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The thing about high schools—elite arcane academies or otherwise—was that if you didn’t have an in, you were screwed. If you didn’t have a screen name worth remembering, a pair of shared earbuds at lunch, or the right reaction when someone quoted last night’s TRL countdown, you were screwed. If you didn’t fit into any one of the socially-acceptable molds, you were screwed. If you swerved even an inch outside them, the hallways ate you alive.
And Idia was okay with that.
‘Cause, pfft, so what if his hobbies didn’t align with the normies? None of them would ever have the thrill of hearing that telltale ping of an MSN Messenger notification pop up with a “wywh usagi-chaaan^^”, ‘cause your RP buddy had finally snagged a region-locked copy of PSO on their GameCube.
Plus, honestly, the latest issue of Seventeen never stood a chance against a midnight FFN check-in where you desperately scrolled past pages of disclaimers (“I don’t own any of these characters! They all belong to [insert beloved mangaka here]! Again, I OWN NOTHING!!!!!!”) to finally get to a slash lemon that was barely sour.
The masses who popped and locked to whatever vapid MV MTV decided to bankroll that week’d never know what they were missing.
Like ordering a bootleg VHS recording of Precipice Moirai’s—Premo’s—most recent concert and waiting weeks for it to come.
And buying a burned Premo CD off some sketchy fansite at three in the morning and praying to Kami-sama that it arrived unscratched.
Or fucking ascending when the first note of Premo’s mythical vocals crackled through your headphones.
They wouldn’t get Premo at all.
‘Cause Premo was for weebs and losers and nobodies who doodled anime eyes in the margins of their homework and who tacked an “uwah!” (or a “tch”/bang sweep, depending on how you rolled) onto every stammered sentence.
Er, okay. Maybe Premo wasn’t that niche. Well, they were, but he guessed they did operate on a broader scale, too. Their nightcore speeds backed edgy lyrics that celebrated and mourned not belonging all in a single breath.
… So, yeah, normies wouldn’t get it.
No one would.
(Except maybe Ortho, ‘cause Idia’s little brother always got him.)
Idia pulled his hood further down and curled up on his bed, the glow of his LCD monitor still burning into his eyes. An hour ago, tickets to Premo’s next concert had gone live … and sold out almost instantly. He’d watched the page stall refresh and spit back SOLD OUT before he’d even had a chance to blink.
Panicked—he had to go to that concert—he’d spent the time since going through dubious resale boards hoping someone, anyone, would post a last-minute “FS: can’t go 1 tx.”
Not a single person had.
Life just wasn’t fair.
If the universe had even a passing respect for art, for transcendence, for the way Premo didn’t just make music but made being on the outside feel less … like being on the outside, then this wouldn’t be happening. Idia’d have snapped the tickets up with ninja bashiri speed. He’d have circled the concert date on his calendar three times. For good measure, not ‘cause he’d ever forget about it.
But no. The universe was determined to be disrespectful. He had no tickets. Somewhere out there, people who thought Premo was “fine” or “decent” would be going to that concert. He’d scoffed. Those people probably wouldn’t even have the lyrics memorized.
Yet he’d been stuck refreshing a page like an idiot.
Premo bled softly into his ears now, his headphone’s wire tracing an ungraceful arc from his bed to his PC. On the shelf next to him, a digital alarm clock glared the time.
He groaned.
First the tickets, then this.
As if it’d heard him, the clock ticked down by one. Now, there were only five more minutes. Five more minutes ‘til Idia’d have to haul his ass to the next housewarden meeting.
He’d begged, as part of his enrollment agreement, to be allowed to tune into lectures—or useless meetings—via a camcorder jury-rigged into a capture card and piped through NetMeeting. He’d been ix-nayed to hell and back on that front. Even a more magical solution (involving mirrors, magestones, and a technomantic flair only he could provide) had been vetoed. And the headmage hadn’t bothered to consider Idia’s last-ditch suggestion to let Ortho carry his flip phone into his office to attend with just audio!
At least he’d almost finished his proto-hologram rig. He’d be interning next year, but maybe someday, another social outcast could use it to survive the high school trenches. (Whee hee hee, was he altruistic or what?!)
His eyes flicked to the socket by his bed, and then to the box connected to it. Twelve AA rechargeable batteries were nested inside, and the green “fully-charged” light blinked steadily. Good. He needed a couple for his GBA, and he was not leaving his room without it. While those other housewardens yipped through today’s impossibly inane agenda with DEFCON-one gravity, he’d at least get to shunpō outta this dimension, thanks to Nintendo.
Idia tossed his headphones, slid off his bed, and swiped two batteries—then another two for backup. He slotted them into his GBA. It went into one pocket of his Toonami logo hoodie. The other one already bulged with a Discman, earbuds tangled around it, and a Premo mashup ready to go. He popped an earbud in, and glanced at the clock again.
Five minutes had passed. He drew a shaky breath, reminding himself that he’d combust if he’d had to answer to some other, less-qualified, mouth-breathing housewarden, and turned his doorknob. His foot slipped on a stray Pokémon card.
Yep.
It was officially zero hour.
The housewarden meeting was a wash, as usual. Or, Idia assumed it’d been, since he’d shuffled into the headmage’s office with all the charisma of an open wound, ducked into a corner, and switched on his GBA. The Fire Emblem grind stopped for no one, least of all the self-important trogs of NRC. Idia only managed to tune in when he heard the words “Junior Prom.”
He nearly dropped his GBA as all his sweat glands began working overtime. His face turned Ramshackle-ghost white.
For once, he didn’t have to be asked to speak up as he stuttered, “J—Junior Prom?!”
Seven unimpressed faces turned to him. Idia wished he were a worm.
“Yes, Mr. Shroud. Junior Prom,” the headmage offered, after a beat. He waved a hand theatrically. “The storied night when youthful ardor unfurls its wings and soars beneath the retracted backboards and Gymnasium rafters. Don’t tell us that you’ve forgotten that it’s tomorrow? Why, the entire student body has been talking about it for months!” Nodding as if he’d tended the gossip grapevine himself, he continued, “All housewardens are expected to attend to oversee their dorm’s behavior, and, before you ask, no, you may not request an exemption.”
Idia could feel the tips of his hair pinken as he blanched even further. Junior Prom. He did remember. Sorta. Someone had said something about it once, in passing. Probably. He’d filed it away under “not my problem,” but, but, but—now it was tomorrow. Not eventually. Tomorrow.
And he was being forced to go.
Housewardenship had never felt like such a scam.
Fuck.
“I—I—” he mumbled eloquently.
Before he could muster a real response, Vil Schoenheit, his frosted lip gloss catching the sconcelight, replied, “You do realize Ignihyde’s in charge of the sound system, correct? Pomefiore didn’t work this hard decorating the Gymnasium for blown speakers and illegal Limewire playlists.” He flipped his hair in a way that showed off his butterfly-clipped highlights that had actually been sponsored by L’Oréal.
Er, Idia must’ve told his dormmates to get on that back when this whole Prom thing had first been brought up, right? He’d ... he’d probably dropped a sleep-deprived IM into the Ignihyde chat at, like, two in the morning, and then immediately forgotten about it? T—That sounded plausible. Memo to me, memo to me: actually double-check that.
Riddle Rosehearts, who’d been taking copious notes in his leather-bound planner, waved his hand in a very “not on my watch” gesture. “There will be no ‘illegal Limewire playlists’ issuing forth from Ignihyde’s setup. Heartslabyul has been tasked with taking care of the music, and Cater’s been hard at work irritat—ah, regaling everyone with potential song choices from his personal MP3 collection.” Under his breath, he added, brows furrowing, “Alongside tracks from his and the Pop Music Club’s debut album; the … limitations … of having been recorded in someone’s garage are evident.”
Scarabia’s eternally-perky housewarden, Kalim Al-Asim, began to reply, but Idia didn’t catch a single word, ‘cause his brain had short-circuited like it always did when anyone brought up the name “Cater.”
Cater.
Cater.
As in, Cater Diamond.
As in, the guy who was so cool, he made ice look hot. The guy who leaked normie like a Top 40 hit and whose entire personality was stolen from a PacSun display. The guy who rocked air-dried frosted tips, pristine white Vans, a future-boyband-approved silver earring, and who managed to look like he’d walked off the cover of Teen People. The guy who lived for the flip phone clipped onto his waistband. The guy who was determined to make iPods a thing and walked around with his half-shoved into his pocket, the earbuds dangling and banging the deck of his skateboard.
Fuck, Idia could eat him for breakfast.
And you could skip the third degree: Idia didn’t know why, okay? Maybe it was ‘cause Cater existed like the universe waved a big foam finger in his honor. Maybe it was ‘cause Cater’s smile could charm Professor Trein’s cute-but-grumpy cat, Lucius, on a good day. Yeah, that was it.
… It obviously had nothing to do with the fact that, despite being surrounded by an entourage three rings deep, sometimes, Cater seemed just as alone as Idia.
He’d talked to him once. They were in the same class—3B—and Idia sat in the seat behind him, forced to perpetually breathe in his liberally-applied Abercrombie cologne.
Trein had instructed them to discuss an answer with the person behind them. Cater had turned around, taken one look at Idia’s composition notebook graffiti-ed with Premo and Mario Kart stickers, and hadn’t snickered. It might’ve been Idia’s imagination, but he’d almost looked like he’d wanted to ask something about them. But then he’d shaken his head and had cheerfully requested Idia’s name. Unlike most people, he’d seemed like he’d been trying to actually commit it to memory and not just file it under “geeky Ignihyde housewarden who I’ve known of for the past two years.”
Idia had barely been able to mutter a response to Trein’s prompt. Still, Cater hadn’t seemed too bothered by the fact and had effortlessly supplied his own answer.
And Idia wasn’t gonna pretend like he saw Cater glancing at him whenever they passed each other in the crowded halls, ‘cause … guys like Cater didn’t notice guys like Idia. Hell, guys like Cater didn’t even know that guys like Idia even existed.
And they definitely didn’t ask them to dance.
W—Which made sense, anyway, since Cater already had a boyfriend.
Tall, cool, and dangerous—with a wicked repertoire of spells that unlicensed mages were definitely not authorized to cast—the guy practically lived with an arm locked around Cater’s waist. And the moments when they weren’t, he was instructing Cater to put his arms around his as they sped off into the sunset on his blastcycle.
He laughed whenever Cater asked if he could just skateboard wherever the hell they were supposed to go, like the question was cute instead of genuine, and never seemed to notice when Cater’s smile went a little tight around the edges. If Cater ever protested, it was swallowed whole by revving engines and a hand tugging him closer.
If he found out that Idia’d ever entertained soppy shōjo dreams about Cater, he’d kick his ass.
Idia sucked in a sharp breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and the sound cut too loud through the room. A few heads turned. Vil arched a perfectly manicured, razor-thin eyebrow. Azul Ashengrotto, Idia’s fellow BGC member, smirked like he hadn’t recently been suffering from immense social humiliation, after failing to ask out the Scarabia vice housewarden, Jamil Viper. Leona Kingscholar snorted.
Great. Fantastic, even.
Idia shrank further into his corner, shoulders curling inward. He slid the GBA back into his pocket and wished very hard that he could Henge no Jutsu himself into something inconspicuous. A chair leg, perhaps. Or the headmage’s ridiculous, feathered epaulets.
‘Cause inconspicuous was everything prom wasn’t. Prom meant lights. Music. The Backstreet Boys. Bodies pressed so close on the dance floor that there was no room for any of the Sevens. Prom meant watching Cater be watched and spun across a floor that Idia would never be welcome on.
Almost to no one, he mumbled, “Ignihyde’ll be ready.” Whether or not he’d be was a completely different issue. Ugh, first he’d missed the Premo tickets, and now had to deal with this tomorrow?
Tomorrow.
The word tasted like battery acid.
Junior Prom.
Those tasted even worse.
The most criminal thing about Junior Prom was that it was Junior Prom. The only underclassmen that were invited were the housewardens, meaning Ortho, Idia’s mana restore in a sea of baggy suits and excessive hair product, was banned from joining. Idia had groveled on his behalf, even thrown his title around, but, at the end of the day, being a housewarden was a joke. Swap it out with “glorified babysitter,” and you’d have about the same level of authority.
“You’ll be okay, brother!” had been Ortho’s last words to him. “Just focus on keeping our dormmates in line!”
Which proved to be an easy task, since only, like, seven Ignihydians had even decided to attend. And most of them were doing precisely the same thing as Idia: refusing to engage and clinging to the walls like mold on a bathroom tile.
It was awful.
Britney Spears and NSYNC pumped through the speakers Ortho had all of Ignihyde set up two hours ago. Vil and his team of Pomefiore students had transformed the Gymnasium into something that reeked fabulousness. Every surface was a crêpe paper confection and glittered with reflective accents. Balloons erupted from each corner, and streamers dripped from the rafters. A collection of rotating lights bathed the room in a soft pink and blue glow.
On one end, Octavinelle oversaw refreshments that were complete with elegant hors d’oeuvres way beyond pubescent boys’ palates and a punchbowl guarded by an unamused Lucius. At another, a mob of Scarabia posers were trying to hype up a crowd, their jewelry rattling as they attempted a breakdance circle.
Besides Ignihyde’s pathetic turnout, pretty much every junior in NRC had shown up, which meant the room was packed wall to wall with teenagers who’d been steeped in a cocktail of equal parts hormones, AXE body spray, and last-minute suit purchases from JCPenney.
For his part, Idia had wanted to come drowning in his hoodie—the nicer one with a classy The Rose of Versailles print—but his mom had gotten wind via Ortho that her “little Idy” was attending (read: chaperoning) his first high school dance. She’d immediately strong-armed a Charon into dropping off an outfit that she’d thought was “just perfect.”
That morning, he’d woken up to a navy box with a silver ribbon at his door. A weary unwrapping had revealed a brand new suit. His mom spent all day in slate-colored robes, but, for him, she’d selected a black, wide-lapeled jacket that was lined with thread that was the same shade of cobalt as his lips. The cut sat right on his shoulders, and, knowing Idia’d prefer sneakers to dress shoes, the trousers were hemmed to the optimal length. A white undershirt would’ve reflected the dim lights and emphasized the obtrusiveness of his hair, so she’d packed a black one instead.
Although he looked kinda like he was going to a funeral (he was, technically), the whole getup was easily the most fashionable thing in his wardrobe. It worked, though.
It worked less when it was accompanied by a note to Ortho that made him promise to take a million pictures on his digicam beforehand and to ensure that Idia didn’t return wearing his hoodie.
Well, Ortho was clearly succeeding, since it was minute five of Junior Prom, and Idia was still reasonably dressed. His hair still hung long in its usual curtain that was more “I recently took a Kamehameha to the face” instead of “artfully tousled and teased with a blow dryer for two hours.” He had been persuaded, though, by one of Ortho’s little friends—Ace Trappola, he thought?—to pin back part of his bangs with dark snap clips. By now, a few strands were starting to slip out and frame his face. It made it kinda painfully obvious that he’d spent the six hours pre-Prom camped out in front of his TV with his PS2 instead of primping.
But what was the point of primping when you’d planned to be a terrified wallflower the whole night? Spending hours on your character customization screen was for normies who expected to be looked at. Losers who disappeared into the shadows—whether or not they wanted to—and only reappeared to earn their weekly “Kick Me” sheet to the spine were exempt. Naturally.
He blew a lock of flickering hair out of his face and stuck in an earbud that connected to the Discman buried in his pocket. Overprocessed voices hammered his eardrums. Instantly, he could feel his shoulders loosen and his jaw unclench. He focused on the beat that spoke to him in a way that Christina Aguilera never would and promised himself that he was absolutely not scanning the room for anyone in particular.
Which was how he still ended up catching sight of Cater, mid-conversation with Heartslabyul’s vice housewarden and a fellow junior, Trey Clover. Trey always looked like he’d stepped straight out of a Target back-to-school ad with his neat button-up, relaxed slacks, wire glasses, and painfully normal, dependable energy that caused his underclassmen to accidentally call him “Dad” more than once. Tonight, the effect was doubled somehow; he just radiated “chill” vibes that any weeb in sneakers would do well to emulate.
And then, Idia’s heart thudded up into his throat, the calm Premo had bought him dissolving on impact. The ends of his hair shifted into a deep, rosy pink.
Next to Trey, Cater looked unreal.
Of course he did.
A slim, well-fitted shirt with the top button popped hugged his frame. It was layered under a light jacket that revealed a quartet of enamel pins on the lapel: a smiley-face, a scarlet diamond, a Heartslabyul rose, and a treble clef. His hair was, surprise, surprise, perfect, though most of his bangs had been pulled back into a clipped pompadour that everyone would no doubt be trying (and failing) to pull off tomorrow. An iPod threatened to spill from a side pocket, and the earring dangling from his earlobe glinted when a light managed to graze him. He chuckled at something Trey said and bumped his shoulder amiably.
Then Cater was snatched away, a hand closing around his waist as his boyfriend cut in, irritation flashing on both their faces. Idia looked away a second too late. Premo still pounded in his ear but did nothing to stop the bile climbing his windpipe. He wasn’t supposed to have seen that. A flicker of bitterness ignited in his stomach. He extinguished it immediately. He wasn’t supposed to have felt that.
It was just … man, Cater deserved so much better.
Not him, obviously, ‘cause Cater wasn’t supposed to give a damn about geeks like him, but …
From the far end of the Gymnasium, a show-off from Diasomnia magically dimmed the lights, and, like cattle, the room collectively surged to the dance floor. Idia watched as Cater’s boyfriend caught his waist again and yanked him into the crowd.
Everyone danced.
No one asked Idia to.
He’d known that would happen. No one had spent the last week waving a poster board in his face with “Prom–ise?” scrawled on it in gel pen and Sharpie. His locker hadn’t exploded in confetti and crumpled notes begging for a dance. In fact, he’d been forced to be here—no one had actually asked him to come at all.
Fine. That was fine. The pink in his hair was creeping higher now and was halfway up his back. He swallowed hard and clicked the volume up on his Discman. A summoning spell materialized his GBA and a game cartridge into his palm.
Whatever. T—This was just an ill-advised sidequest. After the night was over, he’d actually be able to veg out and enjoy himself by marathoning whatever he’d torrented last month. Alone. Which was better. Preferred, even. Inuyasha was leagues above Friends, anyway. It had stakes. It meant—it meant something.
They’d never know what that was like.
… Unlucky.
Savage Garden surged straight off Cater’s playlist and through the speakers. He should’ve been glowing. Instead, Idia noticed that Cater’s smile looked like a grimace as he swayed opposite his boyfriend. Their heads dipped together, voices low but not soft, as they muttered sharp somethings that didn’t scream “I’ll be your dream, I’ll be your wish, I’ll be your fantasy.”
Premo’s lyrics continued to pound in Idia’s head as he traced his fingers along the perimeter of his GBA. He slid the power switch on. As the Game Boy logo flooded the screen, a ripple went through the nearby crowd. Not a gasp or a scream; it was more like some idiot had pressed “pause” on a VCR. Idia’s head snapped up in time to see Cater’s boyfriend standing there with a red handprint blooming across his cheek. His mouth had dropped open, and his eyes were round in shock.
‘Cause that’d come from Cater.
Cater, who laughed things off. Cater, who smoothed tension over with a grin and a socially-savvy change of subject. Cater, who hated scenes.
And that was Cater, who was already moving away from the dance floor, jaw set.
Wait. What?
Idia’s thoughts tripped over themselves. W—was this a joke? A bit? Was this normal Junior Prom stuff he just didn’t have the instruction manual for?
Then Idia realized the path Cater was taking. Straight toward the wall. Straight toward—no.
Idia’s head started to shake. His earbud fell out of his ear as his fried brain scrambled to process what was going on. Why was Cater coming over here? Where Idia was standing? He wasn’t even supposed to know he existed.
People started staring. Not all of them, but there were just enough eyes to make the hairs on the back of Idia’s neck prickle. Half the juniors, maybe, turned curiously as Cater beelined in his direction.
If his spine wasn’t already kissing the wall, Idia would’ve backed up on instinct when Cater stopped in front of him.
Up close, Cater’s cheeks were faintly pink. From the lights and nothing else, obviously. He didn’t look back over his shoulder.
“Heya, Idia,” he said, like this was normal.
His hand dipped into the breast pocket of his jacket. For a second, Idia’s brain supplied nothing but worst-case scenarios. A collapsible magearm wasn’t not in the realm of possibility. Neither was a stick. Then Cater pulled out two tickets, a little bent from being carried around, and shuffled them carefully.
“I, um—” Cater huffed a breath, flashing a quick, if crooked, smile. “So—okay. This is gonna sound kinda random, but just go with me for a sec. Premo’s playing next Friday. I grabbed two tickets when they went up. ‘Cause—well.”
He held one out. Toward Idia.
“I figured you liked them. You’ve got their stickers on your notebook and always kinda … light up when they come on.” He swallowed hard and ran a hand through his hair. His green eyes seemed to gleam in the low light with a kinda earnestness that Idia thought normies were allergic to. “I just—like … same.”
Idia’s thoughts skipped, stuttered, and then refused to load.
The music swelled. Before he could reboot and remember how mouths worked, Cater tilted his head and said, “So, uh. If you wanna go? With me?”