Chapter Text
Seattle was gray and wet. It was reassuring, in its dull weather and puddle ridden streets, Warren didn’t feel so uprooted as he could’ve had if he moved to Florida instead. He only ever went to Florida to visit Disneyland, he wasn’t built for the heat, and the locals scared him. With the few pounds he gained, 65 degrees was enough for his hair to stick to his forehead and to dampen his shirt.
But Seattle rarely brought on hot days, just like Arcadia Bay never did. The warmest days still allowed the residents to keep a second layer, maybe rolled sleeves and shorts, but never hot enough to dive into the bay’s cold water without feeling a pinch of regret. Though Warren did dive into the bay once, on graduation day.
The students still wearing their graduation gowns, but not their mortarboard hats, most were lost to the school grounds. They had run into the water after ingesting too many cans of 5% alcoholic cocktail. Warren could still remember the sting of the water around his legs, penetrating through the denim like tiny needles that poked at his skin.
It was so cold, most of them had quickly given up and ran back to the beach, where the sun was beating on them, already drying their clothes. Kate though, had submerged herself completely, perhaps under a whim of some sort, a way to celebrate her survival through the senior year. Warren had run back in to pick her up, laughing with her as he held her bridal style. With her tight bun now loose and dripping wet, their laughs resonated clearly down the beach, their friends joining them in the water, which suddenly felt a bit warmer.
Warren still remembered the last days of his senior year, and he wished he could have spent more time at Blackwell, despite how batshit crazy it had been at times. Arcadia Bay would remain his favorite town, no fancy three story shopping mall could beat that. College in Eugene had been a close contender, but never toppling Arcadia Bay in his favorite city list, he could never find that same feeling of bittersweet comfort in Eugene. The diners were never as rundown and cozy as Two Whales. The streets weren’t as small, didn’t have as many cracks and holes in the concrete. Warren realized that maybe he was just a small town kinda guy.
He liked the ease of public transport, having grown up in the same neighborhood surrounded by the same people. He liked the smaller school, the proximity of smaller dorms and fewer classes.
Warren sipped the last of his coffee. Which tasted more like bitter water in a cup, the lip of that little paper cup was more flavorful than the coffee itself— Warren took mental note to brew his own coffee next time, the break room was not to be trusted. Not that he could trust himself in his own kitchen, but black coffee wasn’t a tedious drink. At least that’s what he thought before he found that Starbucks employees managed to mess it up. The verdict for coffee was to trust no one but yourself.
He threw the forsaken cup in the trash bin, but missed. He quickly cleaned up after himself and left the break room, running a hand through his hair as he made his way down one of the many hallways of the laboratory. He was almost done working today’s shift, but he passed by the office next to the lab rooms and plopped down in the desk chair to input some late info into today’s report file.
He typed away, looking at the notes scribbled on the small notebook he kept in his back jeans pocket, when his uncle peaked through the open door.
“I was looking for you Warren, you can go home. Yacine’s done with the iso data. Night shift’s gonna pick up where we left off.” He said, his hand on the cellphone he held up to his ear.
Warren gave him a thumbs up, before typing the last few notes he had, racking his brain to make sure he was writing all this right, then ended his session on the computer. He grabbed his coat from his locker and headed out to the parking lot after waving to a few of his new colleagues on his way out.
He was still new and fairly unfamiliar with most of the lab’s employees, there were so many to keep track of and he hadn’t even met half of the people on the payroll just yet. The fact only made him more excited to work here. After he graduated from the University of Oregon with a master’s degree in chemistry, his uncle Richard was gracious enough to offer him a paid stage at the geochemistry laboratory he worked at. It was a totally new branch of work, there was so much more to learn Warren struggled to contain his anticipation. He didn’t even need his alarm clock at this point, he was on his feet every week day, already thinking of whatever project his uncle was guiding him through.
I got the hang of it, he thought to himself as he reached his car, his parking permit hanging from the front view mirror. He reached in his pockets to grab his car keys, but felt the buzz of his phone notifying him of a text.
UNCLE RICHY [17:25]
By the way! Don’t forget to get your picture taken.
UNCLE RICHY [17:25]
Olivia needs it for Thursday.
Warren tapped a quick answer, an ‘OK!’ with a thumbs up, because his uncle probably used text to speech and didn’t give a rat’s ass what emoji Warren used to display his total submission to his instructions. He shoved his phone far down his jacket’s pocket and unlocked his car. An old Toyota Corolla that replaced his first rundown car, which he missed only for its emotional symbolism, not for its actual capacity. He settled in his seat, his throne, and started mentally mapping out his schedule to try and figure out when he could find time to get his picture taken for his new ID card— the thought of having a real, official employee ID card, a glossy one with his picture and his position on it, had him bouncing in his seat. Diving head first into daydreams of career climbing, Warren drove out of the parking lot, his left hand on the wheel while he looked around his CD stash for the appropriate album.
The lab wasn’t too far from Warren’s new apartment in Downtown Seattle, a 30 minute drive if he didn’t catch too many red lights. Really, he was lucky to have found such a nice place in that neighborhood. Every day he drove past artsy boutiques and small, sleek restaurants full of modern people. The kind of art-loving crowd he knew Max would fit right in once she flew in next week. He tapped the steering wheel with his index finger, humming to the beat of the song playing on his car’s CD player. It was old school, but he would rather put his hand in a fire than pay for his music: copying it onto CDs still worked like a charm, he found. He had no money to spare for the more superfluous stuff as of now. His phone buzzed again, he glanced quickly, a tinge of surprise rising in his chest. The content of the messages showed up on his lockscreen.
MAX [17:43]
I’m staying at my parent’s house, obviously! Sorry, no sleepovers :P
MAX [17:44]
I think your place is pretty close to where they live though! Don’t worry, we’ll still get to hang out :^)
When Warren had learned Max would be coming back to Seattle for two weeks, he lost no time asking her if she needed a place to crash. In retrospect, it was a bit of a ridiculous request; he totally forgot she was born and raised here. Warren recognized his old tendency to grasp at any opportunity to spend time with Max. Old habits die hard. Still, he was glad to hear she was down to spend time with him, even after so long. They both had gone off to different colleges, and while they still met up with friends from Arcadia Bay, Max was already busy and successful, and Warren realized, after reading her texts at a red light, that she most likely knew Seattle like the back of her hand.
Now that he had no other reason to think about Max(He used to be pretty good at coming up with those), Warren looked around to try and figure out if he could squeeze in a photoshoot before stores started to close up. He did a quick Google search, holding the steering wheel with his left hand and his right knee, and set an itinerary to the closest photo studio he found online, good ratings didn’t matter much for a simple ID picture. When he was asked for one, he did try and dig around old folders for a suitable portrait, but most were from before 2017, and he had changed enough for people to question his professionalism if faced with an ID featuring his soft faced 20 year old self in a World of Warcraft t-shirt and pimples on his chin.
He glanced at himself in the front view mirror; the guy that looked back still had the same somewhat feminine slanted eyes, but his jaw was stronger, his face more solid and square, and you could tell he was able to grow facial hair, something he couldn’t brag about five years ago. Now Stella had to wrestle him with a razor to stop him from shaving, too curious for her own good. Warren had seen what the dark magic transformed him into, he told her, a beard was too foreign for now. It made him look like his dad, it was freaky.
The studio was called CHASE STUDIO, in all caps both on the site and at the top of the short building, in bold, modern white lettering. In the gray afternoon, the white glow of the letter created a halo around the name. The building itself stuck out of the row of stores and varied boutiques offering artsy services. It looked a lot newer next to the other small outlets, walls of bright red bricks in stark contrast with the black door and window, the white sign. The window didn’t show much of the inside, if not white blinds partly pulled. On the glass was the name of the studio, the schedule, and fancy lettering of the services it offered: Portrait studio, Hour Photo Shoots, Fine prints, etc. Warren stopped reading once he got the jist of it. He could walk in and get his picture taken, that was all he needed today. He parked his car in front of the studio, barely checking for parking hours, and grabbed his keys.
He stuck his thumb in his closed right hand, making a fist and unmaking it, his index playing with the cuticles on his thumb. This place reminded him of the photo labs in Blackwell, where he once joined Max and Kate whenever they had projects in their photography class. The offered service of printing was like a knife to the stomach, he could only painfully remember when he had developed a selfie he had taken of Max and him, back when he was so infatuated with her he collected whatever pictures of her she left him with. His struggle with the machine wasn’t as embarrassing as his hopelessly one-sided crush. With Max’s arrival next week, he found himself droning over it all more than he had in years.
Under the foreboding letters of the glowing facade, like a threatening, holy gateway, Warren opened the door of the studio, praying they would take pity on him and his lack of appointment. A little bell alerted anyone of his presence, and he was, all of a sudden, under the spotlight. The floor was so clean, he wouldn’t be surprised if they used toothbrushes between the dark wooden tiles. To his left was a little waiting lobby, white couches and armchairs, a small table with a few old magazines on it, indie music playing from a speaker on the wall. Green plants in white ceramic pots, obviously it was white ceramic, what else? The place wasn’t very big, but the decoration made it seem a lot more vast, like the cover of an interior design magazine. To his right was the reception desk, though no one was sitting behind it at the moment. A pile of business cards interpellated him, and as he had no one to inquire at the moment, he grabbed one out of curiosity. It was a dark grey with white text, a clean font, something like Times New Roman. Warren didn’t know fonts that well, but Stella was still very much into graphic design, and as the only Blackwell graduate who went to University of Oregon along with him, they had become a lot closer than they used to be. She would have loved this card, he thought, but he wasn’t sure really, visual design was lost on him, if it was easy to read he was most likely to praise it.
“CHASE STUDIO
Professional Photo Studio
1089 Steward Street, Seattle, WA
206-749-2413
chasestudio.com
[email protected]”
Warren shoved the card in his jean pocket, and looked around the studio again. Past the lobby were two doors, one of them though, wasn’t a door but only a doorframe with black velvet curtains. Warren leaned against the countertop of the reception desk, noticing a second pile of business cards, when the curtains suddenly pulled back with the loud sound of metal rings on a metal bar. Warren jumped back, clasping his hands together behind his back like he had been caught snooping around.
The curtains revealed a man, probably around Warren’s age, maybe a bit younger, and Warren was immediately struck with a sense of familiarity. The man stood slightly hunched over, and stared at him with furrowed brows and a piercing gaze, his eyes squinted. The familiarity smashed into Warren like a truck that never thought of hitting the brakes, and it kept on driving as the man put his hands into his pockets and walked over to the desk, sitting in the chair behind it.
Warren suddenly remembered what he was here for and brushed the odd feeling aside, assuming this man might’ve been on TV or something. If he is some kind of famous photographer who’s been on TV, Warren felt a bit stupid using his time for a single ID photo.
The man still hadn’t spoken, but after clicking on the computer mouse a couple of times, looking at the monitor as if it had just spat in his lunch, he looked up at Warren from where he sat, still frowning, but not scowling anymore.
“Hi, welcome to Chase Studio, did you have an appointment scheduled with us today?” His voice was familiar as well, and Warren damned himself for having such selective memory— was this a coworker he forgot about? Someone he should know? He smiled the questions away and brought both his hands on the desk, his fingers tapping lightly on the expensive marble top.
“Err, hi, no, I don’t have an appointment. I was wondering if I could get my portrait taken? It’s for an ID picture, nothing too crazy.” He gave the man his best friendly, inoffensive smile, because the guy looked like he’d walked in dog shit the entire day.
He nodded, puffing air out of his nostrils, and turned to his computer screen, opening a couple of windows and clicking into some boxes.
“Yeah, I don’t have any appointments for the next hour or so, we can fit you in. It’ll only take, like, ten minutes.” His voice was a bit hoarse, reminiscent of a smoker’s. He scratched at his cheek, squinting at the computer. Warren wondered if he needed glasses as he stood there uselessly.
“I just need some info to book you in for payment. If it’s just a single ID pic this won’t be any more expensive than approximately thirty bucks including taxes. Full name?” The photographer, since he seemed to be the only person in the studio at the moment, waved his hand like swatting at a fly when droning over the information.
Warren lit up at how easy this seemed, despite it being a bit pricey. Who was he to judge the price of art? Not that his face was art. A bit busy with buzzing thoughts, he stuttered out his answer.
“Uh, Warren. Graham. Graham Warren? Warren Graham, yeah. I’ll pay with debit.” He felt that was a necessary information.
The man’s eyes furrowed further, if that was even possible. He looked back up at Warren, something in his eyes, everything but nothing on his face all at once, and Warren couldn’t pick up any of it. His face warmed, assuming the man was mocking him for how badly he messed up saying his name. But whatever emotion the guy had it was quickly put away as he typed the information in.
It took a minute before he seemed to have everything he wanted, and got up from the desk chair. He gestured at Warren to follow him into the studio behind the black curtains. The man, who hadn’t even introduced himself yet(which worried Warren even further that perhaps he was meant to know him), had a terrible posture, hunched over with strands of dark blonde hair sticking out of his styled hair. If he stood up straight, Warren took notice as he walked behind him, he would only be a couple of inches shorter than him. But as of now he was at least five inches shorter. It helped a little with Warren’s nerves, that didn’t deal well being alone with a stranger(?) in an empty studio, a stranger(was he really?) that looked very judgmental and not very prone to conversation.
The studio itself was a lot larger than the lobby, with lots of rolled up backdrops sitting against walls and boxes full of accessories and costumes. The photography equipment took most of the space though, and Warren immediately thought of every single scenario where he broke one of the cameras or stands. He stayed as far away from them as he could.
The photographer gestured to a wooden stool near the wall.The stool was placed in front of a cream colored backdrop that dragged on the floor. Warren let out a quiet “Alrighty!” as he sat on the stool, trying his best to look relaxed(he was not).
“Should I take my jacket off? Or like, slick back my hair? I forgot to do my hair.” Or to clean his face. Actually, as the words left his mouth, he realized he forgot to do anything one would usually do before getting their picture taken.
He quickly patted his hair down, using his fingers to comb through the mess he liked to call his hairstyle(it was 57% cow licks and 43% 3 in 1 shampoo). He checked to make sure he didn’t have anything around his lips; toothpaste or coffee, and ran his tongue over his teeth. He had no answer from the photographer, who was busy setting up his camera, crouched over with his head tilted sideways, fixing whatever needed to be fixed.
Warren didn’t bother to repeat the question, and decided to keep his jacket, solely because he didn’t want to be a hassle when he’d realize he had no idea where to put it. The man was now fixing the lights, pointing them directly into Warren’s eyes. He squinted and looked down, clenching his teeth. He tried to smooth the wrinkles out of his casual dress shirt to no avail. He was already seated, he didn’t want to waste the man’s time by asking for a mirror, so whatever he looked like would do.
“You look fine, now stop moving.” The photographer’s voice cut through Warren’s train of thought like a blade, his tone sharp, but unbothered. He was already back at his camera, finished with the lights. Warren looked at him with questioning eyes, and was met with a shrewd stare. The man’s hair was styled neatly, brushed back, and he wore an expensive knitted sweatshirt over a white collar shirt. Brown slacks over brown shiny loafers. He looked as expensive as the studio itself, but a lot more familiar now that Warren could get a good look at him. The man crouched to have the better use of his camera, and Warren coughed into his fist, feeling an incoming wave of nervousness as he heard the settling clicks of the camera focusing on his face.
“This is an ID pic, don’t smile.” Another cutthroat reminder, Warren did his best to obey, and looked straight at the objective with the most serious face he could pull(most people didn’t believe he could ever look truly serious).
The camera clicked a good dozen of times, without any flash. As his pictures were taken, Warren’s mind wandered shortly, thinking about whoever would have been here before, and if the photographer had treated them the same. Warren, as nice of a client as he was, did wish for a bit more amicable service. Not that he would leave a complaint, because it took a couple of minutes only until the man stood up from his crouched position and told Warren they were done. Warren quickly jumped from the stool to get a look at the pictures. The man angled the camera, now off the stand, towards Warren so he could get a good look.
The little Warren on the screen was staring at the camera like he just learned his dog died, his lips pulled in a straight line. If the pictures had any negative points, it was all due to his own terrible facial expressions, because the lighting itself actually complimented his skin tone and facial structure nicely, he noticed.
“Err… Not bad for an ugly mug like mine!” He made an attempt at a lighthearted joke, but the only answer he got was a disgruntled “Hmph.” He smiled at the man, and made two thumbs up in a desperate attempt at showing his gratitude.
“Thank you, it looks perfect, really.” The man looked at him for a beat, blinked and looked back down at the camera.
“You’re welcome. I’m assuming you only need a digital copy, if so you won’t need to pay for printing. I’ll have to edit these a bit so they print fine onto your ID card, but that should only round up to a total of twenty-seven dollars.” He explained, skipping through the many pictures he now had of Warren’s dumbstruck face. They all looked the same to him, but the man seemed to really take his time with some of these, like he was deciphering a code in each one. That code could only be seen by artists though, from what Warren had learned with entertaining so many friendships with the kind.
As Warren opened his mouth to ask where he could pay, the front door’s bell rang and a loud, feminine voice echoed through the studio.
“Nathan! I sent next week’s schedule! Check if you got it!” She screamed, and Warren immediately recognized her voice, how could he forget it? He snapped back at the pulled curtains, where the voice kept on talking, adding on more information that Warren had no interest for, the voice itself was all that mattered. The photographer, still next to him, lowered the camera and headed for the doorframe. Warren watched every step he took, his mouth hung open.
The woman speaking, Warren knew well enough to immediately recognize her without seeing her face. Quickly, Warren started connecting the dots, his face decomposing the more he thought about it.
Of course, the familiarity that had been sitting in his chest finally bloomed into recognition. The eyes, the furrowed brow and the thin upper lip shaped like a sharp heart; he recognized his eyes because they were what was most noticeable in him, and all the pictures that were once plastered in the newspapers. But time had changed him just like it had changed everyone else(well, not everyone, Max still looked so similar it was striking). Warren could tell that his face was sharper, his cheeks now hollow enough to tell the difference. His hair was a bit longer, just enough to stick out at the nape of his neck and, and while his eyes were still penetrating, like two blades in hues of blue, his visage had changed in a way too subtle for Warren to pinpoint. After all, he had never been close to Nathan in the month he was at Blackwell. His analysis of his face was poor, mostly based off news coverage and passing in the hallways or during class. The occasional insult marathon, perhaps ugly glares in the hallway. He never really looked at him, really looked at him. It had been too long to remember his distinct features until he was slapped in the face with them.
And as Nathan(Holy shit, holy shit. Holy fuck?) left Warren’s side to walk into the lobby, pulling the curtains back, Warren reeled in the studio, staring at the now revealed woman in the entrance, holding a large brown folder under her arm. She stood there, wearing high heeled boots and sporting short blonde hair(though a lot shorter than the last time he saw her, a bit of a messy boyish cut, a haircut he would associate with a punk more than Victoria) that framed her heart shaped face. She wore an open, long and heavy coat that brushed her bare knees which peaked out from under her high waisted skirt. Her blouse was loose and revealed her neckline. She looked so much older, and classier than what Warren remembered of her. Chase Studio, in Seattle, a street down from the art gallery. Warren slapped his forehead. His senior year was nine years ago, but the memories always came flooding in, bright and vivid once they had the right trigger.
“Of course, it’s freaking Victoria Chase!” He hissed under his breath, without any real anger, because he knew she was friends with Max, he just couldn’t believe he didn’t realize this any sooner. Max had told him that she owned an art gallery with her parents, and that she had opened a photo studio not too long ago. This was just his kind of luck.
If this was Victoria’s studio, then this Nathan was none other than Nathan Prescott. And just like that, the last fifteen minutes he spent with him replayed in his mind, and a blurry, bitter image of the Nathan he had known in Blackwell came crashing back in his visual library. He didn’t know Nathan Prescott, not at all, but he had known enough, and his mouth tasted bitter at the thought of having to pay thirty bucks for his service. He begrudgingly followed Nathan fucking Prescott out of the studio room, his hands shoved in his pockets and his head tilted down. Victoria’s presence filled the studio like hot oil, and he anticipated the way her gaze would stick to him once she took notice of his presence. The chatter she entertained with Nathan louder with every step Warren took.
“Yeah, it’s the one I told you about. Miss Reyes, with her newborn.” Victoria was aggressively tapping at her phone screen, showing something to Nathan. The latter groaned out in frustration, dragging his hand across his face.
“You didn’t tell me about her, I told you I needed that afternoon free.”
“I did tell you! Ugh, you weren’t listening, Nate. I can’t move this, she practically begged on her knees. You’re taking her appointment or I’m taking cuts out of your payroll.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Watch me.”
Nathan rolled his eyes and groaned, but still typed the info into his phone. As he did so, Victoria looked up, and as Warren feared, immediately struck gold; the innocent witness to their bickering. And like the violent gust of wind she was, Warren felt the air knocked out of his lungs when they made eye contact. Because he knew she knew him, and she knew he knew her.
“Oh. My. God.”
Warren pursed his lips, leaning back on his heels, still standing awkwardly in front of the pulled curtains, his hands so deep in his pockets he was about to stretch holes into them.
“What a surprise! You’re Max Caulfield’s little nerd friend from Blackwell! Wally, right?” She crooned, her hand now tenderly resting on her chest. Nathan snickered at the name. Victoria immediately slapped his shoulder.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She hissed between her teeth. Nathan pulled back, muttering something in protest, Warren didn’t catch the words, but he sounded defensive, like he remembered him to be when he wasn’t being aggressive.
“It’s Warren.” Warren corrected quietly, but Victoria ignored him.
Victoria quickly put on her best smile, a smile a blind man could tell was fake, and walked towards Warren with open arms. Warren stood stiffly, and let out a sigh of relief when she simply grabbed his shoulders. A hug from Victoria Chase was not on his bucket list. She looked at him with knitted eyebrows, like she was finally getting a good look at his face and was disappointed to see he still looked like a nerd.
“It’s so funny seeing you here, are you tracking down Max?” She asked the question with a genuine sweet voice, but Warren cringed at the underlying stab at his ego. He politely laughed it off and she let go of his shoulders to prop her hands up on her hips. Like a Vogue model.
“No, I just moved here for work actually, I’m doing a stage at the-”
A ringtone cut Warren off, the loud intro of an Elton John song filing the room until Victoria scrambled away to answer the call.
Warren and Nathan stood idly as she turned her back to them and sat on the arm of one of the expensive couches in the waiting space, crossing her legs like she expected her to do. Classy and chic.
“Max! Hi! Your timing is impeccable, you’re not going to believe who showed up at my studio!” Warren furrowed his brows listening to her side of the conversation, thinking Victoria suddenly sounded different.
Refusing to breach Victoria and Max’s privacy, he turned to Nathan, who was already sat the desk, fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves, a portable payment terminal(the white wireless modern ones Warren saw waiters use in fancy Korean restaurants) already sitting on the marble countertop. Nathan cleared his throat, and looked up at Warren after a few beats had passed. If he hadn’t been scowling during their photoshoot session, he definitely was now. The corner of his lips pulled down, a wrinkle in his fair skin(What was this guy’s skin routine? He could easily compete with Victoria’s, Warren assumed).
“Twenty-seven dollars and thirty-five cents, like I said.” He declared, gesturing at the machine with his chin. Warren stuttered a dozen different ways to say “Okay” and patted himself down to find his wallet and pay, to his dismay. Victoria was still chatting with Max, giggling like Max had just told the funniest joke known to mankind, and Warren fought with himself to not roll his eyes all the way back into his skull. He was sandwiched between two of his many highschool bullies, paying for an overpriced ID picture like a total beta male. Or beta phag, if he recalled Nathan’s fun little nicknames correctly. A frown reached his face before he could calm himself down, but the beep of approval of the machine brought him back down to Earth.
Nathan took the machine back, waiting for the receipt to print out.
“So… Nathan Prescott. What are you doing in Seattle?” Nathan immediately glared at him and ripped the receipt off from the machine. The sound of the paper tearing like an answer to his question. Nathan opened his mouth, then closed it again, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. Warren’s mouth twitched into a small smile, recognizing he was indeed his client, and there was no room to badmouth him— that is if Nathan wanted to badmouth him, so far he hadn’t done anything vile, Warren could maybe thank the years he spent in jail for that. Unfortunately, Warren hadn’t gone to jail yet, one wrong move would be enough to justify Warren’s revenge fantasy he’s had through all of highschool. As he watched Nathan’s sharp face, Warren realized he might be projecting his past years as a bullied kid onto this guy.
“Moved here a couple years ago, Victoria and I opened this studio last year.” Nathan answered after a minute, and handed the receipt to Warren, looking up at him with eyes that screamed for a challenge. Like daring Warren to speak out of line, to mention the many things that were on both their minds. But Warren wouldn’t, at least not now, maybe not ever since he doubted he would see him again. Or anytime soon. He bit the inside of his cheek and smiled.
“That’s awesome, I mean, I’m not surprised Victoria had a hand in this, it’s super fancy.” He took the receipt and stuffed it in his pocket. It took superhuman strength to force a kind tone into his voice. Anymore and he was choking on cuss words he felt Nathan deserved. They were both adults. Doing adult stuff. Warren pat himself on the back for doing such a good job at adulting, the years of networking practice in Uni had some use it looked like.
“Hm. Yeah, she’s crazy about interior design, always has been. This wasn’t really the vision I had for the place but it’s nice enough to do the job.” Nathan shrugged, and Warren saw the ghost of a smile on his face when he looked past his shoulder at Victoria. That ghost quickly went right back to the grave as soon as he looked back at Warren. He narrowed his eyes, possibly regretting he had said more than five words to him.
Warren stared back at him, and Nathan didn’t look away. Ten thousand things could have been said, or were said. Maybe. Warren couldn’t tell, selfish in his handling of the moment. He felt a rising anger in his chest, memories of the funeral he had to attend bubbling to the surface. Nathan didn’t look away, his face still sporting that stupid rich kid scowl, that look he made like he thought he was better than you, like he didn’t give a shit about you, like he owned the damn town and— like he was sad. Warren only had a split second to find that sentiment in Nathan’s eyes, hidden past the dark circles and the red tint of his eyelids, past the scowl and the dent on his nose bridge. That sudden wave of empathy made him sick to his stomach, and he finally looked away, mouthing a pathetic little “sorry”.
But Victoria was done with her call, and this short moment didn’t exist anymore, brushed away under the carpet. Just dust and old grudges. Warren turned around to face Victoria, his fingers nervously picking at the spot of eczema he had in the back of his neck.
“Well, it was lovely seeing you again, Warren.” Victoria almost sang the words. “Maybe we’ll see you at Max’s exhibition.” She patted his shoulder gently, but he could tell she was intentionally staying at an arm’s length.
“Yeah, totally.” He nodded, his thumbs now in the loops of his jeans.
Both blondes stared at him without sharing a word, so he took his cue.
“Yep. Have a great day, both of you.” He would’ve run out of there if he didn’t have any manners.
In his car, Warren clutched at his shirt, his chest loosening up, as if his breath had been lodged halfway up his lungs the entire time. He looked back at the studio, then at himself in the front view mirror, and back at the studio again. Trying to process the information he gathered, he pushed both his hands through his hair, ruining whatever he had tried to comb it into earlier. Still parked in front of the studio, Warren decided he had to move, in case Prescott and Chase were looking at him through the window.
He quickly drove off, and as soon as the steady rhythm of the afternoon traffic settled in, scrolled through his contacts looking for Max’s name. His phone dialed her number for him, and connected to his car’s bluetooth. His fingers clutched at the wheel. The tone rang until she picked up.
“Hey, Warhead, what’s up?”
“Max, hi, listen, did you know that Nathan works with Victoria?” Warren immediately inquired, a hint of bitterness in his voice. He knew it was unreasonable to be offended that Max didn’t tell him, but with her flying in only a couple of days, he thought he deserved to know why she never brought it up.
She didn’t answer for a moment, but Warren could hear her shuffling on her end, probably standing up.
“Yeah, I did.”
Another moment of quiet, Warren trying to figure out how he could express his frustration, because now that he was hearing Max’s calm but concerned voice, he was starting to doubt if his anger was warranted.
“I didn’t think you’d want to know, or that you would care. You saw them today, right? Victoria told me you passed by her studio.” She continued when she realized Warren waited for her to say more. Her nonchalance frustrated him, it was proof that his attitude towards the situation might be out of proportion.
“Heck yes I did! I had to pay the asshole thirty bucks, ‘cause my dumbass didn’t realize Nathan fucking Prescott was holding the camera! And Victoria came in all high and mighty too, since when are you so friendly with her?” He gripped the steering wheel, thinking back to every insult, every passive aggressive comment, every dirty look Victoria had thrown Max’s way back in Blackwell.
“Warren, calm down, dude! It’s not a big deal, really, Victoria and I went to the same college, I told you that. Why are you so friggin’ pressed?” Clearly, Max wasn’t having any of Warren’s little temper tantrum. Warren sunk back into his seat, embarrassed and defeated.
“I… Sorry. Sorry, I guess I freaked out, it’s like. He was there as if nothing ever happened, and it felt like a slap in the face. Like a reminder that all that stupid shit him and his Vortex douches did to me doesn’t matter, it has no consequences. And I couldn’t stop thinking about…” He bit his lip, trying to form an articulated sentence with the images of Max’s childhood friend he had put away in his memory vault. “About what he did to you, mostly. You know?”
“I know Warren. But it’s been, like, ten years. He’s changed.”
“Big whopping change, he looks at me like I’m dirt instead of shit.” Warren muttered under his breath, pressing the accelerator down the highway.
“What?” Max didn’t hear what he said thanks to his car’s shitty mic.
“I said I don’t know how you do it, how you’re so nice to them both, even after all this time.”
“What can I say, I’m sensitive. But so are you.” He could hear her smile, but he wasn’t in the mood to believe in his own capacity for empathy when it came to Nathan and Victoria.
“Yeah right.”
“C’mon, you cried every single time we watched Our Fault in the Stars.” Max teased, and he rolled his eyes at how old of a reference that was.
“That’s not the same and you know it! Anyone with a heart would cry. He was only seventeen!” He protested, but he could tell this was marking the end of the conversation. Max sighed into her phone and he stuck his tongue in his cheek.
“Just, be nice. At least until I get there.”
“Yeah. Alright.
“Thanks Warren. Talk to you later.”
“Of course, bye.”
She hung up, and Warren was left with himself and the road ahead.