Chapter Text
If anyone asked Warren Graham how he’d describe himself, he’d say he was a very logical, analytical, loner-geek. That’s what he always thought at least. Graduating highschool at 15 and attending the finest art college he knew— Blackwell Academy— at age 16 was something he could brag on and on about. Not a lot can say they’re THAT smart, no rich kid can pay their way up three grade levels, but Warren did it just off his brain. He’d would sit in the laboratory, studying away on his laptop and if you asked about the more popular kids, he’d say, “The Vortex Club? Yeah right, they’re a bunch of grade A, A-holes.” and laugh.
If anyone asked Nathan Prescott about Warren, he’d say Warren Graham was a total loser. Some kid from Seattle that doesn’t know squat about anyone, anything, or any place in Arcadia Bay. He’d say, “Gayram? The one all over that photo bitch?” and scowl. Nathan would put his earphones back in, turn up the music, and ignore the outside world for the sake of his own health. He didn’t need to study, didn’t need to do homework, he didn’t even need to talk to his teachers. He was only at Blackwell for his father, the photography program, and— while he didn’t plan it before— Jefferson.
The two were different, they never had any more interactions than a few curse words and nasty stares (from Nathan, of course, Warren swears he’s too good to stoop down to the “Prescott level.”) Nathan Prescott barely grazed the nerds mind, he was too busy keeping up his grades and studying to even try with anyone that belonged to the Vortex Club. He thought about it, like everyone in Blackwell, about what it would be like to sit with the rich kids and party so much you’d wake up at the lighthouse the next day. The daydreams would end abruptly when he saw Victoria Chase, the second richest kid in Blackwell, with her Chanel purses and Dior perfume, tease Max and shove her shoulder after Jefferson's class. Warren Graham was much too different for the Vortex Club, even the semi-nice ones like Hayden or Dana, it would just never work.
It’s what he tried to explain to Max out in the parking lot after Chem,
“Dude, no way! The Vortex Club can go wipe their own vomit off the sidewalk and I’d laugh.” He’d say, shaking his head and giving Max a stare of disbelief.
“Warren, you’re such a dork,” she’d giggle and speak in a soft voice. Warren would have to take a shaky breath in from the butterflies in his stomach. “It’ll be fun, if you really don’t like it you can sneak out of there, Kate and I just want you to get out of your nerdy prison cell!” With a smile and squinted eyes, she’d finish her idea and turn her gaze down to fiddle with her camera. Max and her camera, Warren would think, she takes such good care of it. Max was at Blackwell for photography, she loved the outdoors because she had millions of muses everywhere. She took photos of everything, she found beauty wherever she was and always tried to do the right thing.
Warren would stare at Max while Max stared at her camera, blissfully unaware. Warren would curse internally, sigh, and say,
“I mean, I guess it can’t be so bad… If you and Kate need me as a bodyguard, I can go full on Terminator!”
“Awesome! I’ll make sure to tell Kate, I’ll see you tonight Warren!”
Having a stupid crush is how he got to his current situation: At the junkyard, attending a Vortex Club party, at 10pm on a Friday, with no Max or Kate in sight. He arrived in his own car while the girls told him they’d go with Max’s other friend Cleo or maybe Chloe? He wasn’t paying too much attention. Right when they got to the party, they all got drinks and all three girls scurried off to dance— leaving Warren to stand next to an old broken car and drink some alcoholic fruit punch.
In Seattle, Warren would never go to parties. He didn’t have any reason or invitation to go. His friends didn’t bother staying after freshman year when they got the hint that Warren was actually serious about graduating early. Now that he’s really at a party, he isn’t sure how to feel. He sees all the bodies of heat dancing, talking, and maybe it's the fact he’s a little wasted, but he feels like throwing up from the dread in his stomach. Seattle was different, of course it was, he lived in the heart of it and grew up attending huge schools, everyone born already with their own clique. Warren stuck with the geeks, they understood what he liked, what movies to watch, which jocks were the nice ones and which ones weren’t. They didn’t understand Warren’s need for more, to use his mind for more than “Starship Troopers”, to get out of the cliques and bullying. He knew he was too young for college, he just didn’t think he’d go to Blackwell and get avoided because of it.
His eyes scan the crowd, he knows it’s useless, he won’t see Max or Kate, but he’s not here for anyone else. It's a lost cause, there’s too many people and too many lights, it makes his ears hurt and skin crawl. He spots Dana over at the makeshift bar, a bucket full of beers and ice, along with Trevor, he gets chills as he sees them already eyeing him down and waving for him to go over
“Warren!” she grabs his arm and circles it with her own, leaning against him. “You gave in to Max, huh? That girl has you hooked!” A blush creeps onto his face as he laughs, his eyes search for the girl mentioned. “Hey to you too Dana” he rolls his eyes, his smile still persistent, “I only came as a modern day terminator, but Max and Kate totally ditched me!” The girl on his side laughs and so does Trevor, who’s smoking a thin blunt on a rusted tire, then Dana shifts before she lets go of him. “You should go find her, she’s gotta be somewhere around— oh but, you need some more to drink Warren!” She hiccups between sentences and stuffs two red cups into his hands with a wink before she moves to sit in Trevors lap. “It’s a party, have some fun!” He hears her say with a laugh. He’s a light weight, he knows he shouldn’t drink more but he feels the buzz from his drink earlier, takes one look at the couple in front of him and one back at the filled crowd, then downs both drinks. His ears are flooded with Dana’s laughs and Trevor’s cheers added with the loud music. It goes down with a burning feeling, making his vision lag and his body sluggish. The drink makes his throat raw as the burning sensation goes from his mouth to his fingertips, and somewhere in his mind he knows that’s not normal, but the floaty feeling makes it worth it. Someone shoves another drink in his hand while he’s still processing the others, the music goes impossibly louder and the stinging in his fingers, ears, throat and head makes him feel like he might actually explode. He backs away from where he’s standing, he can register the couple in front of him smiling and now talking with other people, and he takes this chance to tumble his way towards anywhere quieter. It all feels like too much, he wonders if this is why parties never sounded fun to him, his geek friends would never get invited and naturally he didn’t either. His head feels like a brick just hit it and he has nothing else to distract him from the dull pain other than the bumps on the red party cup.
He doesn’t know where exactly he’s going. His legs lead him, as they usually do, and he takes gulps of the alcohol. His mind gets foggier, along with his sight, and his head hurts less the further he gets from the party. The ringing in his ears start to transition into a humming noise as his hands move towards any object he can use to keep his balance but something in his brain says looking like a total drunk is fine because now he isn’t thinking about the pain he just felt, or Max, or dating, or the fact he’s sixteen and in college. He feels like he’s on cloud nine, his mouth spills out with giggles at every broken car he sees. Warren's stomach turns for the second time tonight, he guesses the three drinks are catching up to him as he sips on his fourth.
“Holy fuck!” it’s half whispered-half yelled, the genuine shock in the phrase brings Warren to a stop. His surroundings are completely new, still in the junkyard but he can barely hear the music or any voices. The shock from the random voice spooks Warren, his stomach churns for the third time and he just knows he’s about to spill his guts. “Fuck! No fucking way, no way.” the whisperer seethes, heavy footprints pace on the snow from what Warren can hear. He takes a few steps closer to the sound. The steps grow quieter, almost faint, as if the person knows someone is coming. He carries on, bringing his left leg to touch the Earth and then his right leg, repeating until his vision sways and he sees a figure in front of him.
“What the—“ he hears from above him. Actually, was it under him? Or from him? Did he say that?
“Fuck.”
He blinks. Once. Twice. One more time for good measure. Then Warren Graham, Blackwells youngest, the child prodigy of Arcadia Bay, empties everything he consumed that day onto the snow.