Chapter Text
"Why can't it be a secret?"
Beignet sat on the bed across from Matcha. His beauitful dark skin glowed from the warm yellow light of the lamp on the bedside table. His locs fell around his head like a halo; a couple drifted across his face and over long lashes wet with tears. He shivered in his blue and red letterman jacket and the light wash jeans he wore hung stiffly over his legs.
Muffled music and chatter filtered in from the floor below, but the room was quiet enough to hear every hiccup and sniffle. The bass was enough to shake the bed ever so slightly, and every time, Beignet's hand clutched Matcha's tighter.
Matcha should've been crying too. But he wasn't.
His best friend had dragged him to this party where he didn't belong and even worse, he'd dragged him into some random bedroom just to convince him to keep their relationship under wraps.
It wasn't fair.
It wasn't fair that Matcha had become utterly devoted to this man, had gone beyond his boundaries, had given up so much of himself just to get nothing in return.
"I'm sorry, Ben," Matcha he stood up from the bed, not bothering to face him.
Beignet outstretched his arm but his hand was weak. Every second their fingers stayed intertwined, Matcha regretted what he was doing. Words flooded his mind but with the emotions that were building, they were so jumbled nothing could form. All he could do was let go of Beignet's hand and walk out the door, blocking out the desperate pleas to stay.
★ ★ ★
Matcha Tian. 16 years old. Junior year.
He woke up late on the first day. It wasn't that he was lazy or didn't care. In fact, he cared a lot. He'd been so anxious about school starting again that he didn't fall asleep until 3 in the morning.
With school in 30 minutes and less than 4 hours of sleep, he tried his best to get himself together. He threw his black rectangular glasses on with no time for contacts and ran to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth and washed his face as his straightener heated up. Once it was hot enough to fry a finger off, he straightened his shaggy short black hair into somewhat of an emo swoop. He had already set out an outfit the night prior, so it took no time to put on the white short-sleeved dress shirt and grey sweater vest. He slipped on black baggy jeans, black and white sneakers, and with his book bag already packed, he slung the large brown satchel over his shoulder and headed out.
As usual, his mā had already left for work with a note on the counter he hadn't bothered to read. He grabbed his lunch from the fridge and made room on his way out of the cramped apartment. Strapping on the shiny black helmet, he hopped on his green moped and sped as fast as legally possible to school. He carefully parked the bike on a side-street nearby to avoid the expensive school parking fees and ran as fast as he could towards the entrance.
Sprinting towards the entrance, he pulled a crumpled paper schedule out of his back pocket and his legs almost gave out in relief. His first period, art, was on the ground floor. He rushed down the first floor stairs to a short hallway adorned with display cases and canvases. He reached for the heavy wood door and pulled himself into the room just as the bell dinged over the intercom. Wanting to avoid any attention from his abrupt entrance, Matcha settled on a table near the back with only one other person.
He sat down in the cold plastic chair and despite his fear of eye contact, something possessed him to look at whoever was next to him.
The boy clearly didn't belong in an art class. For one, he was wearing a beige tank top; either because the August air was still blazing hot and humid as hell, or because he wanted to show off his muscles. He had smooth dark skin and locs that fell just above his eyes in the front and right down to the nape of his neck in the back. Matcha didn't want to make it obvious that he was eyeing him down, so from what little he could see, he had combined the tank top with black basketball shorts and brown designer sneakers. The man leaned forward, his strong-looking forearms bearing his wait on the square paint covered tables. A pink scrunchie circled around his wrist, most likely from whichever carbon copy cheerleader he was dating.
Not a second later, the teacher made an appearance. She was short and snippy, immediately passing out some basic brown sketchbooks to the class along with some 3D shapes for the class to start drawing. Matcha liked drawing enough to the point where he'd gotten pretty good at the basics. He had put his earbuds in and idly sketched away, occasionally letting his eyes wander to the guy beside him. It took a couple looks before Matcha realized the boy was looking at his paper and one more look until they made eye contact.
"Do you think you could help me?" he asked timidly.
His voice was deep and smooth but a nervousness seeped out that Matcha wasn't expecting. He peered at the paper to see drawings so bad only a 3 year old could compete with them.
"Uh, sure." Matcha decided.
He shifted towards the other boy and illustrated on his own paper, waiting for him to follow along. As Matcha explained his way of seeing shapes, the athlete's dark eyes lit up. He explained how he used quick and light force on the pencil, making the lines straighter and more accurate. Finally the boy tried his hand at it. It was wobbly and a little too long on one side, but it was much more a cube than his previous attempt.
"Um, thank you," he said, hiding his excitement,"my name is Beignet by the way."
"Matcha."
Beignet shuffled is his seat as he packed the sheet into a bright colored folder and stuffed it in his bag.
"Do you think you could teach me some more about drawing tomorrow?" he asked.
This shook Matcha a little. He expected the jock to just be using him to get better grade. Instead, he seemed genuinely interested. Matcha agreed just as the bell rang and Beignet walked off to join his other athletic friends in the hall.
The interaction lingered on his mind the rest of the day. When he finished his class work, he'd doodle and imagine Beignet replicating it in his own shaky and amateur style. Matcha would see him in the halls and hope to make eye contact when normally it's something he would dread.
Once the first day of junior year finally ended, Matcha was flooded out of the building by crowds of people. Outside of the glass entrance, people flocked towards their groups of friends. He watched as people smiled and talked with their friends, complained about schedules, and laughed over weird teachers and classmates.
The sound made his heart ache. He had no friends to share all his thoughts with and his mom was never home or awake long enough to listen to him. The talking and laughter haunted him as he walked to the side street where his moped awaited him.
He took a deep sigh as he sat on the hot leather seat and strapped the helmet on. As he turned onto the main road, a pedestrian ran into the street. Matcha's knuckles went white as he squeezed the brakes with all his strength. His head reared from whiplash as he stopped, but luckily he hadn't hit whoever jumped in front of him. He disregarded the moped, stumbling off of it as he checked the person lying face-down on the asphalt.
"Oh my gosh, are you okay?!" He asked frantically.
The man rolled over, clearly in pain and responded, "Um, could I get a ride home?" It was Beignet.
Matcha's heart had sunk and rose and at this point doing flips. His adrenaline crashed knowing that he was okay, but his nerves shot right back up at the boy's request. First, the bike could only fit one person and second, his mother would never allow him to drive with someone else on the bike. Not to mention the someone in question was popular, party-going, and probably a bad influence on Matcha's growing academic brain.
Despite his mother's voice in his head screaming at him, he was utterly desperate for a friend. This could be his chance. He nervously agreed, helping Beignet to his feet and offering the helmet. He moved the moped to the side so it wasn't a huge nuisance and helped Beignet onto the back of it.
While Matcha merged into traffic, he asked for the address, nearby landmarks, et cetera, but more importantly why Beignet had jumped in front of his scooter.
He shouted over the wind, "Well to be honest, my girlfriend threw me out of her car!" Matcha wasn't sure what he expected, but he felt surprised regardless. "I suppose she's my ex-girlfriend now."
"Oh, I'm sorry?"
"It's okay," Beignet began. "They never last."
Matcha contemplated on what he could've meant until the street Beignet mentioned came into view. The street itself winded and curled like a snake and Matcha couldn't ignore the strange pit in his stomach whenever the hands around his waist gripped a little tighter at every turn.
The house Matcha arrived to didn't impress him as much as it pissed him off. It was a McMansion, a large, mass produced, old money house, in a neighborhood that had its own stone plaque to separate them from the lower middle class citizens in shared a neighborhood with. Made of tacky brown stone and tan stucco, the two story building stood unnecessarily tall. A semicircle of smooth concrete led to a three door garage, as well as the large, arched, front entryway.
After Matcha had driven up to the double doors and Beignet handed the helmet back, the air fell quiet.
"Uh, thanks," Beignet's eyes shifted as he spoke.
"No problem."
Matcha watched as Beignet weakly waved and headed into his house. His stomach turned and twisted with a strange feeling as he drove a shortcut home. He tried to ignore it as he thought of how nice this route was. It wasn't as fast, but it avoided afternoon traffic and took him down quaint tree and flower-filled side streets that he'd never really paid attention to before. The scent of gardenias and hydrangeas alleviated the stress he felt from his first day and he found himself for once, hopeful.