t done anything particularly out of line, so he could be fairly sure he didn’t have to expect a black eye by the end of the day. Unless this was yet another bully looking for a new victim, then he would be in a lot of trouble if he had to keep away from both Jeremy and this guy. All he knew was his name; Eddie Gluskin, which he’d picked up when overhearing people in class.
“Waylon, right? You get really high grades in Math, don’t you?” Eddie said without as much as blinking. It was a bit eerie, actually, the way he stared – like Waylon was a piece of meat. Maybe the chimp arm tickled his appetite.
“Yes?”
Eddie put both his hands down on Waylon’s desk, leaning over slightly while looking off to the side. He seemed unsure of himself.
“I, er... I was wondering if you could tutor me, maybe. I don’t do so well in that subject, and since you’re so good...” He glanced back at him with prying eyes, looking a bit like a lost, confused puppy.
Waylon’s first decision was to say no. He didn’t know this guy, and he certainly didn’t have the time to lug around anyone else’s weight along with his own, schoolwork-wise. But right when he opened his mouth to tell him off, he realized he could gain something in return out of a deal like this. He didn’t want to be full asshole, so he could just be half-asshole and take advantage of the situation.
“What’s in it for me?” he said critically, and immediately regretted his harsh tone. Why did he always have to act so obnoxious around strangers?
“I can help you with biology,” Eddie replied quickly, like he’d planned it. Shit, he probably noticed Waylon spacing out. He was clever, he’d give him that. He pondered for another second, forehead crinkling as he weighed the pros and cons of having a study buddy. At best, they’d become friends, and Waylon would have an easier time getting his assignments done. At worst, it would mean increased stress and his grades getting worse as a result. But if it didn’t work out, he could always call it off.
“Fine, I’ll tutor you.”
Eddie practically lit up with a wide, rather awkward grin. It was a dramatic shift from his previous small, insecure presence just a few seconds ago, but that didn’t mean it was any easier to handle.
“Brilliant! We can go to a café tomorrow, to start with. I know this great place where I always study. I’ve been there so many times I get discounts,” he said, adding an almost comical laugh at the end of his sentence. “It’ll be great, I just know it will!”
At least he didn’t lack enthusiasm.
Eddie soon excused himself, yet again exclaiming that he was looking forward to their study time, and left Waylon baffled and slightly confused. So now he had a study buddy, out of the blue. It was strange because he knew Eddie usually kept to himself – he hadn’t once thought he’d ever speak to
Sure, it was a welcome variation from Miles’ douchebaggery, but it came so suddenly he didn’t quite know what to think of the situation.
So he was going to tutor a kid from his biology class, and they were going to meet up tomorrow for the first session at some café he didn’t know where it was. It all sounded real fishy, but it wasn’t like he could do anything about it now; Eddie was already out and gone.
Sighing and wondering just what he’d signed himself up to, Waylon packed up his things in order to go home. At least if he was going to study tomorrow, that means tonight was free for him to do whatever he wanted. So far there’s been one pro and no cons to this deal, but it was still much too soon to decide on whether it was a good or bad idea.
But for now, he had to get home.
**
“I’m back,” Waylon called as he kicked off his shoes into a corner. The entrance hallway was small but still spacious, mostly because there were currently only two people living in the house.
“How was school?” a female voice called from further into the house; his mom.
“It was okay.” Besides from him being shoved into his locker for probably the millionth time, and arriving in time for a lesson all in vain because of his wandering mind and inability to pay attention.
Waylon continued down the hallway and entered into the open arc to the right, which led to the kitchen. He dropped his bag off in the corner, peering over at what his mother was doing over by the counter.
“What’re we having?” he asked and placed a soft kiss on her cheek.
“Dumplings,” she replied with that big smile she always gave him whenever she was greeted by a kiss. Sure, he was a bit of a mother’s boy, he would be the first to admit that, but who wouldn’t be around this woman. He couldn’t have wished for a better mom.
“Yum,” he said. “Need any help?”
“That would be lovely, Waylon.” He was rolling up his sleeves before she even answered. To be quite honest, he would’ve done so even if she’d said it wasn’t necessary.
“Could you mix the seasoning, pumpkin?”
“On it.” Waylon opened a cabinet and retrieved a bowl, urged into haste by the way his stomach was purring with hunger. First he needed get the garlic.
“Your father called today,” his mother said, sounding hopeful and melancholy at the same time. “Said he’d be home in a couple of weeks, at the very least.” Waylon wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear an answer to the obvious question that prodded at his tongue, but he couldn’t help but ask.
“And at the most?”
His mother paused what she was doing for a moment, and the soft sigh she let out made Waylon’s chest tighten.
“Another six months.”
“Oh.”
They continued to cook in silence, neither of them able to push themselves back into conversation. Not when the third chair remained so gapingly empty at the dinner table. Not when there was a pair of shoes missing by the front door.
“I’ll be home later than usual tomorrow,” Waylon said once he couldn’t stand it anymore. Anything to disperse the choking atmosphere induced by his dad’s absence.
“Are you seeing Miles?”
In her shoes, that would’ve been his first conclusion too.
“No, no it’s someone from class.”
And like every good mother, of course she had to adopt that smug look that meant she was going to pry, and if that didn’t work, she was going to assume the most outlandish things just to get him to spill.
“Is it a girl?” The way she dragged out the word girl almost warranted a groan. Couldn’t be more heteronormative than that, could it.
“No, it’s not a girl, mom.”
“Ooooooh, okay.”
What’s that supposed to mean? Great, is she going to badger him about being gay now, too? She was way too eager for him to settle down, sometimes. Especially considering he wasn’t even considered an adult yet.
She made a cake when he got his first girlfriend.
“It’s not a date. We’re just gonna study.”
“Isn’t that the most common excuse that you teenagers use nowadays?”
“Not this time, mom.”
The skeptical face she made was just to get under his skin, and he knew it. It was successful, though, even if he knew that. He simply shook his head with a frustrated noise and continued to mix the seasoning.
“What’s his name? Is he cute?” Of course she wouldn’t drop it. She would never drop any subject related to any and all of Waylon’s relationships, whether they were just friends or not. In this case they weren’t even friends, so it was even stranger.
“His name’s Eddie.” And he was kind of cute, if he was to be completely honest. Not that he’d say that aloud.
“That does sound like a cute name, though.”
Waylon made a louder noise at this, which earned him a light-hearted chuckle before the two of them resumed cooking. It seemed his mother had her fill of teasing him, for now.
“The seasoning’s done,” he announced, pushing the bowl of the mixture over to her end. She gave it a quick glance before shooting a smile his way, then waved her hand at him.
“You can run upstairs now, sweetie, I can handle the rest.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, run along now.”
Waylon grabbed his backpack and left the kitchen, continuing down the hallway until he reached the staircase which led up to the second floor. He pushed open the door to his room with his foot and tossed his backpack to some remote corner.
His room wasn’t particularly messy, but it wasn’t stark clean either. It was average. It was your standard teenage room with a bed that looked to have been made in a split second, some clothes scattered across the floor that seemed to have been tossed for the purpose of landing on the cushioned chair in the corner, but had fallen short.
Not even a moment later had he swiftly disposed of his jeans, replaced them with more comfortable sweatpants, and taken a seat by the computer that probably hadn’t been shut off in months. It was either running, or in sleep mode, nowadays. Waylon didn’t really have the patience for it to run the whole startup process every time he got home, so he just never shut it off at all.
Waylon stretched his arms up behind his head while he launched the program that contained the code he’d been working on since the start of school. It was about halfway finished, and only because he’d managed to crash the computer hardware at one point and there one was particular line of code that was exceptionally buggy, but other than that it was looking up. He wasn’t even sure what he’d use the custom script for once it was finished, but he supposed he’d figure that out later.
If it ever did work, that is.
And so he cracked his knuckles and got to work, thinking that he’d probably have several lines finished by the time dinner was ready, and after that he could try to look into what he missed during biology. If he couldn’t find that, he’d just have to subtly ask Eddie tomorrow.
He didn’t even realize they hadn’t agreed to a meeting place until the sun had set since long ago.