Work Text:
There sat Fluixon von Aculon, a senior — no, a fresh high school graduate. He tended to forget.
Amidst college applications, back-and-forths about his major with his parents, and arranging living arrangements for his new college, he forgot that all of this is real. This isn’t a hypothetical anymore. He has his diploma, and he can kiss the life he knew goodbye.
It’s… a strange thrill. On one hand, he had a lot to lose. As much as he hated everybody around, he had quite a reputation — above being an Aculon child, being an achiever, a gentleman, and a general pleasure to be around. He loved his friends, and his siblings were good company too, whenever they were around. He knew this town like the back of his hand, and he’s almost hesitant to just leave behind seventeen years of his life.
On the other hand, fucking finally. Freedom is just at his fingertips. He can finally get away from the expectations of being Elanuelo’s third-born (and Crow’s second-born… if you catch his drift). Somehow, he managed to convince his parents to let him pursue some humanities course instead of health sciences, much to the distaste of the friends they used to brag about him to. It’s odd and hypocritical how a couple of teachers can want nothing more than their son to not pursue something humanities-aligned.
Two years of speech and debate had taught him how to defend his honor, and by the end of the conversation (read: confrontation), Crow was more supportive, but Elanuelo swore off contributing to his hefty allowance, which was just a bullshit threat that held no weight that Flux heard a million times over.
But all of that didn’t matter right now. Because right now, their beloved golden boy was at some-kid-in-his-grade’s graduation party. Schpood, who was on his merry way to becoming the president of a fraternity in college, Flux assumes. Pretty much the entire batch was in attendance. To Flux, they were a bunch of writhing, mingling bodies in a crowd. His back was pressed against the wall, legs held up against his chest, and he had a typical red plastic cup in his hand.
Admittedly, he was a little tipsy. This wasn’t his first party, but he didn’t frequent them at all. This was a scene he avoided at every turn, and thus, he never got to build a solid alcohol tolerance.
He’s only here because he got into a spat with Crow about his social ineptitude and wanted to prove himself, which obviously did not work out in his favor, so he ended up doubling down.
He truly, truly did not give a shit about looking formidable. He’s been past that point for a while. A teeny tiny bit of his Aculon-raised resolve could not stand putting down the mask and allowing his misanthropy to shine through, but who cares? Everyone else was absolutely shit-faced. Junkies and alcoholics alike would stumble around him. If anything, he should have the high ground to judge people.
But, alas, it was clear to anybody who cared enough to look at him: he perfectly embodied a dense ball of pathetic-ness.
A high school sophomore — Sidefall, if his memory wasn’t failing him — shuffled in front of him, to which Flux could just grimace. He backed himself up against the wall, praying he’d make it out unscathed — untouched by the drink hanging precariously in his sluggish hand. He’s watched enough movies to know he should probably duck away before this thought is preserved in hindsight.
Sophomores shouldn't even be here, let alone drink, Flux thought. But there was nothing he could do about it, was there? He himself shouldn’t be here. He didn’t want to be here. God knows he would rather be at home, binge watching Code Geass and wallowing in self pity.
Sidefall’s drink tips, as Flux had predicted, and it spills on the floor — just missing him. Flux stares bitterly at the puddle on the ground: it’s pink and thick and it smells sickenly sweet. As if cotton candy was diluted with strawberry cough syrup. Pitter-patters stain his polo, but there’s — once again — nothing he could do about it.
This place was control freak hell. Drunk teenagers must be an antonym for controlled variables. These are situations Flux can’t anticipate.
“Whoops,” the sophomore slurs, “My bad!” and he doesn’t even spare Flux a glance. Flux nods fruitlessly, almost instinctively, and sighs.
Embarrassingly, that was the most eventful thing to happen to Flux that night.
He was unsurprisingly bored out of his mind. Theoretically, he could get up and attempt to socialize. He has friends around that would probably not mind adopting him socially, but sitting in the corner, being the most asocial he can be, is his form of rebellion. He opts to people-watch. He hates pretentious, performative people who claim to love people-watching for the sake of sounding cool and esoteric, but at the moment, he has to get into the mindset of one.
People-watching is so fun. Flux can totally give a shit about these people. Familiar faces all around him. He can pinpoint a club, organization, group of people, or even general characteristics for everyone that walks past. Dichotomy comes too easily. Basketball team. Purple hoodie. Schpood’s lackeys. Debate club. One of Cynikka’s friends. None of them particularly catch his eye.
…Until, well…
One boy in particular drunkenly wobbled over to his side. Close enough to speak without yelling, but far enough to indicate he wasn't trying to initiate conversation. Flux narrows his eyes, scanning this new character.
His hair was bleached white, but his brown roots were growing in — an odd look, but one he rocks alright, Flux decides. He almost looks like his best friend’s boyfriend, Micro, having the same moles at the corners of his mouth. Except he was sure he wasn’t Micro, because Micro was pressed up against the wall across the room, and Flux has been tracking them half-mindedly so as to not have an awkward encounter — the last thing he wanted to hear tonight was some “I didn’t peg you for a party person” from anybody. His ego cannot take it.
He racks his brain for anything, but he can’t seem to find a category.
The mystery man looks at him, opening his mouth — as if a greeting was on the tip of his tongue — and closing it again.
Flux didn’t understand what this… stranger… was trying to do, really.
"Hey," he spoke, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. If Flux were the teeniest bit more egotistical, he’d think this was flirting.
Flux could only frown, feeling a sense of familiarity. Deja vu, if you will. As if he knew him or something. He could barely even think of a name, or at least a situation to link this guy to. It was like trying to solve a crossword puzzle you had just read in a book two weeks ago. You know you know the answer, but it wasn’t relevant enough information at the time to be processed into long term memory.
The boy has been talking for a few minutes, but Flux can’t hear him as he zeroes in on letters his name could start with. He nods in between pauses, and shrugs when he thinks it's appropriate. But he isn’t listening. He knows this. He swears he does. T? S? It’s at the tip of his tongue and he can barely think and—
Oh.
He was abruptly interrupted.
Collecting his thoughts and composure, he found a pair of lips on his own.
Did he agree to this without knowing? Did he indicate he wanted it in any way? When did he even stand up?
But what doesn’t cross his mind is: Can he stop?
A pair of hands cup his face, and Flux can’t help but melt. Against every instinct screaming at him, he indulges. For the first time in his life, he can’t hear Crow or Elanuelo in his head reminding him to sit up straight. Speak politely. Kiss ass and suck up. Keep up the family image.
His head is empty, this guy doesn’t look half bad, and he’s okay with people looking at him making out with someone he doesn’t know.
He’s okay with it.
He’s so okay with it.
He’s almost not okay with it, but a hand is in his hair all of a sudden, and his thoughts get all fuzzy.
Mystery man, Flux thinks, you got me this time.