Archive of Our Own

Brad has been teaching long enough to know that he hates children. "I hate children," he says, announcing it to the room and trying to fold his legs comfortably beneath him. They're in the old teachers' lounge on the fourth floor by the bathrooms that have been out of order since Brad started at Oceanside five years ago. There's a new teachers' lounge on the second floor, with slightly more space and a refrigerator, but there are students that try and hang around that one, the ones that take one look at Walt and say, "But oh, Mr. Hasser, I really don't understand iambic pentameter," and flutter their eyelashes until he stops to help them.

It's Walt, so he always stops.

"Did I mention that I hate children?" Brad asks. The table they're sitting at is cramped because, like everything else in the room, it's storage; a prop from last year's spring musical, with rickety legs and an uneven surface. The chair is uncomfortable as hell, too, but he'll take it if it means he can eat his lunch in peace.

"You mentioned, dog," Poke says, stretching out his own legs. He has Spanish exams out for grading, but he's ignoring them in favor of his lunch. "It's just that no one cares."

From the doorway, Nate says, "I would probably care more if you mentioned it less." Poke and Trombley laugh; Trombley the loudest, because that's how he is.

"I hate you too, Trombley," Brad says, but only because he's honest. He's nice like that. "What are you even doing here? I thought you were still suspended."

Trombley grins, like Brad is joking, because getting caught with the ingredients to make a bomb on campus within the first month of school is hilarious. "I wasn't actually making the bomb, Brad," Trombley says in that eerie stoner voice of his that somehow never grew up, even though he's nearly twenty-five. "I was demonstrating—"

"I can't hear this," Nate says, still in the doorway. He straightens up, looks down at his watch and gathers his things together, stuffing his still-full Tupperware container back into his satchel. "James," he says, looking straight at Trombley. "You're still on probation. Please, don't 'demonstrate'—"

"But, VP! I was only—" Trombley starts, still smiling. His eyes are terrifying. Brad doesn't plan on ever having children, but if it happens, there's no way in hell he's sending them to school here. Not if there's a chance they'll end up with Trombley as a teacher. He'll probably have blown himself up by then anyway.

Walt steps in, kicking Trombley under the table. "He doesn't want to hear it, man," he says quietly. Trombley doesn't stop talking, but he does do it quieter, focusing on Walt instead.

Nate says, "I have a meeting with Principal Ferrando. Gents." Above Poke's head, he meets Brad's eyes. "Mr. Colbert," he gestures minutely with his free hand. "Walk with me?"

"Of course," Brad says, packing up his things in no time. He hasn't finished his soup, but it's pretty tasteless anyway. He is a good teacher, a strong lecturer, but Brad can admit his faults. He's a terrible cook. "Sir," he asks, when they're alone in the hallway. There are kids scattered around, the unlucky few who happen to have lockers on this floor and they all smile shyly at Nate. "Was there something I could help you with?"

Nate smiles, but he's distracted. "You don't have to keep calling me that, Brad," he says, lightly touching Brad's arm. It's the barest of glances, just the pads of his fingers against the sleeve of Brad's sweater. Brad has to fight to compose himself, to keep from reacting to it. "Enough time has passed that we can be friends now, hasn't it?"

Brad nods stiffly. "Of course, sir."

"Like now," Nate says, with another of those grins. "Now is the perfect time for you to stop calling me that."

"Of course," Brad repeats, and allows himself a smile as well. "What was it that you needed, Nate?"

"There's a new history substitute coming in long term, because of—well. You know." He winces as he shifts on his feet, rifling through his satchel and pulling out a manila folder that he eventually hands over. Brad finds himself staring at an unfamiliar face with unruly hair and crooked teeth. "Since Pappy's injury, we needed to make some quick decisions, considering it's already October." Their eyes meet on the landing, and Brad stops staring at the file to stare at Nate instead. "He comes highly recommended from the school board, but I haven't met him yet." His eyes flicker with something so minute that someone paying less attention would hardly notice.

Brad notices. But then, since their one, disastrous date two years ago, he's noticed everything about Nate. He smiles. "Would you like me to spy on him, sir?" he asks. "I admit, I tend not to blend well, but I'm sure I could think of something."

Nate laughs. The sound is rare enough that Brad wants to savor it, but they have to keep moving, so he looks back down at the file folder, memorizing the face there instead.

"I'd like for you to advise him," Nate says, hands in his pockets. "Make him feel welcome, show him around," Nate shrugs. "Take him to the fourth floor for lunch so he's not—so that he can make friends."

Brad grins. "I won't leave him to Schwetje and Casey Kasem, Nate, I promise. Even if the kid's an idiot, he deserves a better fate than that."

"Thank you," Nate says, and then they're on the first floor, right by the main office, where Nate has to turn right to head for his meeting with Godfather, and Brad has to cross the quad to the science building to get to his classroom. Nate touches his arm again, a fleeting thing he barely seems to notice.

Brad notices. He says, "Sure," and they nod their goodbyes.

Brad teaches Pre-Calc all the way up to AP, and advises an independent study in Number Theory. He recommends that students not take his classes if they can avoid it, but year after year, they do, and year after year, he has to fail nearly half of them. Year after year, it sucks.

He's in the middle of grading the first practice ex am of the term when there's a knock at his door. Brad frowns, glancing at his watch. He has fifteen minutes left of his free period, and fifty more exams to get through. He rolls his eyes, then shouts out a, "Come in," because maybe if he explains differential equations one more time, they'll magically make sense to the masses. He doubts it, but it's worth a shot.

The man that shoulders his way into Brad's classroom isn't a student, although he could probably pass for one. It's the new sub for Pappy's class, shorter than Brad had imagined, with the very edge of a tattoo just visible through the open collar of his button-up.

Brad raises his brows. "Josh Person," he says, leaning back in his seat. "Goes primarily by Ray, not that that's any better. Brooklyn, New York by way of Nevada, Missouri." He allows himself to smile. "How am I doing?"

Ray leans back on his heels and smiles. His teeth really are that crooked. "Pretty good, homes. You a private detective in your spare time?"

Brad does not laugh, but it's a close thing. "No," he says evenly. "I have good sources, though."

Ray grins, and he has dimples, too. He's not smiling in his staff photo, nor in the pass that hangs from around his neck and it would be easy to get distracted by him, but Brad doesn't. "Good to know where I can get all the juicy dirt from," Ray says, and then he does something no one has even dared in Brad's five years at Oceanside. He drops his bag on the floor and then scoots onto the corner of Brad's desk like they're going to have a chat. "Oh, differential equations," he says, pointing to the white board behind Brad's head. "Neat."

Brad snorts. "They are not neat, they are—" He definitely doesn't stop, but there's a moment when their eyes lock. Ray smirks at him. "Differential equations," Brad finishes. He squints at Ray. "What did you study in school?"

Ray smiles. "Well, in third grade, I wanted to be President."

Pappy teaches—taught—two units of World History and two of Humanities, which doesn't sound like a lot until you factor in the students. Thirty in each of the World Histories could be manageable if they were freshmen or sophomores, but they're not. The Humanities classes are even worse: two sessions a day at 20 students a block with three other teachers. It's already a clusterfuck of a class—with four teachers trying to teach their own subjects (Pappy does history, Walt—English, Lilley covers Art and Stafford Music) while also adhering to one curriculum of the course—but it's thrown for an even bigger loop when one of the core teachers is out for the foreseeable future because of a gunshot wound.

"A gunshot wound," Ray repeats disbelievingly, leaning against Pappy's desk now instead of Brad's. He looks skeptical. Rudy moves his things out of the way and laughs, welcoming, like somehow Ray's presence isn't an intrusion. He coaches the wrestling team and gym, but he's been covering Pappy's classes for the past week.

"It was a hostage situation," Walt says earnestly. "He—"

Rudy fills in. "Prevented the death of a Puerto Rican grandmother of seven as well as—"

"Calmed the motherfucker with the gun down," Stafford finishes. "After he was all down and bleeding, too!" He smiles, and his grill glints even in the terrible overhead lighting. Brad makes a note to tell Nate about the bulbs being out in the history wing, and then makes another note to just grab the ladder after school and fix the problem himself. Nate has enough on his plate already.

Ray still doesn't look impressed. "Does he have some sort of training?" he asks. "You couldn't pay me money to go near a motherfucker with a gun."

"Not even to save a grandmother?" Rudy asks. He looks like he's hovering between amusement and disbelief. Brad doesn't blame him. He met Ray five minutes ago, and aside from the building annoyance, he's been in a similar predicament.

"How would I know that she wasn't in on it too?" Ray asks, leaning back to meet Rudy's eyes. "You can't trust old people, dude. They've had way more years on the planet than us, and they're sneaky fuckers."

"I'm pretty sure she wasn't," Lilley says from across the room where he's setting up easels for the art exam. "You'd need a bigger purse to hide a glock, right?"

Ray grins at all of them, turning over his shoulder to invite Brad to the party too. "Maybe she was a plant from the inside. Somebody to help the," he pauses, squinting at Stafford to get the wording right. "Somebody to help the 'motherfucker with the gun' case the place." He shrugs, as if he's making all the sense in the world. "I mean, who would ever suspect a Puerto Rican grandma with seven kids hanging around? It's genius."

"Let me get this straight," Brad says, walking the remaining few feet into the Humanities classroom. "You mean to tell me you think there was a sting operation to knock over the corner store? You think a person would go through all that trouble just to get a couple packages of Jujubees?"

"Maybe it was Charms," Lilley grunts, dragging the easels exactly a foot apart and tacking up reproductions of famous works of art on each one.

Ray turns to look at him and shrugs. He says, "It's my job to look at a situation analytically, right? Your friend, Mr. Patrick—Pippy?"

"Pappy," five voices echo. Brad's surprised to find his included, but Ray just smiles.

"Pappy," he repeats. "Right. I'm just saying, he could've gotten shot in the leg for no reason at all."

Brad leaves Ray in the Humanities room to get settled, cutting back across the quad at double time to get to get to the science building for his afternoon class.

Most of his students are seated and already working on the problem set he'd left on the white board and the bell hasn't even rung yet. Brad allows himself to smile until he sees Sandra O'Connell in the back row, biting her nails and blinking her eyes furiously. He doesn't think she'll cry, but it wouldn't be a first for one of his students.

"Sandra," he says, kneeling by her to take a look at her notes. She flinches visibly when he settles next to her, and there are so many scribbles in her notebook that he can barely make sense of the original equation. "Sandra, could you switch to a blank page? That way you can look at the problem with new eyes."

She nods mutely, and flips to another page in her notebook. She'd been pressing down so hard there are indent markings on the page, but it's okay. Brad can work with that.

"Do you understand the problem?" She shrugs, not meeting his eyes. He waits as she recopies it and realizes almost instantly that it's not from the set he's assigned for the day, but from the last night's homework. "Do you want me to go over it with the class?" he asks quietly. Sandra is a promising student, she just gets in her own way, sometimes, and that's always a hazard when it comes to such a high level course.

She nods minutely, and then whispers, "Please," in the quietest voice Brad's ever heard her use.

Brad can afford to drive his bike to work. They're in California, so the weather is rarely too awful to to take her out. He's just putting on his helmet when he sees Ray walk out of the building, looking around like he's still trying to get his bearings.

Brad still has thirty practice-exams to grade, plus over a hundred homework assignments to get through before progress reports are due on Friday. Still, he'd made Nate a promise, so he calls out, "Person!" and waits for Ray to locate him in the crowd.

It doesn't take as long, and for his size, Ray's a quick mover, at Brad's side and running his fingers over the bike in record time. Brad very carefully doesn't break his hand. He probably needs it to teach.

"Hi," Ray says, when he looks up from his assault. "She is a thing of beauty, my friend."

It's a struggle not to grin, and Brad's already exhausted, so he smiles and says, "I like her."

Ray takes a step back, like he's considering Brad all over again, and says, "Brad Colbert."

Brad rolls his eyes. "Speaking," he says, but Ray shushes him.

"Teaching at Oceanside five years, Calculus through the ages, even though he was a computer engineering major. ...drives a motorcycle." He laughs, and the sound matches him, somehow. Brad catches himself staring and forces himself to cast his gaze out to the throng of teenagers spreading out around them like wildfire. "Bet the big bosses love that," Ray says, finishing his assessment.

"It's not as though all math teachers are obligated to use pocket protectors and wear coke bottle glasses, Ray," and then, "Do I even want to know how you know what my major in college was?" He really doesn't, but Ray cuts him off before he can speak again.

"Maybe we have the same sources," he says, smirking like they've been friends for years.

"I doubt that very much." Brad slides on his helmet, lifting his hand in a wave before kicking his bike into gear.

There are many common misconceptions about high school, but the biggest is probably that report cards are somehow worse than progress reports. Report cards are important, sure, but they're a series of number grades plugged in a computer with creative comments like, 'Susie is a pleasure to have in class!' and 'Davie asks such intuitive questions!' Brad has never utilized these comments, but knows others that have. Most teachers do a shit job at actual teaching, which is why there are so few students who go on to have educations worth the money their parents shell out for them, or conversely, why there are so many familiar faces at In-N-Out.

Progress reports are harder, because they actually involve tracking a student's progress, which often involves locating and getting to know said student. It's Brad's least favorite part of being a high school teacher, bar none.

He and Walt are in the fourth floor teachers' lounge before the first bell on Wednesday writing their reports when Ray pokes his head in and says, "I had a feeling I'd find you two here." He has a backpack on and his sleeves are rolled up high enough on his forearms that his horse tattoo is visible.

Brad spares an idle thought to how many he has all in all, but kills it quickly and just says, "Hello Ray," instead.

Walt's much friendlier, and he says, "You mean this room isn't a secret?" with a laugh, and a nudge to Brad's thigh. Brad tolerates it, because he's known Walt since the third grade, and also, possibly most importantly, because Walt doesn't care about his touch issues. He was the one who coined the term "touch issues" in the first place. Brad had a lot of anger as a child.

Ray drops his backpack on the ground by Walt's feet and instantly looks older without the straps on his shoulders. "Not if you know how to look," he says, and then takes the empty chair to Brad's right.

"You've only been here half a day and you already know how to look?" Brad asks, and he only realizes how stupid he must sound once the words are actually out of his mouth. Walt is kind enough not to mention it, but Ray isn't.

"I can look any way you want, homes," he says, with this lascivious tilt to his eyebrows that Brad ignores. It's easier than listening, and besides, he still has eighty more progress reports to write.

"I hate children," he says for probably the millionth time of his life. Walt nudges his stomach this time instead, and goes back to writing things in his own reviews like, 'Evangeline is so special because her appreciation for Proust is unbelievable. She should be nominated for a Nobel Prize for intelligence.' It's probably an unfair assessment. Walt isn't particularly lenient with his students, but he likes them a whole hell of a lot more than Brad does.

"Aw, homes," Ray says, and then he does it again, leaning right into Brad's personal space to pat at his arm. "They're just little people! One day, they'll grow up to turn into your or me—"

"As long as they don't turn into Trombley, we've done our jobs," Walt mutters, and then he laughs at Ray's raised brows, nudging Brad for an explanation.

"What's a Trombley?" Ray asks.

"He teaches Chemistry," Brad says.

Ray looks like he's ready to laugh again, and then he does, dimples coming out in full force as he says, "Chemistry. We have it, dude. It's writ in the stars." He clears his throat and recites, "'From fairest creatures we desire increase/That thereby beauty's rose might never die/But as the riper should by time decease/His tender heir might bear his memory.'" Brad blinks, and he doesn't check to see, but he's confident in Walt's surprised as well. Ray just laughs and says, "That's Shakespeare, bitches," and then, "Wait, Hasser, aren't you a freaking English teacher?"

"It's the first sonnet," Walt says, clearly surprised. "I'm impressed you know it."

Ray grins at the praise, and Brad rolls his eyes, focusing on his grade book again. Out of his 120 students, 52 are on the verge of failure for the term. 52, and it's still the beginning of October. Christ.

"I was captain of the debate team in high school and aced my public speaking classes in college," Ray says. "So I read a lot." He shrugs. "Plus, I thought comparing you to a summer's day was kind of overdone, you know?"

Brad snorts without meaning to, and Ray flashes him another blinding grin. "Why doesn't that surprise me?" he asks, and Ray shrugs.

"Um, because you can tell I'm a genius?" Ray snorts. "I don't know, homes. You must be very intuitive."

"Yeah," Walt says, side-eyeing them both. "That's gotta be it." He writes a final note on his report and grins when he looks up again. Walt's a sweet guy and Brad loves him like a brother, but he's an asshole, sometimes. He overdoes it when he winks and says,"Done!" with the kind of glee specifically reserved for children on major motion picture holidays. "I'm sorry," he mocks, patting Brad's arm. "How many do you have left?"

"I hate you," Brad groans. "Hate doesn't even cut it."

Walt just keeps grinning. He pinches Brad's cheek and says, "Love you too, brother," packing up his things without looking at his watch. He adds, "Ten seconds 'til first bell. See you later, gents," and thumps the back of Ray's head as he passes, for good measure. It's a pretty good initiation to the team.

"How does—" The rest of Ray's question gets drowned out by the shrieking of the bell.

"Once you're here long enough you'll be able to do it too," Brad says with a shrug.

"That was kind of freaky," Ray says. "I could dig it."

Brad and Walt share an apartment a few miles from work. Brad tends to stay as far away from the high school as possible on weekends, but the weather is too shitty to brave time in the car for a run on the beach and track behind the football field is a good enough distraction when he has an excess of nerves to work out.

He's there on Saturday when Ray shows up. He doesn't notice at first because the music on his iPod is blaring out as loud as it will go, but Ray isn't one to be ignored, apparently, and he keeps up the pace pretty well, although gravity tends to be on Brad's side.

Brad's already done four revolutions, but they do the track another three times before Ray stops for breath, bent in half with his hands pressed to his knees. "Jesus Christ, homes, I came here for a run, not torture." He's breathing heavily, and drains the whole of his water bottle before sitting down right there on the track.

"That all you can take?" Brad asks, but he's sure it doesn't escape Ray's notice that he's breathing harder too.

Ray raises a brow. "You're making this too easy," he says. "You walked right into that one."

"I am twice your size," Brad says, because he's never had someone push him this way. "Do you really know what you're doing?"

Ray chews on his lip for a while before answering. "What do you think I'm doing?" he asks.

"I think I could crush you like a bug," Brad says, and Ray just laughs again, like Brad wouldn't actually do it if he didn't mind the sight of blood.

"I'm sure you could, Iceman," Ray says, and even though the sky is overcast, he stretches out right there, the hem of his shirt riding up and exposing his skin to the elements. "I'm so scared."

"You should be," Brad says, counting the visible tattoos he can see inked onto Ray's skin through the torn off sleeves and low vee of his shirt. He's counted four so far and can't tell if there are more. "You're lucky they needed a fast replacement," he says despite himself.

Ray smiles, but doesn't move, arms pillowed behind his head. "Oh yeah?" he asks. "Why's that?"

"Uh." Brad blurts, "The tattoos?"

"Right," Ray muses, as if it's news to him. "Sixta knows my old man," he says casually. He doesn't sit up or make eye-contact, lying prone on the track with one knee crossed over the other. "They were in the service together or some shit twenty years ago. I don't know." He shrugs and almost makes it look casual. "Dad knew I'd done some subbing for cash in New York, so." He shrugs again. "Here I am."

"Here you are," Brad says. He should probably mention something about the abject nepotism, how Pappy is a great teacher and his students are missing out for however how he'll be gone, but he can't seem to find the words. "How are you here?" Brad asks after a moment. It's less than he cares and more that he's curious. New York and California are an ocean apart from each other.

Ray shrugs, fidgeting but not dropping eye-contact. "I mean, my—" he stalls for a moment, laughing at himself. "My ...manfriend? Fuckbuddy? Boyfriend isn't the right word, dude, but I can't think of one better. Whatever, the guy I was fucking kicked me out, and I've known Tim Bryan, like, my whole life and some change, so when he offered me his spare room, and when Sixta offered me a job, it seemed like the place to be." He shrugs. "I sure as shit wasn't going back to Missouri."

"That sounds like it came together nicely," Brad says, trying to remember how many school committee meetings Sixta has actually come to. It probably pays to have advisers, although Brad's fairly certain he couldn't have picked worse than Captain America, Encino Man and Casey Kasem. The school system is a fucking joke.

Ray shrugs again. "I guess," he says. "It was a good opportunity. I like kids."

"You like kids," Brad repeats, amusement tinging his disbelief. He became a teacher because his mother was a teacher, because his grandmother was a teacher, and because he started young enough that the lure of summers off was enough to propel him through the years of training.

Wanting to shape and mold young minds had nothing to do with it.

Ray nods. "I do. I like them. I like their clothes, and the fact that their smiles are like sunshine, and how, when they learn something new, their eager little faces get so excited—"

"Clearly you haven't met the students at Oceanside," Brad mumbles. He looks away, retying his sneaker, and apparently misses whatever it is that makes Ray start to laugh. "What?" he asks, suddenly feeling too defensive for his own good.

"Nothing," Ray says, barely hanging onto his serious face. "Nothing at all, man." He coughs, clears his throat, and then asks, "You come here a lot?" It sounds like a line, but if this is his game, it's seriously lacking.

Brad stares. "I'm here every day," He stretches and cools down, making sure to treat his muscles right. It'll be a long run home if he's not relaxed. "7-4. Later, if it's a session day."

Ray is distracting. So much so that even when Brad isn't looking at him directly, he can sense his movements. Ray is scratching his knee, Ray is drinking water and squirting half of it down the scrap of fabric he calls a shirt. Ray is stretching his back out. "What's a session day?" Ray asks.

Brad barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. "52 of my students are failing my classes as of this point. 52, and it's October. I believe myself to be a fair teacher and the subject matter to be challenging but not damning, and certainly not so difficult that 52 students in a range of courses should be having such difficulties. A session day is when they can come after and discuss their issues with me. Whether it's the teaching style or the class or the actual—" He stops, because Ray has finally popped his eyes open again. He's smiling. It's completely disconcerting. "What?" Brad asks.

"I thought you hated the kids."

"I do hate the kids."

Ray snorts and pushes himself to his feet. "Sure, homes," he says. "I believe you."

The first round of midterm season is the single worst time of the year. It always falls almost exactly a month before Thanksgiving, which is horrendous enough, but if possible, the students are even worse.

Brad has a mandatory attendance policy and zero-tolerance when it comes to homework not passed in on time, but the week of midterms, all that goes out the window. Kids show up late, they pass assignments in half-assed, and worst of all, they drop by his classroom during his free period wanting to talk.

"They like you," Ray says on Wednesday in the fourth floor teacher's lounge. There's still a full day and a half left in the week and Brad's already cycled through each and every viable option for suicide. There are a lot of them, but none seem worthy.

"Why?" he asks, eventually. "I demand excellence from them and fail the ones who don't adhere to that standard."

Ray snorts, flipping through Pappy's extensive planning notebook. He'd sketched out a rough idea for the year before the accident, and that's what Ray's been working from. It's not the same as having Pappy there teaching, but it's been going fine so far, at least according to everyone Brad's spoken to. The one time he asked—casually—about how Mr. Person was settling in, the response had been unanimously positive. Pappy was missed, but Mr. Person made history engaging! He made it interesting. He was fun.

Ray clears his throat and says, "Um, but according to my sources; i.e, you: you also stay after whenever they ask you and care about what they have to say."

Walt says, "I think you've got the wrong person, Person," laughing at his own joke as he slides next to Brad at the table, spreading his own essays out. "This guy? This guy hates the little monsters." He laughs, even as Brad kicks him under the table. "He only says it every five minutes."

"I can't help it if their sticky-fingered ignorance enrages me," Brad replies, elbowing Walt right in the gut. From the doorway, surveying the madness, Nate laughs.

"Gents," he says in greeting. He has a brown-bagged lunch with him, but even though there's space, he doesn't move to come in and sit down. "Mr. Person," he says, indicating to Ray with a smile. "I'm sorry we haven't quite had the time to get to know each other better, but I trust you're settling in well."

Ray nods. "As well as can be expected," he says. "The kids really miss Pappy, I think, but he did an amazing job with these notes, so I've been handling myself okay. It's a bummer you guys lost him, but I'm happy to be here."

"He'll be back," Brad says. He's surprised at the fervor in his voice.

Everyone nods, and Nate does too, but there's a look on his face, gone in less than a second, that says he might know otherwise. He crosses to the other side of the room before Brad can investigate it, and Brad can just hear his conversation with Poke, hashing out last minute details for the proposed trip to El Salvador during winter break for the juniors and seniors in his AP seminar. He pretends to eat his sandwich but watches them instead.

Beside him, Ray whispers, "He know you have a thing for him, homes?" Brad has excellent reflexes. He played football in high school, was first string in college, runs five miles nearly every day and does tai kwan do with Rudy on weekends whenever they both have time. He's in control always and prides himself on it, which doesn't explain why he flinches, why he almost jumps when he feels Ray's breath on his neck.

"Mr. Person," he says under his breath, voice nearly silent. "I would appreciate if you did not make such baseless accusations in a room full of my coworkers."

Ray shrugs, sliding back over like he hadn't moved at all. He has a carton of noodles for lunch, and slurps them obnoxiously, making Walt laugh. Brad ignores him, focusing on Nate and Poke instead. He feels Ray's eyes on him, though, can practically hear him thinking, and shoves to his feet without finishing his lunch.

"Hey Brad," Nate says when their paths cross. He touches Brad's arm as he passes, and even in the hall, Brad can still hear Ray's muffled laughter.

He doesn't know how it happens, but miraculously, only fifteen students fail their midterms. Brad circulated four different versions of the exam per class in no particular order, so if it's cheating, it's at least commendable. He has answer keys and a student aid help him grade, but he still goes through everything by himself twice to make sure he's not wrong.

"77 is passing," Eric argues, looking at him across the desk in his classroom. Technically, Brad has cubicle space in the math offices, but the other math teachers spend most of their time in there, and the further Brad can be away from them, the better.

"Kocher," Brad says, and Eric just raises his brows, pushing both the exams he's been grading and the answer keys back across the desk.

"I'm not saying a C- is the greatest grade ever, Mr. Colbert, but it's passing." Eric shrugs. "I was just following your directions."

"You are impertinent," Brad says, but there's no heat in it. "Out of my sight."

Eric grins at him, and says, "Right away, sir," but he doesn't get up to leave. He stays through his lunch period, helping Brad through three answer key changes and nearly 200 tests.

"I still," Brad says, five minutes before the bell. He's exhausted, which is awesome, considering he still has two full blocks of kids to teach before going home. He wipes his hands across his face. "I don't understand how so many of them passed."

"Over a hundred," Eric says, because very occasionally, he's a smartass. "You should be really proud, Mr. Colbert. It's a first."

"It's not a first ." Brad snorts, even though, come to think of it, he can't remember a higher passing percentage.

Eric shrugs, but he's still smirking. "I'm pretty sure this is a historic event." He grins and Brad has to fight to keep himself from smiling back. Eric's applied to Cornell—early decision—with encouragement from everyone at Oceanside and a letter of rec written by Brad himself. Brad doesn't doubt his abilities, but the waiting game is nerve-wracking.

"Any news?" he asks, even though they have pretty firmly established codes of conduct. Brad doesn't ask about his students' personal lives, and they try their best to avoid him in the halls.

Eric smiles, but he's twitchier now. "Nope," he says, tone jocular, even though his face is slightly pained. "Nothing yet."

"You'll be fine," Brad says. It's not necessarily the most comforting thing he's ever said, but it seems to do the job, because Eric looks two seconds away from laughing.

The bell rings, and he says,"Thanks, Mr. Colbert," before slinging his backpack over his shoulder and heading out.

Brad doesn't have the time, with grades being due so soon and classes to teach, but if he could, he'd go over the exams again.

On Friday afternoon, Brad let's his kids off easy. Oh, there's still fifteen minutes of a lecture and a problem set on the board, but he lets them take the weekend. It's not the first time he hasn't assigned homework, but in five years of teaching, he can probably count all the other instances on two hands and still have fingers left over.

"You feeling okay?" Walt asks on the way to the car. It's raining, and Brad doesn't mind the weather, but Walt has a thing about him riding when there's lightning in the air. Brad is convinced that Walt was a Den mother in a past life. "I heard from three separate students that you didn't give them homework over the weekend."

Brad groans, rubbing his hands over his face. "It was a gift," he says. "And they're shitting all over it?"

"They're not shitting on it, Colbert, they're thankful," Walt grumbles, throwing the car into drive, and the trip home doesn't take all that long, even though the rain makes for traffic and idiotic pedestrians. Brad contemplates going for a run as they hurry inside, but the couch is inviting, and his bed even more so.

"I'm going for a run," he announces, but he doesn't actually move from the doorway. Walt comes back into the room wearing sweats and a t-shirt he's had since they were their students' age. Brad doesn't even try and hide his snicker.

Walt grins."Do it," he says, thumping onto the couch and getting comfortable. "I'm gonna watch some baseball highlights on ESPN and then nap right here." He flips on the TV. "Enjoy your run, though. You can be healthy enough for the both of us."

Brad stares at him, stares at the door, and his running sneakers stare back at him mockingly. "Shut up," he mutters, dropping down onto the couch next to Walt. "I hate you, too."

"Nah," Walt says, handing over one of the beers he'd liberated from the fridge and patting the cushion next to him. "You deserve a day off too, buddy."

"They get worse every year," Brad says, settling down with a sigh. "It's like they're trying to drive me insane."

Walt grins. "Oh, they're definitely trying to drive you insane," he says, and they sit quietly for a while, zoning out as they watch TV. Eventually, Walt says, "Speaking of insane, I'm pretty sure Ray Person has a crush on you."

Brad is mid-swallow. He chokes instead of spitting, and he's not sure if Walt timed it, but he grins as he slaps Brad's back anyway, not holding back.

"He does not." Brad coughs out, wiping his mouth.

"Sure he does," Walt says with a shrug. "He told me."

"He did not tell you."

Walt grins. "Maybe not," he says. "He did ask what your deal was. I told him you were still mooning over Vice Principal Fick and not to get his hopes up, but he seemed pretty determined."

Brad has never wanted to murder someone more in his life, and he deals with a building full of teenagers on a daily basis. "You did not tell him that," he says calmly, rolling his head against the couch back and meeting Walt's eyes. "You did not do that, because you would know I'd have no compunction about killing you."

"You'd murder your oldest friend?" Walt asks. "Nah. I don't think so."

"I don't think you'd risk it," Brad says, although the fact that Walt keeps grinning at him is worrisome.

They have an inadvertent staring match, but Brad wins, he always does. "Fine, fine," Walt laughs. "Fine. I didn't tell him about the VP, but he did ask about you. Apparently he likes his men tall and Nordic."

"You're full of shit," Brad says, but Walt just shrugs again. The asshole.

Brad doesn't see Ray Monday or Tuesday, but he does go and see Pappy at the physical therapy facility after work on Wednesday afternoon. He's looking good, much better than he had right after the accident, but he still uses a wheelchair after walking too long, and according to his doctors, he might never walk again without a limp.

"How's the new kid working out?"

Brad shrugs. "Better than Rudy, worse than you."

Pappy snorts, wincing as he leans back in the chair. "Better than Rudy? Can you get better than Fruity Rudy?"

"I'm pretty sure he was having them do yoga breathing and trying to prove that egg white-scramble is healthier for you than Red Bull."

"Well, it is," Pappy deadpans, and Brad feels okay about the whole situation for the first time in a month.

He clears his throat awkwardly and says, "We really miss you," awkwardly. "One of your students is in my Number Theory seminar, and she said she'd never get into Brown without you. You had her brother, right? I think—"

"Genevieve," Pappy says with a smile. He looks tired, paler than he should, probably, and his mustache stands out starkly against his top lip. "And Glenn, I believe." He squints off to the middle distance. "He really wanted to play ball for Notre Dame, and my buddy Collier is a recruiter there. I didn't really do much other than write him a recommendation letter and have Jenkins come down to watch him play."

Brad rubs at his face. "That's more than any of my teachers ever did, Pap. Growing up? I was lucky if they knew my name."

"And they were lucky if you ever went to class, Colbert," Pappy says with a shrug. "Every school is different. Ours is just better than most."

"Sure, if by better, you mean 'run by idiots'."

Pappy frowns, suddenly, and says, "Hey, can you help me get onto this fucking thing? My legs ain't what they used to be, I guess." Brad gets up in one smooth motion, gripping Pappy by the forearms and helping him into bed and under the thin, hospital-grade blanket and sheets. "I hate this," Pappy mutters under his breath. "Stupidest thing I ever fucking did, getting between that guy and his gun."

"You saved a life," Brad offers, and Pappy laughs.

"Or something," he says with a shrug. "Don't know how much good I actually did, but at least no one else got hurt."

"You did good, Pap," Brad says, going to pat Pappy's knee until he remembers it's the bad one. He shifts his hand awkwardly in the air instead and Pappy is kind enough not to mention it.

"Sure," Pappy says. He gets settled on the cot and then drops the fucking bomb. "You hear Fick might be getting transferred? I told Rud, I said 'No way would Godfather do something that stupid', but fucking Casey Kasem and Schwetje, man. They never stop."

Brad feels his whole body go cold. "What?" he says, but Pappy doesn't seem to notice.

"I don't know what they got out for him. He's a great VP. Probably the best we've ever had, and they want what? His job? It doesn't make a lick of sense. Like they could handle that kind of responsibility." Pappy looks at him for a while, and through the white noise in his ears, Brad realizes it must be his turn to speak, to say something intelligent and meaningful.

He's got nothing, but he does manage, "Griego was assistant VP at Glenview, wasn't he? Maybe he thought he'd fit into that role easily here. Or. Something."

Pappy shrugs. He has nothing to add either.

On Thursday, Ray says, "I know your secret." He's coming out of the nurse's office with an icepack for his eye and a bruise on his jaw.

Brad can't help himself. He snorts and says, "And I know yours, little man. Don't try to walk under any more tables. I know you're minuscule, but ..."

Ray yuk yuks like Brad's hilarious, faking it. With his hand on Brad's arm, as he digs his fingernails in. "This?" he asks. "Nah. Me and Rudy got into it over the weekend and Doc's been trying to ease the pain, but no. That's not what I meant, Mr. I-passed-nearly-every-one-of-my-students-this-midterm-season."

Brad skids to a halt in the hallway. There are kids milling around, still on their lunch, and a couple of them stare. Some of them wave at Ray. He grins jauntily back.

"You got into it with Rudy?" Brad asks when he starts to walk again, ignoring the second part of Ray's taunt. "Rudy? Fruity Rudy? How does somebody get into a fight with Fruity Rudy, Person? You've only been here a couple weeks."

Ray's still smiling, but he winces, too. "I work fast," he says, but he looks uncertain. "I don't know. We got into it, talking about sports and shit, and I said, I said something stupid about being the best history replacement this school has ever had—"

Brad winces, but laughs to cover. "That was dumb."

"You don't have to tell me." Ray rubs his jaw. "I know. They're very close."

"That's a way to put it." He doesn't know what makes him do it; dropping an arm around Ray's shoulders and squeezing once. By the look on his face, Ray doesn't know why he did it either, but he's smiling anyway, at least the part of his face that Brad can see.

Brad drops his arm quickly, taking a step away. "We're okay now, though. You know. Mostly. I don't think Rudy holds a grudge, and I was being a dick, so. It's not like I can be mad at him for it."

"That's very magnanimous of you."

Their eyes meet, even though Brad has to look down, and it's the strangest sort of thing, Ray just looks at him, brows quirked like he's figuring out an equation. "Nice word-use there, homes," he says eventually. Brad has the strangest feeling that it's not what he'd been thinking. "Who knew math teachers could even spell words that long?"

"Who knew felons could become history substitutes?" Brad asks nonchalantly. At Ray's surprise, he laughs again. "Come on, Person. Did you really think I wasn't going to find out?"

"It's a sealed file. I was way under eighteen."

Brad shrugs. "You still stole a car. Your father's car." They've walked out into the quad, and despite it being November, the sun is still warm. Brad holds open the door to the science building only realizing what he's doing when Ray scoots inside. "What are you doing?" he asks when they're in the corridor alone.

The science building is much less densely populated, as usual, considering it only houses the sciences, the maths, the auditorium and gym. It's quiet, but Brad likes it.

"Walking," Ray says. "Last time I checked, that was still free in this country. Even for teenage first offenders."

Brad doesn't mean to laugh, he hadn't even meant to smile. "I meant," he says. "I meant in this hallway. Don't you have class?"

"Free period right after lunch." He shrugs. "Just like you."

"Is that my secret, that I have a free block this period?" Brad asks. Ray is trying valiantly to keep a straight face. "If it was just about where I was going, I don't think you needed to be so loud about it. Some people even call these 'office hours'."

"Right, of course," Ray says, with a mocking tilt of his brows. "Sorry, Mr. I-passed-nearly-all-of-my-students-and-gave-them-a-homework-free-weekend-to-celebrate."

Brad's face definitely heats up. "I did not—"

"Really?" Ray asks, raising his brows. "You really think lying is going to throw me off the trail, you big fucking softie?"

Brad doesn't shove Ray against the wall, so much as he pins him there, fingers curling loosely in the worn material of his plaid button-up. "I have a reputation here, Mr. Person," he says, speaking near-silently through his teeth. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't—"

"Woah, woah," Ray says as he shimmies out from under Brad's arm, his shirt bunching up in the back. When he straightens up, facing Brad again, he spreads his hands out wide, like he's explaining an equation. "A) Man, whatever. We're in an abandoned hallway, if you think those hormonal bags of air we teach ever actually listen to a single thing you, or I, or anyone else over the age of 18 in this building is saying at any point when they're not directly sitting in front of us, well, then, you're wrong. B) I did say I knew your secret, because I do, you fucking marshmallow, but it's not because your precious reputation was besmirched, it was because, C) Anybody with eyes and a glance at your file would know that."

It's a lot of information to process, but Brad still asks, "You looked in my file?"

"Please," Ray says. "The kids look in your file. It's not that hard to hack into the school's mainframe, Mr. Colbert."

"I offered to set up—"

"It would've cost too much money, and you know Captain America, man. That dude is hemorrhaging dough, under the guise of trying to help the school out? But do you know what he spent painting over the lines in the parking lot last month? Lines, by the way, that you could have already seen a mile a way?"

Brad blinks. "Uh."

Ray leans closer, and his breath pushes out on Brad's neck. "Twenty thousand dollars," he says, whispering the words with the reverence they deserve. "Twenty grand, but when Manimal—you know Anthony Jacks? Big kid, missing a couple teeth?—when he wanted to set up a chess club and tutorial, it got shot down because paying an advisor extra money to stay after wouldn't have been worth it. Wouldn't have been worth it, for this kid to expand his fucking horizons."

"How did we get on this topic?" Brad asks, because he knows the idiocy of Captain America well.

"Computers," Ray says brightly. "And how this school has a shitty financial advisor. Why don't they fire him?"

They've started to walk again, Ray's shoulder bumping into Brad's arm every couple of feet. Brad can't move away without attracting attention. He tries to ignore Ray and think of a satisfactory answer, but there isn't one.

"Dave is," he starts, trying to phrase it correctly. "Dave was a brilliant accountant, once upon a time. Godfather worked with him in the early aughts, said he hadn't seen a brighter mind."

"And then?" Ray snorts as he asks, jogging forward a couple of steps to grab the door and hold it open. "Because he's sure as shit not a bright mind now. I mean, come on. Refusing to fund a chess club for a kid that could seriously use an out-of-school outlet? I went to Godfather and asked him if I could sponsor the club myself, but he gave me some shit about resources and—"

"You're right," Brad says eventually. "The system is shit."

Ray grins at him, and the full-force of his smile is nearly blinding. "At least now we're on the same page," he says.

Brad doesn't see Nate until Friday morning. He hasn't come to the fourth floor teachers lounge all week, hasn't been doing his usual cafeteria rounds, and the one study hall a week that he proctors had been watched over by Rudy when Brad checked, who also looked a little bruised, if not as bad as Ray.

Eventually, Brad sees him in the parking lot Friday morning as he's locking up his bike. He's not proud of it, but he practically runs across the asphalt to catch up, even though he's in shape enough to keep his breathing even.

"Nate," he says, when they accidentally-on-purpose bump into each other. Nate's holding the door open, must have heard the footsteps, and he can't flee. It's a perfect situation.

"Hello, Mr. Colbert," he says with a smile. He looks exhausted. There are bags under his eyes and glaring flaws in his usual cheerful demeanor. "How are you?"

Brad swallows as Nate looks at him, patiently awaiting his response, even though he has much better things to do. "I'm, um," he stutters, and then, "I was visiting Pappy earlier in the week, and he said—"

Nate winces. "Everything is fine, Brad," he says quietly, under his breath. They're right by the main office, but it's early enough that it's unlikely many people are inside. "Pappy heard incorrectly."

"I'm just," Brad starts, but Nate shakes his head. "You're the best Vice Principal this school has ever had," Brad continues, even though Nate looks pained at the words. "And if Casey Kasem thinks he can just come in and—and what? Nudge you out because he was assistant-VP in Glendale? That's bullshit. That's not how things should work."

"Thank you," Nate says quietly, and when he smiles, it's small, but it looks genuine. "But Brad—"

"The kids'll protest," Brad continues. "The staff will protest. The only people on his side'll be fucking, like, Sixta and Schwetje, and they're just two in a building of three thousand. You can't give up, Nate. You can't let that fucker win."

Nate actually laughs, but he sounds exhausted still. "That would be quite a showing of support, but it's not necessary, Brad." He nudges Brad's arm. "I don't believe I'll be leaving my post at any point in the foreseeable future. Not if I can help it, anyway."

"Oh," Brad says with a sigh of relief. "Right."

"Thank you, though," Nate continues. "I appreciate the vote of confidence, and the sentiment. Really."

Brad shrugs. "We had posters made for the protest already," he jokes. " Workers painting 'round the clock to ensure visibility."

"How could you lose?" Nate asks, and then he's disappearing down the hall to the main office. Brad retraces his steps and cuts across the quad to the science building.

It's overcast but not raining on Sunday, so Brad plans for a run and Walt doesn't put up too much of a fuss. As he's lacing up his sneakers, Walt says, "You know Pappy's coming back after Christmas break."

"Okay," Brad says, because that's great news, but there's still a month left between now and then. Walt shouldn't look so upset about it. "That's great. That's awesome news, why do you look so—" and then he gets it. If Pappy's coming back, that means Ray is leaving, and Walt's still waiting for something to happen between them. "You know I don't hate Person as much as I did when he started, but Walt, come on. Nothing's going to happen there. Since when do you care so much about my dick?"

Walt snorts. "Yeah," he says. "Like it's your dick I care about, Brad," as though it isn't one of the most cryptic things he's said in their three decades of friendship.

"He's a nice kid, and the students really like him," Brad says, trying not to think of how many tattoos Ray has, or how he slurps his noodles, or apparently gets into fights with the most peaceable guy in the entire school system. "But it's not—"

Walt shrugs. "Are you sure it's not, or are you just saying it's not because you're still fucked up over the VP? Because you're allowed, but it's been two years, dude. You gotta let it go eventually."

"Agony Aunt, thy name is Walt." Brad rolls his eyes and tugs on a windbreaker. "I'm going for a run. Please don't do anything stupid while I'm out like, calling up Ray Person to tell him where I'm going."

Walt smiles, but even as he jokes, "Now there's an idea," he still looks troubled. It's not a familiar look on him. Right before he slams the door shut, he calls out, "He's been staying with Tim Bryan! Go talk to him."

Brad has his iPod earbuds in, but not on, and he pretends not to hear. He already knew where Ray was staying and never visited before. He's not going to start now.

The beach is about a forty-minute drive, and Brad doesn't feel like being in the car for that long, so he jogs to the high school instead. He's not surprised to see Ray running the track, and it's an easy pace to join.

"Hey," Ray says, breathing hard when they stop eventually. "You know how long I was waiting for you out there, homes? I'm getting gray hair, and it's fucking freezing."

"You should've brought an electric blanket." Brad muses. "Or maybe put on some actual clothes." He touches Ray's shoulder and the skin beneath his thin, sleeveless shirt is freezing.

Ray grins. "These are clothes," he says.

"Yeah. If you're planning on contracting hypothermia." Brad rolls his eyes. "It's forty-five degrees out here, you fucking idiot."

Ray starts to run again, and then calls out, "When you're moving, you can barely feel it." He shrugs, and Brad follows him, catching up in no time at all. "Maybe it's just me," Ray says when Brad's close enough to hear him. "Because I'm so hot and all."

Brad actually is hot, so he shrugs off his outer most layer and throws it, picking up his pace. Ray laughs, but he's wearing it the next time he comes into view. It's an old fleece, on of Brad's from college. The sleeves hang off Ray's wrists and he looks like he's drowning in it, but he doesn't complain.

When they're done, Brad collapses on the ground next to Ray, the both of them breathing heavily. It might be the weather or the workout, but Brad can feel his heart slamming against his ribs. It makes him nervous.

"Hey." Ray's voice is rough. "Did you come here because of me?"

Brad considers this, but instead manages, "Pappy's coming back." He exhales loudly, and then blurts, "Are you sticking around here?"

"Yeah," Ray responds. "For a couple weeks, anyway." He sits up, stretching out his legs. "You excited about Pappy coming back? The kids almost pissed themselves when we announced it in class today."

Brad shrugs. "He's a great teacher," he says. "But you're okay, too."

Their eyes meet, and Ray grins. "That's a fucking crazy schedule, too. I mean, the World Histories would be okay if the Humanities classes weren't kicking my ass every day, but they do. Stafford is fucking younger than me—and Lilley, but they handle it like they're pros. I mean, music and art aren't even the harder parts of that class, but fucking Hasser, too, like. How do they do that? So many kids and so many subjects? It's insane."

"Well," Brad offers with a snort. "They went to school for this." He mimics Ray's posture, leaning his elbows on his knees. "No one expected you to be doing as well as you are."

Ray raises his brows. "Was that supposed to be a compliment? Because you suck at them if it was."

"Words are not my forte, no," Brad admits. "But you're doing fine."

Ray bumps their shoulders together and says, "Thanks, homes," and then moves to get to his feet. Brad doesn't know what he's thinking when he reaches out and grabs Ray's wrist, using his weight to drag himself up. "Uh," Ray says with a laugh. "Hey."

"Hey," Brad says, and then, "You drive me fucking insane." He crowds Ray's space, egged on by the fact that Ray's not pushing him away.

"I drive you insane, dude?" Ray asks, backing up a couple of feet. His eyes are narrowed. "You're such an asshole I can't even handle it."

Brad grabs hold of Ray's other wrist as well. They're pressed against the cardboard siding of the bleachers, and when Brad ducks his head, Ray's waiting for him. His nose is freezing when it skids across Brad's cheek.

They stare at each other for a minute, looking right into each other's eyes, and Ray says, "Fucking do it, if you're gonna do it, but don't just tower over me all day, man. You could give a giant a Napoleon Complex."

Brad kisses him because he has no other option, can't see any other way out of the situation. Ray's lips are freezing, but he groans against Brad's mouth, hitching himself up to get closer and wrapping his arm around Brad's neck. Brad has no idea how long they're standing there, but it starts to drizzle and still, they stay, partially hidden and kissing.

Ray laughs when he gets a splatter of rain right in the eye, pushing Brad back to wipe at his face. "Shit, homes, you made the sky cry with your face."

Brad snorts despite himself. "My face? It couldn't be your fucking white trash teeth?" He's seen Ray smile a million times since he got hired, but never more brightly than in this moment. His dimples come out in full force.

"My teeth have nothing on your stupid hair," he says, and then the sky opens up.