Chapter Text
It starts, as many things do, with a class. Something to do with the formations of government systems, to be more specific, though Pyro couldn’t give much more detail than that. He doesn’t actually like the class, isn’t even sure why he needs to take it when he couldn’t say how it relates to his major. It’s mindnumbingly boring and taught by an increasingly old man whose voice somehow gets duller with every minute.
“Not,” Apo teases him, “that you need any more reasons to not pay attention in that class.”
Pyro groans and tries to push her face away. “Can you please shut up about that?” he begs with very low hopes of her actually listening to him.
The other thing about the class, the thing that turns it from a biweekly form of torture that Pyro dreads into a biweekly form of mental torture Pyro eagerly awaits, would be the person who shares it with him. He sits two rows in front of Pyro. They first noticed him two months into the semester: black hair and shrewd brown eyes. He always looks put together, unlike the constant state of chaos Pyro permanently lives in.
They remember it clearly, which could say something about them if they chose to look into it too much, but they value their dignity, so they won’t. They had been half-awake, arms pillowed beneath them to serve as a chinrest, when their gaze caught on the flash of sun against metal. There for an instant, then gone. Pyro had blinked a few times, trying to wake up. It came again, two rows in front of him; silver winking in the light through the windows at the back of the classroom. A boy leaning back in his chair, earrings almost hidden by the waves of his dark hair. Pyro was still able to make out the design. Gothic-style crosses, one in each ear, a ruby set into the center of each.
And he still remembered awkward Sunday mornings spent in church, the tall vaulted ceilings and uncomfortable wooden pews that had always made him more intimidated than accepted. The centerpiece of the chapel, right behind the priest as the congregation chanted prayers and hymns, was a huge wooden cross, dominating the space. Staring at it when he was little, Pyro had felt the burn of shame and guilt for things he was only just starting to become aware of. The carving of Jesus nailed to it had seemed to stare into him, to reach out and bare his soul to everyone gathered.
Just looking at the earrings made him remember the clack of rosary beads, the sticky clasp of his palms each night as he knelt at the edge of his bed, his parents looking on in stern judgement. Forgive me, Father, for my sins…for my weaknesses…for my desires…
But this boy wore his crosses like it was an irony he took pleasure in. And Pyro had quickly become addicted to it.
“It’s kinda funny,” Shelby offers when she comes over for Tuesday game night. Pyro had sent them an anguished text in class that afternoon, because the stranger apparently tips his head closer when the girl on his left whispers to him during class, and Pyro had reacted in a completely normal way to learning that. Now he’s regretting that decision.
“What’s kind of funny?” Drift asks, helping them set up the Monopoly board as Avid and Apo argue over snacks in the kitchen.
Shelby shrugs, glasses slipping down their nose as they bend forward to grab the chance cards. “Pyro’s crush on the guy in his…weird government class.”
“It’s not funny,” Pyro objects hotly, immediately followed by Apo’s shout of, “It is!” He flips her off even though she can’t see him and continues, “And anyway, it’s not a crush.”
Drift frowns at him over the money she’s sorting. “What do you call it, then?”
“Pent up sexual frustration.”
There’s a loud clatter from the kitchen and then Apo rounds the corner, disbelief crossed with annoyance crossed on her face. She stares at him in shock for a long second before shaking her head. “Unbelieveable.”
“What?” he protests.
She shares a long suffering look with Drift and Shelby and gestures to him. Pyro furrows his brow, confused, and looks over to the girls sitting on the rug. They’re both watching him with vague disappointment. “What?” he repeats, entirely lost as to what they could possibly mean.
“Oh my God,” Apo groans, dragging her hands down her face.
“Pyro,” Drift sighs. Avid finally pokes his head into the room to see what’s happening. “You get stupidly excited to see him, I think that’s a sign of having a crush.”
Avid fully rounds the corner to join them. “Are we talking about that guy in Pyro’s government thing?”
“Pyro doesn’t think they have a crush on him,” Shelby informs him.
Avid giggles. “Dude, you definitely do!”
Pyro waves a hand to shut him up. “You’re all turning it into something it’s not. You can think someone’s hot without it being a crush.”
Except, there’s a small whisper of protest at the back of their mind. Because Pyro doesn’t just find the stranger attractive. He is, of course, something carved and haughty to his features. But it’s not really that which draws Pyro’s eyes to him. It’s the way he carries himself; a steady calm and the type of confidence that’s been earned.
As if she knows what they’re thinking, Shelby raises an eyebrow. She has a uniquely Shelby look on her face that says she’s staring into his soul, learning more about him than even he does. She has the uncanny ability to read each of them like a book. Pyro is half convinced she’s some sort of witch.
Apo stares at him flatly; he stares back if only to ignore Shelby’s eyes on him. “There’s a difference between thinking someone’s hot and having a crush on them, and you passed it a while ago.”
“That’s not what it is,” he starts.
“He’s denying!” Avid shouts, pointing a finger.
“It’s purely sexual,” he continues, flipping off Avid. “I just want to sleep with him!”
“That’s a load of bull-fucking-shit,” they scoff, “and I know you know it, Pyro—”
“Do you want to talk to him?” Drift interrupts. She leans forward, Monopoly board long forgotten in their argument, an inquisitive gleam in her eye. Pyro on slightly feels like a bug under a microscope.
He knows there’s a right answer here. He knows how these types of questions work, the ones that trap you into admitting something. It’s not like that, not anymore, because Drift is their friend; but more than that, she’s a detective. Shelby is good at finding the answers to questions you didn’t even know you had; Drift is good at tricking you into admitting it.
Still, it reminds him of growing up, the constant eyes and the constant double meanings to every little thing. It’s been a long time since Pyro lived with his parents, even longer since he last spoke to them, but he still feels his father’s iron grip around his arm, warning him to not make a single mistake. He still sees his mother’s lips pursed in disappointment.
And always their words; every reprimand or lecture or harsh insult or snapped reminder. Boys don’t like boys, Jack. They know that isn’t true, of course. One look at their friends is enough to remind them of the lie, warmth rushing through him as he watches them. His parents would be horrified to see the company he keeps these days. It sends a vicious thrill of satisfaction through him every time he remembers it. But some part of him must have internalized it while the rest wasn’t looking, carving it into his heart along with every hurtful remark or disparaging comment.
He finds boys and girls attractive; he’s perfectly happy to sleep with both, or flirt with both as long as he knows nothing will come of it. He’s kissed boys a few times, kissed girls a few times. But when it comes to liking someone beyond that, Pyro only likes girls. He’s only ever liked girls. Because whenever he starts to like a boy, he cuts his feelings off before they can grow any further. He’s teetered on the razor edge of sexual versus romantic enough times to know what it feels like. So he knows that if he really wants it to just be another casual fling, he should say no and leave it at that. He doesn’t want to have a crush on a boy; he can’t. That doesn’t happen to him. He doesn’t let it.
Sometimes it infuriates him, how deeply his parents have marked him.
Pyro glances from Drift to Shelby and sees them already smiling at him. The lenses of their glasses wink in the light; he can almost hear their voice in his ear. “If it bothers you so much, why don’t you do something about it?” Not in the tone halfway between sardonic and serious that Apo would use, but as a genuine suggestion.
“It’s possible,” he begins, trying to keep his dignity intact as much as possible, “that I might have a crush on him.”
“Called it!” Avid cheers.
Apo throws her arms into the air. “Thank God, finally!”
“What are you going to do about it?” Shelby asks, returning to setting up Monopoly for their extremely derailed game night.
Pyro sinks as far back into the couch as he can, putting his arms over his face. “Die, probably.”
Apo lightly kicks his leg and says, “No dying yet, I’d need to find a new roommate first.”
“Nice to know you care,” he mumbles as Avid and Drift laugh.
It doesn’t exactly start at a party. The party provides fuel for the tiny sparks already waiting to burn to an inferno, harbored in Abolish’s chest without him being any the wiser. In fact, to call it a party would be generous, because it’s really just a bunch of people congregating in clumps within different rooms to do whatever keeps their interest. Alcohol and snacks also provided.
It’s a mixer, is what it is. A mixer that you’re allowed to get drunk at. The freedoms of university are truly mindblowing.
Whatever it is, mixer or party or a lit match to a fuse, Abolish sits in the living room of an unnecessarily big and somehow still overcrowded house, watching Owen pretend not to stare at a pre-med student across the room and Louis try to hide his amusement. He taps his fingers against the plastic cup of soda in his hands and shifts, casting his gaze around the room. He’s not bored, exactly; he’s just waiting for the action to start, for something to happen.
At these specific times, when his hands seem to have a mind of their own and he feels the pent-up energy in him pushing at his skin, he regrets leaving the Organization. He had been efficient and dedicated, one of their best people. Morcant had been surprised when he asked to quit, though not unwilling and probably not as shocked as he might have been. Abolish blames the strange elderly instincts people apparently develop as they get older.
Next to him, Louis finally decides to ask, “Are you going to get up and go talk to him or just continue staring, my love?” Owen startles and flushes, turning with a guilty look to face his boyfriend, who just looks like he’s enjoying the discomfort. The regret vanishes instantly as Abolish focuses back on his friends.
“Um,” Owen coughs, “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He manages to tilt his head up disdainfully at the end of his sentence, though his face is still red and his eyes are still darting between the pre-med student and Louis.
Abolish hums. “For someone who enjoys being melodramatic, you’re really bad at lying.”
Louis cackles, folding in on himself as Owen slumps and levels a weak glare at Abolish. “I don’t know how this conversation concerns you,” he mutters. He reaches out and pokes his boyfriend. “And it’s rude to laugh at people.”
“He’s a nice guy,” Abolish continues over the still-laughing heap of Louis between them. “I could introduce you, if you want.”
Owen, if possible, turns redder, leaning forward to grab Abolish’s wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. “Do not,” he hisses, eyes narrowed.
Abolish shrugs, twisting out of his hold. “Just asking.”
Louis straightens, cheeks pink from laughter and eyes bright as he bumps Owen’s shoulder with his own. “You don’t want to meet him, see if he’s well deserving of your affections? I could come with you to interrogate him, if you’d like—”
“That feels like a recipe for disaster,” Abolish cuts in. “And I think I should ask you to stop before you make him explode.”
Louis chuckles and laces his and Owen’s fingers together. “He can afford to lose a little dignity.”
“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Owen grumbles.
Before any of them can say another thing to escalate the conversation, someone shouts, “Hey, Abolish!” He twists around to see Pearl standing by the door, bouncing on her toes impatiently as she waves him over. He glances back to Owen and Louis to see they’ve devolved into petty bickering and decides they’ll be fine without him, leaving his drink behind.
“What do you need?” he asks once he’s next to her. Pearl promptly takes him by the arm, dragging him out of the room. “Where are we going?” he tacks on, stumbling slightly over her fast pace. He briefly thinks of pulling away but dismisses the thought; Pearl is one of the few people he’s met who can beat him in an arm wrestle.
“I have a friend that I want you to meet,” she says, leading him through scattered groups of two or three people clogging the hallway. The entire house is larger than any university student should reasonably own. Or anybody, for that matter; it’s way too much space to do anything useful with all of it.
He gets steered past three bathrooms and a kitchen with two people mixing drinks, a little too much enthusiasm and arguing going on for Abolish to trust them near anything that passes his lips. He poured his own soda when he got here out of an abundance of caution. Finally, Pearl stops them at a room of indeterminate function and motions for someone inside to join the two of them in the hall. No sooner has she dropped his arm than two more people show up, one of them getting pulled along by his sleeve.
“Oh, hi, Pearl, Abolish. Fancy meeting you here!” the girl says brightly, letting go of her friend. Abolish raises an eyebrow, glancing between her and Pearl, whose expression remains innocent. Her hair is deep red, held back from her face with green hairclips, and a pair of round glasses rests crookedly on her nose. Her smile is excited, examining Abolish with an almost clinical curiosity. He feels like she’s testing him for something, but he has no idea what it could be.
Instead of asking her about it, he says, “What’s your name?”
“Oh, it’s Shelby! Nice to meet you.” She tugs her friend forward and gestures as if she’s showing him off. “And this is Pyro!” She shifts backward onto her heels, glasses flashing.
Pyro has a look on his face reminiscent of a deer in headlights. His hair is long, brushing his collar and falling into his eyes. Abolish vaguely recognizes him from somewhere, but he can’t place it. This is another thing he’s still struggling to get used to—having his focus split between keeping up with his classes, adjusting to a normal life, and having friends that expect him to answer texts and calls means he has less space in his memory for names and faces and locations. He still catches the small details, like Pyro’s hands being stained with ink and the way his jacket sits lopsided on his shoulders, but there’s no guarantee they’ll stay in his head.
“Hi,” he says politely. A bit absently, he notes that Pyro’s eyes are a light blue, almost the exact color of the sky during winter. They give him a nod and shoot Shelby a venomous look. She winks at him. “Pearl, why did—”
“Pyro’s in one of your classes,” she interrupts, elbowing him sharply in the side. “Shelby and I thought you’d get along.”
Dubious, he casts another glance over Pyro, taking in as many details as he can. They have a cord around their neck, disappearing under their shirt, and their foot is tapping against the floor, although he can’t tell if it’s nerves or something else. They move their hand up, dragging it through their hair as they continue whispering to Shelby, and their sleeve pulls back enough for Abolish to catch a flash of color around his wrist. Well, never let it be said he’s not open-minded.
Abruptly, Shelby waves Pyro away, cutting off whatever he was saying and giving Pearl a meaningful look. “We should go and find Cleo, right now. We’ll leave you to talk. Bye!” She promptly slips away into the clumps of people, Pearl in tow, and leaves them standing by the door.
Pyro sighs and mutters, “I’m going to kill them.” His voice has a faint accent that wraps around it; Abolish can’t place where it’s from. There’s something…not odd, to his cadence, but unusual. Abolish kind of wants to hear him speak again, just to puzzle out what it is.
He shakes the thought away. “I don’t think I actually introduced myself. I’m Abolish.”
“Pyro,” Pyro says, and then winces. “You already knew that, sorry.” It’s the way he draws out his words, Abolish realizes. Like he’s trying to think of something to say next. Or trying to convince you not to strike at him. He recognizes it.
The silence filters between them, undercut with the faint beat of the music from an unknown source, thrumming faintly in his ears. The lyrics match along to each second of awkward tension, waiting for the other to talk.
Abolish isn’t good at small talk, or any talk, really. He barely ever socializes; even before he was learning how to act and talk around normal people, he didn’t have friends. He had acquaintances, sure, people who wanted to talk to him or be his friend. Everyone wanted to say they knew the top agent. But he didn’t actually talk to any of them; he was always too focused on the next mission.
He always felt separate from them for plenty of reasons.
“We, uh,” Pyro keeps talking, filling the awkward silence, “we have a class together, actually. Formations of government, or whatever it’s called?”
“Oh, right.” So that’s where he remembers them from. It slots into place in his memory, the very first class of that year. He didn’t know anybody then and was still receiving nightly calls from Morcant to ensure that he was adjusting properly. The elderly man doesn’t like to admit it, but he cares. He’d arrived early and watched as people started to filter into the room, filling the seats around him. “You were wearing a brown sweater, the first class?”
Abolish remembers because Pyro had had ink staining his fingers then, as well; he’d thought to tell him but decided against it.
The tips of Pyro’s ears go red, clearly not expecting him to remember. “Uh, yeah,” he stutters. “Didn’t you have a…an artist shirt? Van Gogh?”
A tiny thing in his chest catches, warms. He hadn’t expected Pyro to remember, either. “Degas. Also an Impressionist.”
“Ah, I was close.” They smile at him; the corner of his mouth ticks up in response. “So you like art?” they ask, leaning against the wall with one shoulder.
Abolish shrugs. To say that he likes art would be a stretch, but he likes how a lot of them captured light and movement, especially the Impressionists. “Some movements. Others are too stiff and dark.”
A shout echoes down the hall, catching Abolish’s attention; Pyro brings it back to themself when they ask, “Stiff?”
“Yeah, take Degas as an example. He painted dancers a lot. If you’ve seen his most famous painting, the ballerina spinning on a stage, her features are blurry and her hair and clothes are flaring out around her. A lot of the Impressionists are good at creating movement like that. Baroque is really stiff in comparison.” Abolish doesn’t think he’s ever said this many consecutive words to someone besides Morcant. “Not to ramble,” he adds, conscious of the fact that most people don’t find art as interesting.
“No, it’s alright,” Pyro rushes to say. “I don’t—um, it’s cool. To hear about that stuff.”
And—Abolish has had nothing to drink tonight, he never does, so he can’t blame it on the alcohol. But the tiny thing in his chest that was warm now feels more like a sparkler, starbursts of gold leaping away from it and into his bloodstream. He doesn’t know how to describe the feeling other than fizzy, pushing at his skin differently than the restlessness does. He likes it.
Later, once the not-quite-a-party has ended and he’s dropped Pear and Cleo and Louis and Owen off at their respective homes, once he’s locked the door and checked all the windows are secured, once he’s taken out the earrings he wore and taken off the rings, Abolish pulls up the school database and signs in. He clicks through lists of scholarship recipients, club members, class role sheets, and everything else he can think of. He doesn’t have much to go off of in terms of names—Pyro, obviously short for something—but the image in his head is crystal clear.
It’s idle curiosity, or at least idle curiosity is the excuse that works for him.
Finally, he finds it, in a list of students whose parents are donors. It’s right there, next to a picture of Pyro smiling tightly. Jack von Pyroscythe.
Abolish whispers it into the silent darkness of his room, blue light from the screen washing over his face as he tests it. It sounds stiff and formal, nothing like the boy he met tonight, asking him curious questions about different art movements. Like lining a Caravaggio up next to a Monet and expecting them to match.
“Pyro,” he murmurs into the night, just to say the name. That’s the correct name, in his head. Pyro, hesitant smile and ink stained fingers and intense interest in everything around them.
That’s not how you fall in love. But it’s close.