It was storming that day. Not just the on and off rain consistent of the time of year. There was the crackle of thunder, and a rattle through the walls whenever a gust of wind decided so. Classes were called off for Monday, the storm so strong majority of faculty couldn't make it to the building themselves. The only ones that arrived were day counsellors and some security who roamed the halls.
"I got nothing, I'm out." The group of four were sprawled out in Markus' and Sasha's room, the cards splayed out among them. Markus had been dealt a bad hand and was out, joining Sasha.
"Hope y'all don't mind," Jay began, organising his cards as he spoke, "I invited a little friend of mine around."
"Who?" Markus asked.
Jay placed his cards, Waylon knew he was beat out before he could go and dropped his stack in defeat, "Lainey." Was spoken before he low fived Sasha over his win.
Waylon recognised the name straight away. It was one of the last things he remembered before being grabbed. He shuddered at the memory.
Markus leant on his hand, "What you searching to get high?"
"No," Jay answered, looking almost offended as he did so, "he's helping me out with something right now."
"Do I wanna know?" Markus said more as a statement than a question, which made Jay shrug into a laugh. Waylon and Sasha kept themselves out of conversation, they played along in the rounds before someone rounded the door frame.
The guy was average height, with waist length curly black hair. His eyes were downturned with thick lashes. His skin was tanned and dusted with moles. Wearing a thick fleece he nodded over to Jay, who beckoned for him to sit with the group.
Thunder cracked loudly in the air, covering the shaky inhale Waylon took. Lainey had sat right next to him. He could feel the cold bathroom floor and his body double over. Whatever the two talked about they kept it under wraps. The conversation was held in nods and implications. Jay handed Lainey an unspecified amount of money and the curly head not once dropped his smile.
The paint on the windows was darker than usual, indication of the shadows that lay cast along the walls of the room. Walls did shudder alongside the shaking bodies within those very walls.
Not everyone shuddered the same. In those cold days Waylon took notice of the way in which people shook. He noticed that Sasha never did, the boy always shielded by layers upon layers. Markus would walk around the dorm room when it got cold, a blanket draped over his shoulders. Waylon would let the cold chatter his teeth, and only still the movement by biting the dried skin on his lips.
He needed some space. As the others continued their game Waylon left without a word, Markus had jeered at him—probably in hope that his provocation would encourage the other to stay. He didn't. Waylon left that room for his own sake.
Under the dim, yellow light of the halls he wrapped his arms around himself. His eyes were unfocussed and he simply walked and walked.
Once he had stopped he found himself outside the art room, all the way at that back corner. He saw the lights off and the shudders pulled closed and pushed in without hesitation. He didn't know what he'd get up to in there but the isolation beckoned.
Waylon sorely missed his privacy, although he had an older sibling they had long since moved out by the time he reached teen-hood. He rarely saw them these days, they were practically strangers.
Waylon turned the lights on and took in the familiar space. The brick details of the wall and assortment of paintings. The array of colours could almost mask the ever present sense of dread the institution held. For a moment, there was personality, vulnerability. Waylon felt like when he looked at those walls, he saw his fellow students much clearer than when they were right in front of him.
The easels were set up, only one of them adorned with a canvas. Waylon had skipped the previous class despite the requested attendance of his teacher. He knew he had missed his opportunity to input his thoughts into the assignment but he hadn't had the energy to deal with Harlow. He just felt drained after every interaction.
Every morning, every conversation, every night they shared space. All of it was a chore, a roadblock in his hopes of getting better.
Waylon rummaged through the large metal storage locker that held the dried canvas he had painted on. His half baked still life now dry settled into its textures. A note was stuck to the top of the canvas;
'No show is no good! Check Harlow's easel for assignment brief and starting task.' Waylon swore he could hear the teachers voice while reading. Picturing her eccentric attire and unruly locks. He felt almost a sense of endearment, the woman seemed like a beacon of joy in this place.
Waylon carried the large canvas back to his spot, eyeing where a certain blonde would normally be stood. The idea of looking at Harlow's work made his skin goosebump. He could see the man bursting through the door to scold him for snooping when he shouldn't. Still, he needed to get his grades up and work on his growing Harlowphobia as well.
He walked to the canvas, which was placed to be perfectly illuminated by the lack lustre lighting. Waylon hadn't seen Harlow's work before and taking it in left him partially speechless. It was a pencil work of his assignment concept; an androgynous figure made of both sharp and soft angles against the impression of different patterns. The few colours that had been experimented with were bold and contrasted. They're were also scraps of fabric and material pinned to the easel along with the assignment brief showcasing different textures.
Small annotations were made with blue pen, to Waylon it almost appeared like a mad man's scribbling from his artistically illiterate perspective. He noted words such as; nouveau, Koloman Moser, Weimar and many more highlighting seemingly random aspects of the art.
Waylon managed to blink the surprise from his eyes and focus in on what was written on the sheet of paper.
'Student is to combine three distinct artistic elements from a chosen artist(s) into a work of their chosen medium.' A small note added to thank Harlow for brainstorming this brief.
Waylon didn't know what to think, he hadn't particularly thought of Harlow as artistic. In fact he imagined if he asked anyone to describe the guy 'artistic' would not be a word on that list. Although maybe he was artistic from the get go and it was Waylon's lack of notice. The boy clearly had an appreciation for music and had evidently took time into decorating his area. Harlow also seemed to take pride in his appearance, too much pride at times...
The other let these thoughts bounce around his head. For the first time he felt himself struggling to digest just how human this was. That Harlow had sat down and researched, planned and passionately began this peace. Something so far removed from violence, seemed bizarre. Waylon couldn't begin to analyse the work if he tried because it was just so foreign from everything he assumed. If anything he expected Harlow would make something provocative or against the assignment, not to build it's very foundation.
He was lost, eyes swimming across the canvas. The face of the figure was soft yet defined with indications of shadow. It was both masculine and feminine, with a lithe body. Wisps of hair fell too its shoulders and gestural lines indicated an almost draped fabric. It was beautiful, the work showed skill. It was clear Harlow was not only talented but refined in the craft—he understood art.
Art.
Waylon took in the piece before returning too his own canvas. One problem, he didn't know any artists. Sure he knew the old greats like Leonardo Di Vinci, but something told him he couldn't pull off that level of detail. Maybe Picasso? Still he didn't know what artistic elements to choose, he didn't really know what counted as an artistic element either. Was it just the style? Or the art movement? He didn't know where to begin at all, each moment that passed he felt more stupid.
He had done art in his last school and most of the time they were just told to look at different art periods. Or given random art tasks like shading a cube, he never really diverged from that—instead turning his brain off each lesson.
His ex girlfriend turned close friend took that class with him. Half the time they'd both say they had to "go to the toilet" and smoke behind the dumpsters. They had been caught by a groundskeeper once, but his friend had convinced the man to stay quite.
Waylon settled on writing out on a spare piece of paper every artist he knew and what they painted or sculpted. He considered finishing his still life but had no real desire too.
Lost in his own world he hadn't heard the door open. Nor heard the footsteps of a person approaching him, however he did feel the heat of their body. As they stood right behind, Waylon stiffened when he realised.
"How lucky I am too see you." He recognised the voice instantly, "still not talking?"
Kian pulled out the seat next to Waylon, who was fighting his body every second. The man's face was further healed by now, small cuts and bruising still littering his cheek and nose.
His brunette hair was unkept and in another world Waylon may have considered him attractive. Kian took a deep breath.
"We got off on the wrong foot last time, Yknow?" He waited as Waylon slowly nodded.
"I promise I'm friendly, even if my face is scary." He leaned further to Waylon, glancing at his notes before turning his gaze back to the boy in disinterest. He smiled in a way that he assumed was meant to be genuine, but came off as anything but.
"Why are so scared Waylon?" The other shivered, remembering that now the shark knew his name. He was in the ocean, kicking his feet trying to keep his head afloat. All the while, letting the shark know he was prey.
"Why do you want to talk to me?" He finally spoke up, managing to choke the sentence out above a whisper.
"Why?" Kian pushed his body closer, "You don't want to be my friend?"
"I don't understand, why me?"
Kian breathed through his nose, his smile not reaching his eyes anymore, "I think we'd make a good pair." Waylon just nodded. Deciding it better to think of a way out of this scenario.
A part of him wanted to yell out, tell Kian he was a stranger. The other part knew that Kian was well aware of this.
Waylon had left his phone in Markus' room, partially because he had been avoiding his mothers calls. His dad had attempted to contact him as well, but luckily he only had to ignore that man once for him to understand.
"I've heard the rumours about you." His shoulders were relaxed, Kian seemed to be relishing in the anxiety that permeated off the other.
Waylon shrugged, "They're not true."
Kian's shoulders rose and fell with a chuckle, "I didn't say I believed them, people are full of shit."
Waylon pulled his lips into a thin line and nodded, his eyes downcast.
"You like art?"
Another shrug, "It's fun I guess."
The brunette seemed unsatisfied, "What do you like then?"
Waylon didn't know why this interview was so necessary, "I like art, more than most stuff."
Kian hummed, leaning his elbows on the table. He got closer, "Not an academic? I see you and Sasha around a lot."
A lot. Kian had seen him, when he hadn't even known it. He knew him and Sasha were at the least acquainted, he knew who Sasha was and aspects of his character. It made Waylon shiver.
"No," he sighed, "We're just friends." He was trying to give as little information to Kian as possible. He wasn't about to pour his heart out, open up about his lack of passion for school.
Kian smiled at that, "Friends," he leaned back in his chair and looked up to the roof, "Like you and Harlow?"
Waylon froze, looking away from Kian more so. He fought his own face as it twisted, "No, we're just roommates."
"Really, I saw you two hanging out?"
"We have this class together, probably just on the same way." Waylon was biting his anger, it felt like he was being accused of something from the tone of Kians voice. He almost took offence to being called Harlow's friend. The guy was almost as bad as Kian.
"Hmm, right." He didn't sounds convinced, "Well that's good. You should stay away from that guy."
Waylon couldn't help it, his eyes glanced to Kian's face taking in the ghost of damage that remained on it.
Kian leaned down to meet Waylon's gaze, voice turning to whisper, "He's dangerous y'know? Comes from a family of fucking criminals."
Waylon finally looked into Kian's eyes, and he saw nothing. He saw no emotion, no colour, like his pupils had swallowed any light or truth in his eyes. It was blank and dark and hollow. Waylon looked away.
"I'd make him back off, if you needed me too." Waylon fought the urge to remind Kian he almost got his nose concaved by the former.
Instead he just said, "Thanks."
Kian reached over and rubbed his shoulder, which Waylon fought the urge to pull away. His smile still present as before, "That goes for anyone, I'd make sure no one messes with you."
"Thanks."
A silence hung in the air before Kian stood up, "I gotta go, I enjoyed this chat though. Don't be a stranger."
He just left, walked out. Waylon couldn't comprehend how he just acted so normal. As if he'd never been threatened by Waylon's friends, nor seen him "hanging out" with the guy who busted his face. Kian was so fucking scary, far scarier than Harlow.
Without a second thought Waylon stood up and began walking. He walked with a sweat on his brow and determination in his step. He needed Harlow in his ball park, before the other rat weasels his way into his life. He wasn't going to take Kian up on his offer, instead he was going to get Harlow to protect him. The guy who without hesitation put Kian out of commission.
Waylon didn't care if it meant smuggling more drugs and alcohol than his body weight, nor if it meant risking more threats to his safety. Harlow was a dick, but Kian was a sadist. He could see it in his eyes.
Black unforgiving pools that created waves threatening to pull him under. You could see the thoughts running through his head, hidden behind the blackened vale. Like a program pretending to be a person, as if he was only partially human.
He passed scripture riddled corridors till he arrived at purgatories door. He knew Jay would defend him, but Waylon wasn't ready to brand him a sacrificial lamb. He could tell the only reason Kian hadn't struck him down their previous confrontation was due to his present damage. Had he been in a better shape, no doubt would his stature overpower Jay's.
The room was quite, if not for the hum of muffled music that bled from Harlow's headphones. Two round eyes stared at him as he lay on his bed. Eyes the size of dinner plates, pupils blown and lips parted to breath a heavy sigh.
Harlow raised a brow and paused his music, "The fucks wrong with you? Smoke bad weed again?"
A small laugh left Waylon's lips, "No," in some ways Harlow was forgivingly predictable, he knew the man wouldn't be too awful to him, "I need your help though."
"If you want me to give you a drink you can fuck off." He spoke straight.
Waylon shook his head, "No, and I'll get you more if you do this for me." That seemed to catch Harlow's attention, who sat up from his spot and took his headphones fully out.
He waited patiently for Waylon to continue his proposal, "I need you to make Kian leave me alone."
"Kian? What is with you two?" Harlow spoke in disbelief, he couldn't think of a single thing the boy could've done to get on his bad side. Yeah he was a bit stupid, if not bold but the size of him did not warrant such a consistent deal of harassment. Harlow knew from personal experience he backed down when threatened accordingly, he knew to some extent his own limits.
Waylon got quite, choosing to throw himself down on the floor and pull his knees up. "I don't want to get into it, would you though? Please?"
The blonde scrunched his face up, "Don't beg please, you're embarrassing yourself."
"Fuck you," Waylon snapped before dropping his aggression quickly, "will you?"
Harlow squinted his eyes in thought, considering his options thoroughly. He settled on a shrug, "I can, you'll have to do more than smuggle for me though."
He expected Waylon to argue or even tear up like he had previously, he hadn't expected the boy to sigh deeply and for a smile to play at his lips.
"Yeah, whatever." He breathed.
"You don't even know what it is?"
"I don't care, I'll do whatever. Thanks." He couldn't believe the relief of his own stress, whatever Harlow had him do would be far from the other potentiality. He'd take anything over being trapped with the swimming shark. He realised that now, that any semblance of peace he had hoped for was long gone.
People in here sniffed out vulnerability, they knew who too exploit. Harlow was truly the lesser of two evils and he could live with himself choosing this.
Harlow felt conflicted, but at the end of the day it wasn't his problem.