Chapter Text
“Watch it, midnight!”
The words hit before the shove does, but Lucas still flinches anyway.
He hates that part most, the way his body reacts before he can stop it, like it already knows what’s coming, as if he earned it somehow. His shoulders jerk up, his breath catching hard in his throat, and the motion only makes the milk in his shirt squish colder against his skin.
It’s everywhere. Soaked through the thin cotton, sticky and sour already, clinging to his chest and stomach. It drips down the hem, dampening the waistband of his new pants. Expensive, because his mom said that looking nice helps with making a good first impression. He can smell the milk every time he breathes in, some of it on his face, and it makes his stomach twist.
Behind him, laughter breaks open loud and sharp, echoing against the brick walls of the school. It feels like it’s inside his head, too close, too big.
His ears hurt.
Everything hurts, actually, in that quiet, dull way that comes from holding things in too long. His throat burns from not speaking. His chest aches from keeping his breaths shallow and careful, like if he breathes too loud someone might notice again.
A hand slams into his shoulder, not hard enough to knock him down, just enough to send him stumbling forward. Lucas catches himself, keeping his chin up. He tries to, at least. It wobbles a little, his head dipping before he forces it back into place, like his dad showed him. Like his dad always says.
Stand tall. Don’t let them make you small.
Lucas swallows.
His mom’s voice comes next, softer, gentler, but just as firm in a different way. She presses kisses to his forehead every morning before school, hands warm on his cheeks, telling him the same things over and over like if she says them enough they’ll keep him safe.
Don’t fight back. Let them be mean. Be careful. Be smart.
Because if he isn’t, and if he does anything at all, they'll use it against him. He's nine, but Lucas knows that. Even if he doesn’t have all the words for it yet. He just knows the feeling of it, the way the rules are different for him than they are for everyone else.
So, he stands there soaked and sticky and shaking just a little, and tries very, very hard to be good and quiet, so he doesn't prove them all right.
He should go to the bathroom like he always does. There’s a stall in the far corner where the lock sticks a little, but it works if you push it hard enough. He can hide there. Wring his shirt out into the toilet, watch the white milk turn thin and cloudy as it drips away. Maybe use paper towels to press the worst of it out.
He won’t take his shirt off unless he's in that stall. Even in the bathroom, even alone, it doesn’t feel safe enough. It never does. Showing more skin than necessary is the worst thing he could do here.
He just needs to wait it out until school is over and he can go back home. He can do his homework at the kitchen table, just like his mom says. He can get smarter. Smarter than them. Smarter than everyone. Maybe then they’ll stop. His dad says he’s perfect already, but to be honest, Lucas can't possibly imagine being perfect when he’s standing here, dripping milk onto the pavement while people laugh at him.
One day he's going to be standing on equal footing as them. One day, one where he isn’t thinking about where to stand or how to look or how loud his voice is when he answers a question, things will be different. One day he's going to be able to smile without feeling like he's doing something wrong by being there, but today isn't that day.
His shoulder throbs, stumbling to the side from the shove, but he can't do anything, so he just stares past them, blinking hard.
If he looks far enough, he can almost pretend he’s somewhere else. At home and looking out his window into the yard next door, where his neighbor and his friend play. They're always out there, either running while laughing or chasing each other in wide, messy circles. It goes on for hours, like they don’t have anything to worry about at all.
Lucas watches them sometimes, quiet and still. He wants to go out there, too. He really, really wants to, but he doesn't ask. He tried once, in the cafeteria. It took everything in him to muster up the courage, but the smaller one didn't even raise his head to look at Lucas, staring at his hands and hunched down. His neighbor just glared at him, defensive and a little scared looking, until Lucas sat somewhere else. It stung, watching the way the smaller boy untensed slowly, his neighbor wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close before whispering at each other like Lucas couldn't hear them giggling. He tried not to let it get to him, but he hasn't quite gone up to anyone else yet. It's been three months, and he doesn't have a single friend. Not one.
White kids play with white kids.
That’s just how it is.
“What, do you not know how to speak?”
Lucas blinks, the voice snapping him back. He hadn’t realized he’d gone quiet in that faraway way again. He presses his lips together tighter, already knowing this part. Don't answer, don't give them anything. If he talks, they’ll twist his words. If he looks upset, they’ll push harder. If he gets angry-
He swallows that down fast.
Anger is the worst thing he can show. Anger makes them look at him different, like he’s dangerous, or like he’s something to be afraid of. When they’re afraid, they get meaner.
So, he keeps his face still and tries to make it blank.
“Come on,” another boy mutters, voice lower, almost bored. “You know they don’t learn as fast as the rest of us. It’s probably stunted or something. Let’s just go before we get detention.”
“No way,” the first one says, scoffing. “You think I’m just gonna-”
There’s no point listening. It doesn’t change anything. It never does. Instead, he focuses instead on standing still and on breathing slow, keeping his chin up, even when it feels like it’s made of glass and might shatter if he moves wrong.
A hand grabs the front of his shirt. The wet fabric bunches tight in a fist, cold and suffocating as it presses into his skin, Lucas' feet leaving the ground as he's lifted. His toes scrape uselessly against the pavement before they dangle, and Lucas squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t kick, and he doesn’t struggle even though every instinct in his body screams at him to do something, to push, to twist, to get away, but he doesn’t. He can’t. If he fights back, they’ll say he started it. If he fights back, he becomes the problem.
He just has to wait.
His back hits the brick wall with a dull, jarring thud. The impact rattles through him, knocking the air from his lungs in a quiet, broken sound he hopes they don’t hear.
He is brave.
He tells himself that, even when it hurts, and even when his eyes sting and he has to blink fast, over and over, to keep anything from spilling over. Even when they make those loud, exaggerated gagging noises right in his face, jerking their hand away like touching him might make them sick.
Lucas isn’t sick, he knows he isn’t, but they look at him like he is.
It’s why his desk sits by itself at the back of the classroom, and why no one ever chooses the seat next to him at lunch, or why the bus driver always seems to find a reason to tell him there’s no room, even when there is. His mom picks him up every day instead, her smile tight when she sees him, her hand lingering on his shoulder like she’s checking that he’s still there.
His feet hit the ground for a moment before his knees slam into the pavement after, a shoe kicking his back and knocking him off balance. They're still talking at him, all around him, but never quite to him. It's like he isn't really a person standing there, just some animal to poke and prod at. They have a lizard in their class, and Lucas wonders, distantly, if this is how Harold feels. Harold was lucky, though. He had a glass tank to protect him.
Eventually, the bell will ring.
Eventually, he’ll get to go home.
And then, he’ll stand at his window, quiet and still, watching the neighbor’s yard, and watching the kids run in circles, laughing. Maybe he'll ask this time if he can play, too.
He just has to make it to the end of the day.
___________________________________
His back throbs with every step.
It’s not sharp anymore, not like when it first hit the brick, but it still hurts each time he breathes. His nose burns, too. It's a raw stinging feeling that makes his eyes water if he sniffles too hard through it. He keeps his head tilted down just a little, just in case.
When the bell rings and everyone starts funneling back inside, loud and careless and normal, Lucas drifts with them for a few steps, and then slips away.
He doesn’t go back to his classroom. He never does, not right away. Not like this.
Instead, he turns down the quieter hallway, the one that smells faintly like cleaning supplies and dust that's never properly cleaned, and he heads straight for the bathroom, his shirt still clinging wet and cold against his skin.
It feels like it’s weighing him down, but no one ever comes here after recess, so he has some sort of mercy, at least.
The other kids rush back to class, afraid of being late, afraid of getting in trouble. Teachers don’t check this bathroom much, either. It’s too out of the way. Too easy to forget.
That makes it safe. Or at least, that makes it safer.
He pushes the door open slowly, careful, leaning his head in first. Lucas peeks through the gap before stepping inside fully. He’s learned to do that, too. It’s better to check. Better to make sure.
The room is empty.
All the stall doors hang open, except for the one at the very far end. The light overhead flickers faintly, buzzing in that uneven way it always does, like it might go out any second but never actually does. The mirrors are spotted, and the floor is damp in places, but it's quieter than outside and he has the space to himself for a little bit.
Lucas exhales, just a little.
If it’s just him, he can use the sink. He can try to wash the milk out of his shirt, rubbing at the fabric with cold water and cheap hand soap until his fingers go numb. It won’t fix it completely, but it’ll be better, a little less humiliating.
He reaches for the hem of his shirt, fingers curling into the damp fabric, and then he freezes, a sniffle cutting his train of thoughts off.
His hands stay where they are, gripping his shirt, his shoulders going tight all at once. His heart stutters, then starts beating faster, harder, like it’s trying to warn him about something. He shouldn’t be scared, because there’s nothing to be scared of. It’s just a bathroom. He’s supposed to be brave.
Lucas presses his lips together.
He thinks about the comics he reads at night, curled up under his blankets. Heroes who don’t hesitate, and heroes who step forward, who help people, who don’t stand there frozen when something’s wrong.
He wants to be like that, he really does, but sometimes his body doesn’t listen.
The bathroom goes quiet again. For a second, Lucas wonders if he imagined it. If maybe it was just the pipes, or the flickering light, or maybe a mouse or bunny that got lost.
Then, there's another little sniffle, muffled this time, from the closed stall at the far end.
“Hello?”
The word slips out before he can stop it. Immediately, he winces, his spine straightening, shoulders drawing up tight like he’s done something wrong, like someone’s going to yell at him for speaking when he shouldn’t have, but it's quiet. No movement, no reply, nothing.
Lucas stares at the stall door. Maybe he should just leave.
He can deal with the shirt, he’s dealt with worse. He can wait until he gets home, until his mom notices and her face does that tight, worried thing, until she helps him clean up without asking too many questions.
He takes a small step back, but another sniffle cuts through the quiet. This one sounds worse. There’s a little hitch in it, like whoever it is is trying to hold it in and can’t quite manage it. It twists something in Lucas’s chest, sharp and uncomfortable, and before he can think too hard about it, he's moving.
His shoes scuff softly against the tile as he walks closer, slower now, cautious but steady. He stops just in front of the closed stall, lifting his hand and knocking gently against the metal.
“Hello?” he says again, softer this time.
There’s a pause, then a small, broken sob. Lucas’s stomach tightens.
“Are you okay?” he asks quickly, words tumbling out a little faster now. “I can get a teacher.”
“…No.”
The voice is barely there, so quiet Lucas almost misses it. He leans in a little without thinking, ear tilting toward the door, close enough that the cold metal nearly brushes his cheek. “No?” he repeats, unsure.
“No teacher,” the voice murmurs again, thinner this time, like it might disappear completely if the person talks any louder.
Lucas hesitates, because he doesn’t know what the right answer is. He doesn’t know this person, and he doesn’t know if he’s doing something wrong by staying. He should grab an adult to handle this, like his mom says, but he knows what it feels like to not want a teacher.
“Okay,” Lucas says softly. “I won’t get one.” There’s a quiet shift on the other side of the door, and Lucas stays where he is. “Are you okay?” he asks again, because he can’t not ask. A part of him wants to know, desperately, if they're hurt. If they're like him, body stinging and heart aching even more.
There’s a long pause, long enough that Lucas starts to think maybe they won’t answer. “…I’m okay.” It comes out uneven and fragile, and right at the end of it, the voice breaks completely, dissolving into another quiet wave of crying. “I’m sorry,” they add quickly, like that’s the part that matters most.
Lucas’s chest hurts the same way it does when his mom cries to herself while watching the news, or the way his dad stresses over the letters he gets, or when his baby sister screams from her crib and won't let anyone but Lucas hold her. She's six now, but she's still so easily upset, and Lucas wants her to be able to look up to him. He wants to be someone she can depend on.
He looks at the stall door, at the thin gap at the bottom where he can see the edge of a shoe, still and turned inward. “You don’t have to say sorry,” he says after a moment, voice small but steady. He shifts his weight, the damp fabric of his shirt clinging cold against him again, reminding him of where he is, of what just happened. “I cry in here too,” he admits quietly. The words hang in the air between them, honest. Erica liked honesty, it made her feel better when she was sad. “I just…” he swallows, blinking down at the floor. “I just don’t let anyone hear me.”
Lucas shifts on his feet, unsure what to do with his hands, with his voice, with any of it. Then, after a moment, the boy inside speaks again. “…Why do you cry?”
Lucas blinks. For a second, he just stands there, surprised. No one’s ever asked him that before, not like this. Not like they actually want to know, or because they're obligated to ask, like his parents are. Something small and warm flickers in his chest, and Lucas can't help but soften, leaning his forehead against the door even if it's dirty, his voice quiet but steady as a smile tugs at his face. “I cry because people here are mean, but I’m brave, so it's okay.”
“...Oh.” There's another sniff, but the crying isn't as hard, so Lucas hopes he's helping, somehow. “I'm not brave. I'm just… sensitive.” Their voice cracks, whispered like it's a secret. “I’m too… girly. I shouldn't cry as much as I do. I don't mean to.”
“I don’t cry a lot,” Lucas rushes in to say, even though that’s not really true. “Just sometimes. And I don’t let them see. I don't think it's girly to cry, because I do it too, and I'm not girly at all.” He stares at the floor, at the scuffed tile and the faint reflection of his shoes in the dull shine. “I’m brave,” he repeats, softer this time, just in case the boy is really listening and deciding things about him.
There’s a pause on the other side of the door, long enough that Lucas’s smile fades a little, uncertainty creeping back in, but the voice comes back, just as quiet as before. “I’m sorry. I'm not like other boys. I think- I think that's why they're mean to me, too. I'm not built right.” Their voice sounds a bit closer, and Lucas' heard leaps to his throat. “Why are they mean to you?”
“The way I look.” Lucas feels a bit like he's going to throw up from nerves, his stomach tight and tense, worried. “They call me midnight,” he admits.
The word feels heavier out loud, but they always do. If the boy didn't know before, he knew now. He's half prepared to hear a scream, or maybe a laugh. There’s a quiet inhale from the other side, and Lucas feels stupid all of a sudden, like he's messed up his only chance. Maybe he should have just lied, and said it's because he liked comics, or something stupid that could be brushed off.
“…Queer.”
Lucas stills. “What's that?”
“That’s…” the boy’s voice wobbles, like he’s trying to get the word out without breaking again. “That’s what they call me. Queer. Or fairy, sometimes. Or… or worse things, too.”
Lucas doesn’t really know what that means, not fully, but he knows the way it’s said. He knows the shape of it, the way it lands, the way it hurts just from the sound alone. He knows it’s the same kind of word that he deals with, the kind that sticks, the kind that people use when they want you to feel small. The kind that they spit at your feet when avoiding you on the street.
Lucas swallows. “They're mean, that's all,” he says quietly. “I don't like to say what they call me, because my mom says it's bad. But it's… it's because of my skin. White kids are mean.”
There’s another pause, and Lucas worries for a second if he offended him, but then the boy whispers, even softer than before, “…adults are mean, too.”
Lucas’s chest tightens. He nods again, even though no one can see. “Yeah,” he says, because that part he understands. He shifts closer to the door without thinking, lowering his voice like he’s telling a secret. “It’s okay, though,” Lucas adds gently. “We can go home soon.”
Home is supposed to fix things. It always does, a little. His mom’s voice, his dad’s hand on his shoulder, Erica crying but beaming at him when he tells her about his day full of lies, the quiet of his room, it makes everything feel less sharp, less heavy. “It’ll be okay when we go home,” he soothes again, softer.
For a second nothing happens, and then the crying gets worse. It breaks open in a way it hadn’t before, turning into weak, uneven sobs that sound like they hurt just to make. The kind that hitch and catch and don’t quite stop, no matter how hard you try. Lucas straightens, startled. “Hey-” he blurts quickly, worry creeping into his voice. “What’s wrong?” He frowns at the door, confusion twisting with the concern. He thought that would help. Going home is supposed to help. “Did I- did I say something bad?” he asks, smaller now.
The crying only gets worse. The boy tries to speak, but it comes out in pieces, broken up by hiccups and shaky breaths. “M-my friend is sick,” he finally manages. “So- so I have to go home today.”
Lucas blinks. “…Okay,” he says slowly. He doesn’t understand. “Why is that bad?” he asks, voice soft, careful. “You can rest at home. And- and your mom can help you, right?”
The response is immediate. The crying spikes again, sharper now, almost panicked. The boy makes this small, strangled sound, like the words are stuck and forcing their way out hurts. “My mom has to work today,” he sobs, but it comes out horrified. “She’s gonna be gone, and he's already mad at me.”
Lucas’s brow furrows. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, because he doesn’t know what that means, or why the boy seems so upset. “…Can I come in?” He doesn’t reach for the handle, not wanting to push, but the boy’s crying turns frantic.
“No- no, I’m sorry,” he chokes out quickly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m-”
“It’s okay,” Lucas stammers, alarmed. “You don’t have to-”
“I’m sorry,” the boy repeats, over and over, like he can’t stop saying it. Lucas’s hands hover uselessly at his sides. He doesn’t know what to do.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he tries again, voice softer, a little shaky now too. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You don’t have to say sorry.”
“I just-” the boy hiccups, voice cracking completely. “I just want my brother.”
Lucas looks at the door, then slowly lowers himself to sit on the cold tile floor beside it, back resting lightly against the metal. “You’re not alone,” he says after a moment, voice small but steady. It's not much, and he knows that, but it's also something, and something is better than nothing. His shirt is making him shiver now, still damp, and his back hurts worse than it did earlier now that he's all back in his head. He can't help himself but worrying for the other boy more, though. Lucas hesitates for a second, then leans a little closer to the stall door, voice softer now, careful. “Is… is your dad working too?” There’s a quiet hitch in the boy’s breathing, but he doesn’t answer right away. Lucas presses his lips together, trying again, trying to understand. “Does that mean you’re gonna be home alone?” he asks. “With your brother?”
No response. Lucas feels a bit like he's grasping at straws, fumbling to figure it out. He had a few friends from his last neighborhood, all kids like him, and he knows things are different here, but he wanted to be friends with this boy so badly. He got it, somehow, even if it wasn't exactly the same, and Lucas desperately needed someone who got it. Another kid who understood.
“…Is that why you’re sad?” He tries one last time, but the boy makes a broken sound, shoulders shifting faintly on the other side of the door. “Because you'll miss your mom and dad when they're working?”
“My dad doesn’t work,” the boy mumbles through tears, voice thin and uneven. “I just- Mike isn't here, and Jonnie won't be here, and mom is gone, and- and I don’t want to go home.”
Lucas frowns, confusion pulling at his brow. He doesn’t understand. Home is supposed to be the good part, the safe part. The place where things stop hurting so much. “…Oh,” he says again, quieter this time. “I still don't get it, but okay.”
There’s a shuffle, a sniffle. “I’ll be quiet,” the boy adds quickly, words tumbling over each other. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for crying, I’ll stop, I just- I’ll be quiet.”
Lucas’s chest tightens. “No- no, it’s okay,” he tries to comfort, sitting up a little straighter against the door. “You don’t have to be quiet. You can cry.” He pauses, hands fidgeting in his lap. “I don’t know how to make it better,” he admits in a small voice. “But… it’s okay.”
“...Mike makes it better. He takes care of me. He's- he's safe, but he's sick today.”
“I'm not Mike, but I'm sorry you're sad. I can be safe, too. I won't call you any mean names, I promise.”
There’s a long pause after that. The crying doesn’t stop, but it softens again, quieter, like the boy is trying to listen at the same time. “Are your friends going to come looking for you?”
“I don't have any friends.”
“...Oh.” The boy sniffs, before a hand reaches out from under the stall. Lucas' eyes track it, the way it flinches back. The boy's sleeve is pushed up, and Lucas can see a bruise there on his wrist, deep and dark, along with some sort of color chipped on their nails. Green, and a bit shiny. It looks scrubbed off, but it's still stuck in the creases where skin meets nail, little pieces of it smeared underneath. It's pretty, he decides instantly. Cute, too. The hand hesitates, and then it pats Lucas' knee just twice, pulling back after. “I'm sorry.”
“That's okay,” Lucas whispers, pushing himself closer to the stall door even though he feels his pants stick and drag to the ground a little. “You say sorry a lot.”
“...Sorry.”
“Don't be,” Lucas responds, kind of wishing he could see the boy's fingers again. Pretty and green. His voice was nice too, soft and kind. His mom would like him. “Do you have a lot of friends?”
“No, just my big brother, and my best friend, Mike. I go to his house after school,” the boy continues, voice catching. “Usually I stay there until Jonnie can come bike by and get me, but he’s sick today.”
“Oh,” Lucas murmurs. That makes a little more sense, but only a little. “Can I come in?” There’s a long pause, so long Lucas starts to think maybe the answer will be no again, but then there's a soft click and the lock slides undone.
It's cramped inside, and dim, but Lucas is more so stuck on the fact that it's the boy he wanted to be friends with that he's been talking to. The quiet, short, nice looking one that smiled at him nervously on the first day before keeping his head down and keeping his words to himself. The one Lucas watches from his window sometimes, running in the yard, laughing, spinning in circles until he falls over dizzy and Lucas' neighbor flops down on top of him, soaking in sun. Happy, and kind, and something Lucas didn't get to have.
He doesn’t look like that now.
He’s sitting on the ground, curled in on himself, knees pulled tight to his chest. His eyes are puffy and red, lashes clumped together with tears, his whole face scrunched up like he’s trying not to cry anymore and failing anyway. His eyes are green but not as bright or sparkly as the small chunks stuck to his nails, part green part brown in a word Lucas wouldn't be able to describe. His hair sticks out in uneven, messy pieces, flattened in some spots and sticking up in others like he’s run his hands through it too many times. It's rounded, a bit puffed up, but his bangs are stiff and straight and covering his eyebrows.
It looks funny.
Lucas notices that for half a second, and then feels bad for thinking it at all, because the rest of the boy looks so much worse. It's not funny at all, actually, not when his face is all red and purple, dark and uneven across his cheek and his jaw, a bit yellow on his chin. One spot in particular just under his left eye is bugging Lucas the most, because there's a scratch there too and the bandaid trying to cover it isn't big enough, he can see the edges creeping out from under it. It looks like it hurts. Lucas would be crying a lot harder if that was him, like when he scraped his knee trying to ride his bike and he cried so hard that his dad carried him inside and held him for over an hour.
The boy is sweaty, too. It clumps to his bangs and runs down his face, all wet and slick and uncomfortable looking. Lucas’s stomach drops. The boy is wearing too many clothes. Layers and layers, shirts and jackets piled on top of each other, even though it’s warm outside. Even though Lucas had been panting earlier, the sun too bright and hot on the playground.
The jackets hang off of him, too big and too heavy. It looks like he's hiding.
For a moment, Lucas can't really tell if he's the hero about to save a helpless civilian, or if he's some big bad villain about to hurt someone. The boy looks ready to be hurt, and Lucas doesn’t say anything right away. He just stands there in the doorway, staring, his chest tight and his thoughts all tangled up in a way he can’t quite sort through.
The boy sniffles, wiping at his face with the sleeve of one of the jackets, eyes darting up to Lucas for just a second before dropping back down again. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and Lucas is really sick of hearing that already, but he knows what it's like to prepare yourself for the pain of being different.
The boy looks so normal, just small and sweet. He's not different like Lucas is. His skin is pale, covered in little dark dots, one above his upper lip, but he's not dark. He's not like Lucas.
Queer, the boy had said.
Lucas still doesn't understand the word, but the boy doesn't look queer. If queer were the excuse people used to make this boy so scared, then it must be a lie, because Lucas couldn't imagine him being anything bad.
The boys eyes flick to Lucas' shirt, too nervous to speak, so Lucas says something for him instead. “It's milk. I slipped while holding some, so I came here to clean it off. Do you mind?” The boy shakes his head, so Lucas takes it as an excuse to get closer.
He lowers himself to the floor across from him, sitting carefully on the tile, even though it’s cold, even though his back still aches.
Up close, the bruises look worse.
“…I’m Lucas,” he says after a moment.
The boy hesitates. “…Will.”
Lucas shifts a little where he’s sitting, then slowly lifts his hand, holding it out between them. “We can- we can shake hands. If you want. I’m not dirty, I promise.”
Will sniffles, eyes flicking up to Lucas’s face, then down to his hand. Slowly, carefully, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed, he reaches out and places his hand in Lucas’s. His fingers are cold. “... I’m not dirty, either.”
Lucas squeezes before giving his hand a firm shake, the way his father taught him. Will's arm jerks back slightly, but relaxes a moment after. “I like your nails. They're pretty.” Will stiffens, eyes widening, looking cornered. Lucas pushes past it, trying to not let him calm up. “My mom does hers too. They're really nice, but she likes purple. Do you do yours a lot?”
Will hesitates before shaking his head, and Lucas tries to take it in stride. A quiet friend is still a friend, and Lucas wanted to be Will's friend so badly that his chest hurt from how fast it was pounding. “That's okay. Do you like purple, too?”
Will nods, and Lucas beams. “Me too. Is it your favorite color?” A shake of his head. “Blue?” Shake. “Red? Orange? Yellow?” Finally another nod, and Lucas stores that information away somewhere safe in his head.
“My favorite color’s green,” he says. “Like, dark green, not the gross kind that's really bright that it hurts your eyes-”
The bathroom door creaks open.
Lucas freezes, and footsteps echo against the tile. Without thinking, Lucas grabs Will’s sleeve and tugs him back, pulling them both fully into the stall, easing the door shut as quietly as he can. It doesn't lock properly, so he holds it shut, listening to the sound of someone peeing.
Lucas can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, loud and uneven. They don't wash their hands, but Lucas can hear the other kid stumble a little as they leave, slipping but catching themselves.
The door shuts again.
“...Gross,” Will whispers. When Lucas looks back at him, he has his knuckles in his mouth, eyes wide and guilty like he said something he shouldn't have, his teeth longer in the front. They're a bit too big for his mouth.
Lucas finds himself laughing and Will's shoulders slump, lips pulling into a smile around his fingers, giggling along. He kind of gets it, why his neighbor (Mike, apparently) was so happy to keep Will with him all of the time. “Super gross.”
“The grossest,” Will adds, and Lucas lets go of the door to slump down against the ground, his back against the tile. Will's nose scrunches up. “That's gross, too.”
Lucas shrugs the best he can, grinning. “I'll have to change anyway.” Will pauses for a second before nodding in agreement. “Do you want to go back to class?” A shake. “Same here. Do you like comics?” A nod. “I like the Fantastic Four a lot, or X-Men, but Human Torch is my favorite. He can turn his whole body into fire- he could be way stronger if he was in more comics.”
“... I think Spiderman is cool.”
“Yeah, but not as cool as having a body made out of fire. He can fly, too.”