Chapter Text
Warren Graham can’t remember the last time his skin wasn’t marred with some form of scar or bruise.
Yellows and blacks and reds, watercolours sinking into each other and making the perfect picture of troubled. Even then, he can’t help but find it just a little mesmerising. A little comforting, in the way it tells him that he has someone. Someone who he’s spent the last 16 years of his life waiting for, someone who he knows is waiting for him too.
He knows. He knows what they mean, he knows. Yet he still can’t stop that small, selfish part of him that almost feels relieved. And he knows it’s terrible to feel that way in part, but he longs for the day he can finally meet them, finally give them the comfort they unconsciously cry for every time another one blooms on skin, be the knight in shining armour he’s dreamt of being ever since he’d had his first crush in 6th grade.
Mostly though, he feels worry. Obviously, he would. He doesn’t like the thought of the person he shares his soul with in pain, doesn’t like the reasons why they might be in pain. Warren wouldn’t say he’s an overly emotional person, but he’s not ashamed to admit that he’d maybe, only maybe cried a little bit after his parents had finally sat him down and explained the whole soulmate situation at the ripe age of 13.
He waited it out, hoped that maybe bruises on forearms would fade out, but they didn’t. As he got older, though, they changed. They were different. Signs of helplessness turned into scars over bloody knuckles, bruises that looked more like fights. Warren wishes he knew what that meant.
Still, he found he didn’t have much time to dwell on it. Movies on cracked-screen laptops, formulas and elements. It paid off, and he didn’t have much time to think of anything else.
And after getting into Blackwell on a scholarship, he still had no time to think of anything else except keeping his place, or avoiding the Vortex Club at all costs, or oh my god, Max looks so cute today.
Speaking of—
“—arren?”
The sound of her voice startles him, and he feels the heat creeping up onto his face as he fumbles a little against the car he’s leaning against.
“Huh? Yeah?”
He feels the moment he catches the amused but cutely confused look in her eyes, the slight stutter of his heart in his chest. He’d learned a long time ago that he’d never have a chance with her, and inside he knows his person is out there waiting for him, so he’d never really, but he can’t help the traces of puppy crush that still show up occasionally.
“You okay?” Max tilts her head to the side with a furrow in her brow, and only then do his eyes catch onto the flash drive clutched tightly in her right hand.
Oh.
“Yes—Yeah! I’m fine,” he pauses for a beat, his hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck in a familiar rhythm. “Really.”
“Ookay,” she drags the word out and immediately Warren knows she isn’t convinced. He can only give a sheepish smile before thanking the almighty gods above when she decides to let it go, moving forward. “Well, anyway, here’s your flash. Thanks for letting me borrow it.”
“No problem.”
He can still feel the flush heating his skin and he wonders how dumb he must have looked staring into nothingness, lost in his memories of worry, and soulmates, and worry, and I hope you’re okays.
The silence between them stretches for a few seconds, loud and lingering, but Warren is determined to break the silence that exists solely because of his oddly present memories. And he has just the perfect thing.
“Oh! Check out my new wheels!” He leaps up off the hood, expression lighting up at the chance to ramble on about something he’s been excited about for weeks.
He revels in the small quirk of his friend’s lips, the smile on his own face growing in response. “Cool, super old school.”
“Right? 1978, to be exact. Now we can go to the drive-in. There's one in Newberg, just sixty miles away.”
His comment opens up a door for the both of them, and for a while their conversation feels like it always does. It’s free, and easy, and it’s comfortable. They talk about the drive in, they talk about Victoria (“No way you did that. That’s badass, SuperMax.”) They talk about the movies on the flash she’d borrowed and it’s fine. It’s good.
He chooses not to mention the slight tension he can see set in her shoulders, or the way her eyes keep flickering around like she’s waiting for something to happen. It’s odd and he doesn’t understand.
He doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t question. Or at least he doesn’t until he spots a familiar red jacket and rough footsteps.
Nathan Prescott.
Warren can’t help the grimace that takes over his face. He’s not particularly close with Nathan, if that’s what you wanted to call it. He’d only really spoken to him once, and he makes it a habit to erase the interaction from his brain entirely.
Other than that, he’d only heard the rumours, heard the insults thrown at people as he walked through campus, heard the insults thrown at Warren himself, heard the Vortex Club walking around like they owned the place—and he guesses that in a way, they do. Or at least Nathan does.
The one thing he had learned from these interactions was that he and Nathan lived on completely different planets. Nathan’s whole existence thrived on intimidation and using his family’s influence to get his way, and Warren’s was the complete opposite of that. He hated it, hated it so much. The world would have to end before there was even a minuscule chance the two would get along.
His vision clears to a sneer, for once not directed at him.
“Max Caulfield, right?” Nathan steps closer, and Warren can almost see the waves of angry red radiating off of him. “You’re one of Jefferson’s little photo groupies.”
His voice cuts through the little bubble he’d found himself in—raw, and mean. He feels the air shift next to him as Max steps backward, tense but also refusing to take shit from anyone. His scabbed-over knuckles itch suddenly, the kind of discomfort that he’s learned to ignore by now.
“I’m one of his students.”
Warren can do nothing but watch. He can do nothing but watch as Nathan shoves him to the side, can do nothing but watch as he settles in front of Max, frustration and white-hot rage, and if Warren didn’t know any better, maybe he’d see a flicker of fear in his glare.
“Whatthefuckever. I know you like to take pictures, especially when you’re hiding out in bathrooms.”
The uncomfortable itch in his knuckles intensifies, but he ignores it. He’s learned to ignore it. What the fuck had he missed?
“You better tell me what you told the principal,” he snaps. “Now. Answer me, bitch.”
Warren clenches his jaw. he’s so, so confused, but he’s also so, so pissed. What the fuck was this guys problem?
“I told him the truth. A student had a gun.” Max squares her shoulders and Warren is even more confused. Gun? What gun?
“No, you told him I had a gun. That’s why he dragged me into his office.” He can see the moment Nathan almost snaps—the way his pupils dilate and Warren can confidently say that this is one of the few times he’s seen the human race for what they are. Animals.
Warren doesn’t think. He doesn’t think as he steps forward, his own fire in his eyes. He knows Max doesn’t need protecting—she can handle herself—but he’ll be damned if he can’t ever be the knight in shining armour for someone he cares about, even if it’s not for the person he really wants to be one for.
“Get away from her, dude.”
He could’ve done anything else in that moment, he could’ve planned some crazy heroic action in his head that he’d surely act on (albeit more awkward limbs and maybe a bit lamer than he’d imagined), but all that is discarded the moment he feels a throbbing pain explode into his skull.
The only thing he can feel for a moment is a sharp, blinding-hot sensation in his head, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Nathan hiss out in pain too.
Then, everything starts blurring together as he starts to regain his bearings—shouting, the sound of rubber against pavement, Max. He doesn’t realise he’s gotten back onto his feet before he’s pushing Nathan down.
He feels a moment of pride that’s short lived before he’s overtaken and, once again, being beaten to a pulp. He thinks he shouts something out but he isn’t sure what, and the burning in his knuckles is getting worse and ow, what the hell?
He’s lying there on the ground and he burns. He’s burning. But then, Nathan freezes. It’s just for a second, but it’s enough.
Warren kicks out in a haste, hurling the other boy backwards just enough for him to scramble away, hissing in pain as his elbows scrape against the concrete beneath him through his shirt.
He doesn’t say anything, he can’t say anything. So he just sits there, sits there panting, heart pounding in his chest.
Warren expects there to be something else—a retaliation maybe, shouting. He expects anything except what he sees.
Nathan doesn’t move. He doesn’t get up and angrily storm towards him to finish off the job. He just sits there, mirroring him. His hand is shaking where it’s pressed against his face and his skin is pale. He looks horrified. And Warren—
He looks down at his knuckles, freshly bloody and hauntingly beautiful in a weird way and he understands. And he fucking hates it.
No.
No no no no way.
This. It wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t. There was no way Nathan Prescott was—
Warren feels like he’s about to throw up.
Opposite him, Nathan trembles, in anger or fear he isn’t sure, and slowly slides his hand off his face, revealing a bruise around his eye that he definitely knows should not be there.
No.
“You–“
“Don’t.” Nathan’s voice is sharp. Shaky. Like he’s only holding himself together by a single fraying thread. “Don’t. Fucking. Say. Anything.”
Warren’s entire body aches, but nothing compares to the realisation that’s setting deep into his bones. Nathan is—
He can’t even say it, can’t even think it without wanting to cry. Every heartfelt moment he’d imagined with his soulmate had been crushed to pieces right in front of his eyes.
It was laughable when he thinks about it long enough. Of course. Of course.
”Of course you’d be the guy to beat up his own soulmate.”
His attempt at finding humour in the situation doesn’t last long as Nathan immediately sets his stormy gaze on him, “I told you to shut up.”
Warren throws his arms up in a weak attempt at surrender, wincing slightly at the pull in his elbows. He wasn’t about to push it.
The following tension in the air between them is unbearable, the silence even worse. He watches red fabric rustle as Nathan stumbles to his feet on shaky legs, muttering out curses—and Warren feels like an idiot sat there, face and heart bruised and bleeding.
He doesn’t make a move to leave though, he just stands there. Stands there looking about two seconds away from punching something or having a full-on existential crisis.
Warren tries to bite his tongue, tries to stop the inevitable word vomit from leaving his lips, but he can’t. “Look—“
Before he can fully commit to embarrassing himself, a sharp voice cuts through the air, cutting through with a ferocity only one person could.
“Hey! What the hell is going on over here?”
The dark look on Nathan’s face darkens even more if that’s even possible, and Warren turns, already preparing himself for the horrible, horrible day he’s about to endure.
David Madsen.
Great.
“This is none of your business,” Nathan spits out the words like it’s painful for him to, like he’s burning inside just as much as Warren is.
“You’re on school property. That makes it my business.”
David’s subsequent grip on Nathan’s arm is firm and wholly unwelcome. Warren, still on the ground with his mind reeling a mile a minute, stays silent as he watches Nathan yank his arm back with a violent jerk.
“Don’t even think about touching me again.”
The older man looks like he wants to argue, and he can see the moment he almost does before ultimately deciding it wouldn’t be the worth the effort and his gaze shifts to Warren. Warren, who still hasn’t gotten up.
“You too. Let’s go.”
And he can’t do anything else except scramble up onto his feet, and follow. And he does. He follows.
This is fine. It’s fine. This…definitely isn’t the worst thing that could’ve happened. In fact, it’s great he’s found his–
“Keep moving, kid.”
If anyone notices the panic creeping up into his being, taking over his whole body, no one says anything. His body moves on autopilot, and his mind only catches up when he’s already in Principal Wells’ office, sitting stiffly in a chair he knows is meant to give a false sense of security before they release the beast.
He feels so unlike himself, and he knows it. But he’s so confused and everything he’s believed his whole life has been shattered, falling through his fingers—so he thinks he has an excuse.
In the corner of his eye, he can see Nathan’s clenched jaw and the quick, angry glances he keeps sending his way and Warren knows, he knows, that somehow he’s going to be blamed for this because of course he will. It’s Nathan and it’s the Prescott’s.
Principal Wells’ sighs, rubbing at his temples as if this whole situation is already beginning to give him a migraine.
“Mr. Prescott. This is the second time you’ve been in my office today. First an accusation, and now you’ve been caught fighting another student.”
Warren tenses, but Nathan just rolls his eyes, irritation radiating off of him. “That ‘accusation’ was bullshit. We already went over this—I don’t need to be here.”
“We do not tolerate that kind of language at Blackwell, Mr. Prescott,” Wells replies coolly, and Nathan doesn’t even try to hide his scoff at that, “And while that issue may have been resolved, it doesn’t explain why two of my students were found fighting on school grounds.”
All the answer he gets to that is silence.
Pure, unfiltered silence.
Not even Nathan has a reply to that, and Warren realises, not for the first time that day, that Nathan’s probably processing too, it wasn’t every day you found out the person you were destined to be with was someone you punched in the face. Repeatedly.
The silence causes the attention to shift onto him. “Mr. Graham, I hope you aren’t planning to make a habit of this.”
Warren cringes at being called Mr. Graham, it makes him feel much older than he is. But all he can do is shake his head, offering an “Of course not, sir.” Before he swallows, trying to ease the dryness of his throat.
Wells’ gaze flicks between the two of them, and Warren doesn’t miss the way it lingers over the two matching bruises on their faces, something that’s tying them together, chaining them down. And Warren doesn’t know whether to cry or laugh.
The rest of the conversation is the usual spiel someone gets when they’re being put under pressure to do better.
“If either of you are caught fighting again, there will be consequences.”
Nathan shifts in his seat, gearing up to argue before he’s promptly cut off from his efforts, “And Mr, Prescott—I’d strongly advise against complaining, you’re already on thin ice.”
Nathan says nothing, only clenches his jaw and the two share a few looks that Warren doesn’t quite understand and it’s weird but he doesn’t have time to look into it before he’s standing up and stalking out the room with a barely coherent curse.
Warren only offers a nod before he follows suit.
He’s planning to maybe finally talk to Nathan, but by the time he’s out in the hall, he’s already gone. Warren doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed but what he does know is that exhaustion crashes over him the second he steps out.
Later. Nathan is a problem for future Warren. He’ll always be a problem for future Warren. But right now, he doesn’t think he can physically muster up the energy to put anymore of his energy or thoughts into this today.
The walk back to his dorm feels almost robotic, and he can’t find it in himself to enjoy the feeling of the early October air, can’t find it in himself to enjoy the anticipation of being able to finally finally lay down.
He takes a moment to stare at Nathan’s door, and he wonders just for a moment what Nathan is feeling, if he’s also feeling the burn in his knuckles, the burn of bruises on his body that are from something other than himself. But then Warren thinks, and he thinks. And just maybe there isn’t a bruise on his body right now that isn’t from himself and Warren thinks: How can you save someone from themselves?
The door shuts behind him and the heaviness in his chest settles as he collapses onto his bed.
Before he abruptly sits up, scrambling to pick up his phone that he’d dropped unceremoniously on his nightstand.
Oh shit. He forgot about Max.