~12 years Ago~

Two young boys looked at each other. One was five, the other four. Many people were all around them but as they looked directly into each other’s eyes they felt very alone. The younger of the boys looked down at his hand that had just touched the others.

“What did that mean?” he asks innocently.

“Daddy told me what it means,” the older child scrunched his nose up in confusion. What his father had told him shouldn’t have happened now. He reached out and touched the younger boys hand again. Again it happened. Again they both saw an assortment of pretty colours emit from where they were both touching. The younger child looked down at their hands, mesmerized. As the older child touched ore of his hand, the colours spread more.

“What does that mean?” the younger one asked again. He looked up into the forest green eyes of his friend. His friend met the gaze of his grey eyes.

“It means that we’re mates.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means that we’ll always be together and that we’re made for each other. That we complete each other,” he shrugged and let go of the hand, “That’s what my Dad told me.”

“So we’re mates,” the younger one states, seemingly pleased with the new concept. The older one smiled and nodded.

“Yeah… we’re mates,” he returned the smile. 


~ Present Day ~

I frown at the reflection in front of me. Evidently those extra few hours of sleep hadn't reduced the amount of bags beneath my eyes. I frown some more when my hair doesn't want to cooperate. With a grumble I give up and stuff the black mess into a hat and place on my glasses that at least hide the bags and lack of colour in my eyes a little better. The zits however are a different matter altogether. I walk away from the mirror, defeated. I'm a hopeless cause. As soon as I open the door from my room the smell of waffles wafts to my nostrils. My stomach grumbles in approvement. I bound down the stairs to the call of waffles. Dad hears me come in and turns with a smile.

"I knew you would smell the goodness."

I grab my plate and hold it out to him, "I'm a growing boy." 

"You certainly are," he replies, putting a few extra on the plate, "to think just tomorrow you're going to be turning sixteen..."

"I know," I roll my eyes, "I'll need a walking stick next."

Dad gives a low chuckle and rests his elbows on the counter I am leaning against. 

"You're mom would have been so proud of you," his voice croaks up and I know he's moments away from tears. I hold back what I was about to say because I know it'd upset him further. For a boy of sixteen I haven't done an awful lot with my life. I keep average grades, I'm not sporty, I'm terrorised by the football team and I have an unhealthy obsession with horror movies. Give me a year and I'll give you a list of movies when, where and how they were made. I have never told Dad that the only thing I can remember about Mom is that she had my eyes. The colour of a full moon. She died when I was four, in a fire. Dad couldn't handle staying in the same place so he moved far away across America to Arizona. Well that's what he tells me. I can't remember that far back. I can't remember where I lived before Arizona. Only that it was in Maine. And it was freezing.

Dad waves his hand in front of my face, "In another world, Jett?" he asks.

Another thing. My name. Apparently my mom had an inkling that I would be a real jet. Fast. Strong. Capable. None of that has been correct quite yet. I have the legs for running, I guess. Long and lanky. But I lack the cordination not to face plant the ground and get a faceful of gravel. 

I give him a small smile, "Yeah sorry. It's too early to function properly." I look down at my waffles, now cold and forgotten. 

"I'm going to head, Dad," I grab my rucksack off of the table and give him a small wave before walking out. Perfect timing as the bus drives past and the back window opens. I know what's coming next so I duck behind a wall just as an open bottle of coke flies past me. 

Assholes. 

I wait until the bus has long gone and shove my hands into my pockets, concentrating on the even steps I'm taking and the comforting crunch of the gravel beneath my battered up converse. I tighten my grip on the bag as I draw up closer to the school. The jocks are hanging out front, excited to brag of their certain victory. The football team had been gone for the last few days for a big competition. A few days of freedom of not being attacked. 

So there goes my peace.

But luckily it's a Friday so I only have one more day to indure before I go home and rot my brains out with the classic 1903 French horror 'The Monster'. What a fulfilling life I lead. It's so full of excitment. I take a deep breath and make my way to the entrance and up the steps. But not before a bottle hits my head. 

"For the one you dodged from the bus!" a guy, presumably Caleb; the guy who first started the whole Jett hating religious order, sniggers. 

I straighten my glasses a keep walking with my head held high. I am going to be dignified and confident today.

My shoes betray me. My laces come undone and I am sent flying forwards. People laugh at my awkward sprawling position on the ground. My glasses slide off my face and across the tile floor in a different direction.

So much for the dignity. 

The football guys come in and immediately spot me in all my failing glory. Then the stray glasses. Caleb lifts his big fat foot and stomps on them. He recieves high fives and fist pumps of approval from the other guys.

And there goes my confidence. 

By the time the final bell rings the football team have managed to trip me up in the middle of a science experiment, spilling copper sulfate everywhere and breaking at least seven testubes, dunked my face in the only vacant and out of order toilet. And last but not least; used my blindness without my glasses as an asset by stealing my hat while I couldn't see and wrote, 'I like it up the ass' on it. 

And that was my favourite hat.

It doesn't help that past twelve I had been hit with the worst headache known to man. And woman. And animal. And fish. Do fish get headaches?

I am relishing the thoughts of that movie and some ice cold root beer around about now. The haven of my house appears before my eyes and I resist the urge to do some corny slow motion running up to it. I hear some Led Zeppelin blare from the garage so it's safe to assume that Dad is working on his head of junk bike that is long beyond saving. I abandon my bag on the kitchen table and immediately run upstairs, falling onto my bed; welcoming it's embrace. The throbbing in my head only gets worse. When I sit up again the room seems to be spinning. I place a hand to my forehead. I'm sweating and clammy. As my vision worsens I let myself fall back again.

The last thing I see is my fathers face looking down at me with an expression of sympathy and guilt. 

*

Hello!

So this is a new project I'm working on (evidently). I have never written a fantasy boyxboy before so this shall be exicting! 

And unlike my other stories I am going to be an asshole and say that I won't upload again until I have six votes?

That's pretty resonable. Not that I think a lot of people would be ineterested in this. But if you are thank you! And this kind of blackmailing voting thing is a tester to see if it actually does work... I do feel mean! Sorry D:

Anywhosers Imma stop blabbing.

Okay last things: the cover is of Jett, but after he turns sixteen... You'll see later.

GOODBYE MY PRETTIES. 

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