No Academy (boyxboy)

Chapt. 13

"It would take Ketamine for him to shut." The boy added.

He was shushed by Markus, "I do what I like, shut." His hand still pressed against the crown of Waylon head, "You remember much?"

Markus felt the dark hair shift between his fingers as Waylon shook his head. He tutted at that, "I'm sure you remember the blonde bastard coming to your rescue."

Finally Waylon lifted, prompting the removal of the formers hand, "Yeah, I thought he wouldn't show up." He squinted in confusion thinking about last nights affair.

Markus shrugged, "I could predict that dude as well as a coin toss. Who knows what he wants from you."

Waylon felt a bit nauseated, "I'd have some idea." His eyes focussed for a moment to see the confused and somewhat judgmental expressions of his friends. "What?"

"You two? Really?" Sasha quipped, amusement tugging at his lips. Confusion twisted Waylon's expression before realisation dawned on him.

"Oh my god no!" He practically slammed his hands on the table, "Jesus no!" Markus simply laughed but Sasha's expression read disbelief. None of them ate that morning, a level of mutual suffering and understanding held between them. The only one too dare was Markus, who sipped from a smoothie. The first too disembark was Sasha, prompted by the urge to check on his Jay. Who, as Waylon was informed, had been throwing up all morning. The remaining too spoke lowly and rarely before going their own seperate ways.

The wind has yet to settle, it was evident from the rumbling in the distance another storm was evident. Peaks of light were yet to be seen, but the ground shook occasionally with warning. Still seedy and unrested Waylon retired to his room. Oddly, Harlow was there, which wasn't the odd part. The odd part was his demeanour, leaned against the wall with his brows pulled down. He stared off into the nothingness of Waylon's blank room, gaze barley shifting as the door ached open. Before Waylon could question he was invited to take a seat on the bed, opposite of his roommate.

His mouth opened in query but once again was made silent by Harlow. The world became very small in an instant, the walls breathing and threatening to crush the two between them. His predicament was clear and Harlow explained his exchange that morning. Like a shooting star, Waylon was falling fast at each word. Statement like "sell" and "money" became redundant as the gravity of the situation became apparent. There really was no way out.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

_______

["I ought to be thy Adam, but rather I am Thy devil."]

_______

There's a sadness to such a lifestyle, the inescapable cycles. Where you can be a thousand miles from home and still fold your towels the same way. Where you become to unequivocally, fundamentally abnormal. Waylon never fit the normal. And not in a palatable, digestible manner; like an odd music taste or funny food habits. He was just wrong. Boring, lame, an alcoholic. Nothing of substance or desire. And this was the fate of someone like him. In a place built on the foundation of making people at least functional, he was entangled. Entangled with the sole manifestation of corruption and descent. Entangled with Harlow. What had Markus mentioned before? Where had Jay been this morning? He sat, legs crossed like a child, side presses against Harlow. With heavy eyes and a heavy burden, he watched the man count bill after bill. Periodically he'd pass a stack to Waylon, to band and stash in the safe beside them. Harlow's unburdened demeanour felt like an insult. A direct blow to a hollow boy. A strong wind against a stick house.

Realistically the two didn't need to sit this close, but upon seeing Waylon's head lull they had assumed this position. Waylon's head lay against Harlow's shoulder, he stared at the wall with glassy eyes. The cold laminate of each stack cemented this reality more and more. It was Harlow who broke the silence with a grunt.

"You called your mom at all since last time?" He said while counting.

Waylon slowly shifted his gaze toward the hands shifting through bill and bill, "No."

"You should, families important."

"Tell her that." Waylon snapped, tired and hungover. The other grunted in disapproval, "Why do you care, don't remember the last time you called your own."

The shifting of bills halted, Waylon lifted his head to meet the familiar hard gaze. Harlow's brow pulled up, "Seriously?" A silence hung, "Waylon, buddy. Who do you think I phone every morning?" Disbelief ensued.

Waylon sat up, eyes scrunching, "That was your mom?"

"Yes." Harlow said like it was a question, "Who else would it literally be?"

Waylon shrugged, "I don't know, your fellow gang members? Your overseas connections?"

Harlow smiled at that, "Waylon." He snicker repeatedly, placing a hand on his back, "Waylon, I'm French. My mom only knows French." The formers face twisted, mortified. Mouth agape searching for a justification. Harlow dragged a hand down his own, "Who do you think I am, Tony fucking Soprano?" He mocked, biting a laugh all the while.

Waylon shrugged in embarrassment, "We'll I know now you're French and not Italian..." He trailed off. Harlow pulled him down and began too sing. A French tune falling from his lips and leaving much to be desired. Waylon struggled against the assault, mostly on his ears.

"Okay Tony Soprano, you're not a singer either." He finally pushed the heavy arm off of his chest and sat back up.

Harlow sighed, "Italian, yeah that's a first." He raised a brow, "Very stereotypical of you too." Once more Waylon could only shrug. He was still quite embarrassed.

"I won't call her." He broke the silence. Harlow just looked at him, his expression unreadable. Was it judgment or understanding? Waylon couldn't discern. So he continued, "I won't, she has a car. If she wants to talk, she can come see me."

Harlow scratched his chin, "Okay, I get it. I was the same way with my dad growing up."

"What happened?" His nose was at him again.

The other had his turn to shrug, "Don't know, all I remember was the two stopped talking for a couple months. Then he wasn't there one day—figured I'd slept in before he went to work—but he wasn't there the day after that. At some point my older cousin moved in and that was that." He paused for a moment, looking away at the wall as his brows pulled down, "I never questioned it, I don't think I want to know though."

"And your cousin?" Waylon leaned forward, trying to meet the other's gaze.

A look of nostalgia came over his face, a bit of light back into his eyes, "Yeah him," he said almost whispering, "He—Benny—he is great. Basically raised me. Mom had to work most of the time."

"He seems nice..." Waylon didn't know what else to say. He could feel the weight of this conversation and didn't want to say something stupid.

Harlow looked at him again, a slight smile at the corner of his mouth. Suddenly, he leant down and pressed his forehead against Waylon's. Only for a moment, before turning back and continuing his count.

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A/N: Sorry for the slow updates, uni had been kicking my ass. And sorry for the short chapter. I'll be back with some better but this is an awkward point in the story. I'm as impatient as most people but love the slow burn. More soonish-Hawk