Paint Me Blue [bxb; mpreg]

Chapter One

S. 18th

Reese stares out the window, thoughts spiralling and drifting away like the fluffy clouds that seem so inviting the more he stares at them.  He's tired.  He wants nothing more than to lay his head on his arms and sleep until this exhaustion melts away.  He wants to sleep and forget he exists, forget this is real.

He thought moving and changing schools would solve everything.  But honestly, a few weeks later, he doesn't know whether it's even made a difference.

He still receives unwanted attention.  He still gets picked on.  He's been intentionally tripped and ridiculed for many things (primarily his height and piercings).  He hears wisps of rumors and speculations of his past, nosy students wondering who he is and where he's from.  Wondering about his shady past. 

He snorts. 

He could never be involved with anything shady.

"Is something funny Mr. Reese?"

Reese looks up wide eyed, wincing when he catches sight of his expectant teacher who has a brow quirked in question.  Fellow students quickly turn around and face him just as curiously.  It makes his cheeks tint red in embarrassment.

"No-No," he coughs, voice cracking and breaking like a pre-pubescent boy.

It only serves to further ignite the heat under his skin, making him flustered and palms sweaty.

He quickly utters a quick apology before downcasting his eyes back to his notebook scribbled with randomly spaced notes and terribly drawn doodles on the margins.

The teacher lets it go after a few beats of silence before she returns to droning on about Macbeth.

Reese can't help but breathe a small sigh of relief under his breath. 

That was close, too close for comfort.

He hates being the center of attention.

He hates when people stare at him, when they try to gauge him out and pretend they know him.  He hates when they see him as an easy target for being quiet and minding his own business. He hates their assumptions.  Hates their speculation.

His skin crawls when they're eyes linger on him for too long, when they taunt him and shove him for being weak.

It makes his self-esteem crash into the cold pits of hell.  It makes him feel less of who he is because he can't fight back.  At least they're just words.  Words that cut into his heart and jam themselves in his mind, but words nonetheless.

It could be worse.

He knows.

He's been there.

He's been beaten and broken countless of times before.

At least these scars won't leave a physical mark.

He shudders at the cruel memories.

He'll take the laughter from the football team and the snickers from the cheerleaders any time.

Rather sluggishly, he reaches for his pen and drowns out the voice of his English Lit teacher.  He already read Macbeth anyway, so he quietly draws a never-ending whirl next to a meadow of flowers.  Right underneath he writes a little note of encouragement.  If only to get him through the day.  If only to stop this ache.