boywhoflew | [Darrow: Settling In

Entry tags:

darrow,
eric bittle

[Darrow: Settling In - Dated to 2/6/16]

Carson's time in Darrow so far had been a mess of frustration and confusion. After settling in to his apartment, he had raided the closest convenience store for necessities and shut and locked his door. He hadn't left since then.

He'd tried calling home. He rang his mom's cell four times and the house phone six. He had even tried calling Malerie, his Grandma's home, and in a fit of desperation the Clover community library. Every dial had ended fruitlessly, leaving him nothing but so frustrated and angry that he had nearly thrown his phone at the wall but settled for stuffing it between the cushions of the couch and going to bed for an anger nap. He hadn't actually expected it to work, but he had hoped.

What were you even going to say? He'd thought spitefully. 'Hi, Mom. I got struck by lightning and now I'm stuck in a new city that might be in an alternate dimension. Don't worry about setting me a plate for dinner! I'll see you never.' He couldn't imagine that would have gone particularly well.

By the time the present had rolled around, he had managed to shake off some of his funk. He had used the laptop in his apartment to look up the local school district, had called the high school to inquire about getting his GED only to find out his transcripts had been successfully transferred and he was ready to be enrolled (what? how?) and now he was set to finish out his senior year at a whole new school. As relieved as he was that he could finish what he'd started, he still found himself not particularly wanting to leave the apartment. The walls and quiet made it feel safe and normal, and walking the streets had so far just resulted in awkward confrontations. Only two days until Monday. I can just tough it out and then go start school.

He laid back on the couch and frowned at the ceiling. In two days, he had more or less memorized the pattern of the tiles.

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With special orders coming in almost all the time at Semele's, I honestly don't have many extra pies or other assorted baked goods to distribute these days. It seems I spend most of my time just struggling to keep up.

But sometimes it's fun to try something new and see what happens.

Today, I'm trying a new recipe for a graham cracker pie with a meringue top. It looks nice once it's done, all wonderfully fluffy on top and I consider bringing it to Jack to taste test, except despite him saying that he likes my pies, I worry a little that maybe I've been giving him too much and he might start to think I'm trying to kill his diet or something.

And then I remember Carson.

I haven't seen him since his first day here, but I know exactly where his apartment is. And I haven't yet given him an apartment-warming gift.

Moments later, I'm at his door, mitted hands holding the pie as I ring his doorbell with my elbow.

If Carson jumped in surprise at the doorbell suddenly sounding off, he buried the reaction quickly. In two days he had yet to have a single visitor for any given reason, and from behind his locked door he had yet to catch a glimpse of any of his neighbors. After two days of silence, the sound was sudden and jarring.

He only waffled for a second before heartily thinking fuck it and crossing to the door in quick determined strides. Despite his funk from the past few days, he had been in Darrow long enough to know that if he was in danger, it wasn't going to be playing house calls in the afternoon. He knew that if he had been the type to take up murdering as a hobby, crowded apartment buildings wouldn't have been his first choice for prowling. Knowing his luck it was the local congregation coming to convert him, or some salesman hoping to spin him a pitch.

Opening the door Carson was fully prepared to tell the solicitor to take a hike, but fell short when his eyes landed on Eric Bittle. He hadn't seen the other boy since that first day.

Head tilting, he stared in blatant confusion for a moment. "Eric?" He questioned slowly, a confused frown creasing his brows. His attention dipped to the shorter boy's oven-mitted hands. Huh. How wholesome. "Nice pie. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Standing there on his door step looking bright eyed and sweet with a fluffy pie and oven mitts, the other kid was doing absolutely nothing to contradict Carson's It's a Small World association.

If he got that song stuck in his head, he was going to be pissed.

It's difficult to tell whether Carson's frown is due to surprise or irritation, but he's not yet telling me to get lost so I figure that's a point in my favor.

"I tried out a new graham cracker pie recipe this afternoon and I need a taste-tester," I tell him, holding the pie out further, in offer. "Call it a house-warming gift, if you'd like. Unless you have food allergies, of course," I add, a little belatedly. "I'm sorry, I should've asked. Are you a vegan or gluten-free? I don't have as much practice with either of those at all, but I can give it a shot!"

How s this guy real? Carson wondered, glancing back at the pie again. It was a very domestic and literally very sweet offering, not the kind of thing he would have expected from another teenager. House warming pies were the kind of thing he would have expected from lonely housewives, not displaced college students.

"Oh," he said in surprise, momentarily flummoxed. He had to admit, it looked good and it was free. Chewing his cheek a moment, he shrugged and stepped back away from the door frame to give Eric room to enter the apartment. "Thanks. I don't think anyone has ever needed my pie tasting skills before."

Snorting he shook his head. "I'm probably one of the least restrictive eaters you'll meet," he admitted, jerking his chin inwards as welcome. "As long as there's no peanuts in that, we're fine."

"Oh," I reply with a rush of guilt even as I step into his apartment. "Goodness, I really should've thought of that. There might be some peanut traces in the graham crackers -- I didn't even think to look."

There's a table within easy walking distance, but I stay right where I am, a little nervous about taking liberties when I've already made one misstep.

"I can make you different pie, though! Later, I mean. Obviously. Do you have a certain kind you like? Or type? My specialty is fruit pies, but I'll try almost literally anything."

Carson resisted the urge to face palm and settled for raising his eyebrow in amusement. This kid was so easily flustered, and as tempted as he was to take advantage of that, he really didn't want to risk losing out on free food.

"I can eat graham crackers, Eric." He said slowly, and even if his tone was flat his amusement was plain to see. "I honestly doubt you're at risk of poisoning me anytime soon." Unless he had hidden peanut butter under all that meringue, they were bound to be fine. And if he had, well, Carson probably needed to know where the hospital was anyway.

"Just come in and relax. If I'm venomous, I promise it's non lethal. "

"Well, I obviously wouldn't plan to," I argue, but I do relax a little when he honestly doesn't seem at all worried. "But accidents happen sometimes and I'd never forgive myself if I accidentally sent you into anaphylactic shock with a piece of pie."

I step further inside at his insistence though, gravitating toward the table. "Is it okay if I set this here? You don't have to eat it now. And there's no need for me to stay! I only came by to drop this off; I don't want to be a bother. But you're doing okay, yeah? Everything goin' alright? Have you found everything?"

"Fruit pies are typically safe," Carson pointed out with a vague confusion as to how he had managed to go from moping around his apartment to having a discussion about pie. "And chocolate. And if it makes you feel any better, I can look into getting an epi-pen in the event of any taste testing disasters." He hadn't needed one in years with how often he prepared his own food, but he supposed in a new city it might not actually be such a bad idea.

The last thing he wanted was to go from a lightning strike to dying from eating the wrong muffin. He doubted he would be lucky enough to wake up in yet another new dimension.

He nodded in the direction of the table and leaned against the back of the couch, folding his arms and getting comfortable. "It's alright," he acknowledged. "Trust me, if you're bothering me? You'll know." He shrugged and threw up his hands in a what can you do? gesture. "I spent yesterday having one last freak out to get it out of my system. But today was good. I called and got enrolled at the school so I can finish out my year and graduate. And I was going to see if I can download an application for Barton tonight. There's no point in just sitting here twiddling my thumbs if I can finish my education, you know?"

"I think, when you have a peanut allergy, having one of those around is a good idea regardless of potential pies," I point out, not quite able to keep my worrying down even if I've only just met him. I know I have a tendency to smother people a bit into looking after themselves and I've been trying to be better about it, but it's not always easy.

At his nod, I set the pie on the table and then slide off my oven mitts, tucking them under one arm as I look back to him.

"Oh, that's great news!" I say, smiling wide. "Well, not the part about having a freak-out, though I guess that's to be expected, but enrolling in school is good! Have you gone by Barton at all to see if you like it? I mean, I know it's not like there's another option here, but it might still be a good idea. Just to see. I keep meanin' to go myself, but I haven't managed. There always seems to be something that crops up."

It's an excuse, of course. I know it is. But it's an excuse I'm willing to cling to for awhile.

"Most likely," Carson agreed flippantly. It wasn't something he worried about, at least not in the last several years. There had been that granola bar disaster when he was ten, but that had just barred his dad from being allowed to pack his lunches. His mom had been pissed.

Leaning back against the couch, he shrugged. "Not yet," he admitted. "Today was mostly getting stuck on hold every three minutes until I managed to get myself set up at the high school. And can I just say? They are weirdly casual about students enrolling themselves." He rolled his eyes with a sneer. "But Barton is on my to-do list obviously. I looked a bit at the web-page, and it seems... nice." It wasn't Northwestern by any means, but if he had one university to pick from out of the entire world, he could hardly allow himself to settle for the local community college. He wasn't that far gone.

Cocking his head, he scrutinized Eric for a moment. "Always something, huh? Funny how that happens." He said dryly. Raising his brow in challenge, he chewed his cheek in thought before deciding. "We should go check it out together," he declared. He didn't particularly care if he had the company or not, but it sounded like Eric was making excuses. Pie maker or not, there was no excuse to let himself stagnate.

"You'll figure out here pretty quick that they're weird about almost everything, casually or otherwise," I tell him with a quick, maybe slightly awkward laugh. It's just one of those things, really. Like accepting multiple realities and aliens and the fact that magic is real. And that aspect is better than the tricks like that other Darrow or all the animals suddenly going crazy.

Part of me feels like I should explain some of that, but I don't get the chance, distracted by the way Carson is looking at me.

When he speaks, I feel the strangest little flare of panic, and I'm shaking my head before I even really realize. "No, it's okay. I mean, I've. I've thought about it. But I'm pretty sure they don't even pastry studies as a major or... or anything like that. And do they even do campus tours? I'm sure they have journalism though; it'd be great for you."

Carson's eyebrow raised at Eric's nervous laughter, and he resolved to file away any questions regarding that statement for future use. He had heard odd rumors regarding Darrow, things that made the place seem even stranger than it already was, but he wasn't entirely unconvinced that some of it may just be sensationalism.

The other boy was back-peddling and doing it badly.

"For someone who was in college before he was here, you seem a bit reluctant." He said, voice casual but his expression quickly morphing from amused to predatory. "It's a college. Even if they don't have tours, we can just go wander the grounds and check out the admissions office. Have you even looked up their classes or programs yet? Even if pastry or culinary isn't an option, you could go into American studies like you had mentioned before. Or business classes if owning your own bakery down the line is something that interests you."

He pushed away from the back of the couch and quickly moved back to where his laptop was idling on the coffee table. "Let's look at their programs right now," he said, flipping the machine open with flourish.

Edited 2016-02-15 10:15 (UTC)

"Good Lord, are you a guidance counselor?" I ask with a quick, uncomfortable laugh, watching as Carson quickly flips open his laptop. I half expect him to pull out a pair of eyeglasses and a folder with my name on it.

Ignoring the clench of nerves in my stomach, I follow him around to the other side of the couch, fidgeting before I shrug again and shake my head.

"Look, I'm not against the idea of college and I think I'd maybe eventually like to go back, but I really do like my job and Samwell..." I trail off, frowning as all the memories of everything I'll never have again swarm up like big ball inside me. "Samwell was amazing. I can't, I know anything I find here won't feel the same. I can't replace it."

And I'm scared. I know I'm scared. I was scared when I first got to Samwell up until all the boys took me right under their wing and I was scared with every new class, scared that, despite it being the most LGBTQ-friendly campus in the entire U.S. that I might still be paired up on a project with the one or two leftover jerks who'd make me feel stupid and small and wrong.

"Don't be rude." Carson chastised, grabbing his glasses from where they were sitting on the table and pushing them up his nose. His experience with guidance counselors was limited to Ms. Sharpton, and to hell if he was grouped in with the likes of a beauty school flunk out and small town beauty queen.

Ugh.

Glancing up from the Barton homepage as it loaded, he scrutinized the other boy for a moment, mouth flattening into a line. "And I can't replace Northwestern," he said pointedly, but not meanly. "Or even Clover Community. You've been here much longer than I have, but it took me two days to realize that if we're stuck here? This is our lives now. And our lives aren't getting put on hold just because we're somewhere else. We'll just keep getting older, keep meeting new people and having new experiences. So why put college on hold until you're that weird thirty-year old sitting at the back of the classroom whom all the freshman will assume is either a loser or a pervert?"

He clicked onto the academics directory and glanced up at the boy. Rolling his eyes he pointed at the cushion next to him. "And sit down. It's rude to hover."

And here come the eyeglasses. Oh my goodness.

He peers at me over the rims and I feel pinned to the spot. Scrutinized and found wanting. He's not being cruel, really. He doesn't look like he's about to lock me in a closet or mock me relentlessly, but his expression certainly isn't kind either.

"Excuse you, I had two jobs within a couple weeks of showing up here," I tell him, not appreciating the insinuation that I'm completely useless. "And I have one now that lets me do exactly what I love." Nevermind that it's with Derek, a fact I can't decide is a blessing or a curse anymore.

Still, with a huff, I drop down onto the couch next to him, eying the computer screen nervously as I tuck my hands between my knees. "They probably don't even have pastry studies. Why would they? Samwell didn't. If anything, I should be looking into a culinary school, but it's not like I can afford that and why should I even bother when I already have a job baking?"

"For as presumptuous as you're accusing me of being, you're being pretty assumptive yourself." Carson told him flatly. "I'm just saying, from what I've gathered? You're not thinking about the long term. Sure, you can bake pies and hang out with your friends for now, but what about in five years? Ten years? Do you want to be doing the exact same thing, or do you want to seize the opportunity to be making a headway towards something more?"

He couldn't help but stress and plan for the long term. His nature was to yearn and push to get somewhere, and while Darrow might have been a bigger fishbowl than Clover with more going on, it still made him feel stifled. Carson wasn't the type to sit on his hands and wait to see if everything fell apart or to cave to the monotony of a low paying job with no room to grow, and he honestly couldn't wrap his brain around the idea that some people were willing to sit idly by to wait and see if anything better would come to them.

Scrolling through the directory, he stopped and hovered the pointer over one link, highlighting it. Sinking back into the cushions he crossed his arms and smothered the impulse to gloat his satisfaction. If he looked a bit smug, it couldn't be helped.

"Well would you look at that." He drawled, raising his eyebrow at the boy next to him.

"What if I do? What if I want to spend the rest of my life just baking pies and hanging out with my friends? What's so wrong about that?"

It feels like a valid question, but even once the words are out there, I know it's not really what I want. For one, I don't want to spend the next five years pining silently after Derek, sharing so much space and time with him and not learning how to move on. And I honestly don't know if I could ever own my own bakery, but something about the idea is appealing. And completely terrifying.

I have my arms crossed over my chest now, lips drawn into a firm pout, and I lean forward to see what he's talking about, feeling a little bit of a shock at the words 'Culinary Arts' under their list of majors.

"That wasn't there two months ago," I tell him and maybe it sounds like an excuse, but I swear it's true.

"Of course it wasn't," Carson soothed, his expression exaggeratedly sympathetic. He briefly considered patting the sulking boy on the shoulder or ruffling his hair, but quickly dismissed it. As entertaining as Eric's belligerence was, he didn't want to accidentally push the other boy into leaving. Or taking away the pie.

He leaned back in and clicked onto the program description, elbows resting on his knees. "I'm obviously no expert, but it looks like a thorough program," he offered lightly. "Maybe not as complete as a proper culinary school, but it looks like it has all of the fundamentals and few specializations." Looking back to the boy over the frame of his glasses he smirked. "Just think? What could a good southern boy do with a degree in culinary arts? Hell, if you're ambitious you could even throw in a minor in business."

Maybe a bakery wasn't the kid's dream, but it was a prospect. He could become a high caliber pastry chef, start a baked goods delivery company... hell, he could even be a culinary instructor himself. For a moment Carson was actually depressed that people could be so short-sighted to their own options. How could anyone want to settle for less than their full potential?

"There's a lot of options out there." He settled on. "I've known what I wanted since I was eight. So yeah, I got a head-start. But just because you're unsure? It isn't an excuse. If you don't like it, you can change majors. You might end up loving something you never considered. But waiting isn't going to get you anywhere but exactly where you are now, just further down the line." He glanced back at the other boy, head tilted in consideration. "And for all your pouting and bluster, I have a hunch that you probably want more. Everyone does. You might not know what yet, but don't you want to figure it out?"

That's a condescending tone if I've ever heard one and my eyes flicker over to him briefly, unamused. "It wasn't," I tell him, maybe a little too insistent, but I swear I looked. I didn't look hard maybe, but I distinctly remember reading through the list of majors and not finding anything that that stuck out.

Carson clicks on the link then and I scoot a little closer to read the program description, something tightening in my chest as I do. It feels a whole lot like that sensation I get when a D-man is coming at me head-on, that moment right before the hit. But I force myself to breathe and keep reading and... I mean, he's right. It sounds like a decent program. There's even a section for pastry studies.

It won't ever be like Samwell, I know that. There won't be any hockey games or practices to try fitting into my schedule, no study sessions at the Haus or sitting on the roof with Shitty. But then, nothing about Darrow has been anything like Samwell since I got here. Nothing ever could be.

Maybe it is about time I just... move on. In more ways than just Derek.

And maybe I could convince Jack to enroll, too. I wonder if that would make it any easier.

"So what's your plan then?" I ask, turning it back on Carson. "I know you wanna study journalism, but then what? There's no Nobel Peace Prize or Pulitzer here and I'm pretty sure there's only one paper. So what're your big plans for world domination?"

It was a clear deflection, but Carson had been banging his head against the wall trying to figure that out from the moment he had arrived. It was true, all of his life-long goals had flown out the window with his arrival. But just as he had forced himself to adapt back in Clover, he was determined to adapt here in Darrow. Just because he had been moved didn't mean he had to give up.

Pointing at the boy sternly he declared, "We're coming back around to this. Don't think I'm done with you yet." Despite the subject change, he refused to allow himself to be fully side-stepped. They were making progress.

He turned the laptop towards the other boy so he could have free reign to look over the course information. "That's a work in progress," he admitted, slightly defensive with a shrug. "Obviously I'm still going to study journalism. I've been working towards that for so long that I have no excuse not to. But after that?" He tugged off his glasses and stared at the wall, mulling over the thoughts that had been tumbling around his head all day. "Build my way up," he guessed. "Get published in the local paper. Maybe someday take over the position as editor." He tilted his head in thought. "Or maybe launch my own paper. Honestly, just because this is a fishbowl, it doesn't mean the public should be limited to one news journal."

That idea actually had some merit, and with a pause he could feel the spark that lit up beneath his sternum. "Ooh," he murmured, trailing off. "Now there's an idea."

Carson turns the laptop toward me and I reach out to scroll down a little, scanning through the courses offered and the specializations, but mostly listening as he actually answers my question.

I can feel my eyes widening as he speaks, watching the way he holds his glasses, which he's now taken off. For a second, I think I actually see a cartoonish gleam of evil in his eyes. "Why do I feel like I've just unwittingly been a part of your origin story?" I ask with a somewhat nervous laugh. "Can you do me a favor if you do start some Rupert Murdoch-like media conglomerate and give me free cable?"

He waved his hand in a flippant gesture. "We'll work something out," he promised, fully distracted. There was always the idea of his own newspaper, but why stop there? He had made the literary magazine happen despite the odds of it. Who was to say he couldn't take it to the next step? Why stop at a simple newspaper if he could launch what would promise to be the next Time magazine or his own take on The New Yorker, all with expertly written articles covering every avenue of society? Sure, they would have to get a little creative with such a limited audience, but it was not only possible, it was beautiful.

He almost shivered. The thought was inspired.

"I think I just had a break through," he declared, eyes gleaming brightly. "When I'm bossing around a legion of underlings and getting my ass kissed by every upper-crust member of society, I'll have you to thank." Somewhat. He wasn't willing to give Eric full credit, but he had won something by acting as a sounding board.

Maybe this was his origin story, and Clover had just been a fake-out.

Turning back to the other boy he raised a brow in interest. "And nice distraction. But now as they say in the news business, back to you. Obviously I'm going to wildly successful and a respected and feared member of society. What about you, Mr. Procrastination? Care to join me in the big leagues?"

Something about the look in his eye has me not entirely sure whether I want to take credit.

Then again, Carson is only my age and, for all his obvious ambition, I don't think he's really dangerous. He might be kind of condescending and arrogant, but all this college stuff he's trying to push on me can't in any way really be a benefit for him. And, in a way, it's nice seeing someone who can still have dreams here after I've spent the past several weeks trying my best to cheer up someone who's dreams have all basically collapsed.

In fact, maybe I should introduce Jack to Carson. Maybe Carson can give him this little speech, too.

I jolt a little when he turns it back onto me, glancing back down at the computer screen for a second and then back to him. "Join you? Well, I'm not lookin' to be a henchman if that's what you're thinkin'," I tell him and I'm honestly mostly kidding. "I don't really have dreams of mega stardom or awards or anything like that. Maybe... I mean, I might like owning my own bakery someday, but I think maybe not, too? Just because I'd rather be in the back actually baking than worryin' about finances and hiring workers and stuff like that. Not to mention, I wouldn't know the first thing about even starting something like that."

Carson snorted. "If I wanted a henchman, I'd try to find someone..." He hesitated, looking for a diplomatic way to say it. "Taller." It wasn't a dig at Eric's height, but an honest observation. If he wanted a professional henchman, brains and brawn were a necessary package deal. "Not that I don't think you'd carry your own benefits." Which so far were primarily: Pie, and Fun to Rile Up.

Leaning back in to peer at the computer screen he pushed his glasses back on, tilting the frames so he could read some of the smaller print with ease. "You're thinking small picture again," he chastised. "Think of that one guy. What's his name? The Cake Boss. It's his bakery, but he's also the cake chef. You can hire employees to cover the less interesting parts of the business. An accountant for finances, a manager for the staff and so on. You might want to take a business class or two to get it off the ground, but then you could bring in a staff to handle the rest. Or, I don't fucking know, see if you can find a financial backer to help with start up cost."

He was mostly talking out of his ass, but he felt a swell of satisfaction regardless. God, I am good at this.

Shrugging, he peered back up at the boy from the screen. "I bet a lot of this could be explained in college," he said pointedly.

I know he's either gonna say 'taller' or 'bigger' before he even gets the word out and I narrow my eyes at him. "I'm stronger than I look, you know," I tell him, though I have the distinct feeling he isn't likely to believe me. Which fine, I guess. It's not like I have anything to prove to him. I'm an athlete whether he recognizes it or not.

But I sorta get the feeling he isn't much for respecting athletes so maybe I should just hush.

He doesn't give me a choice either way, slipping his glasses on again and peering at the computer as he continues to just... hash out a plan for me, of sorts.

"How 'bout I just wait for you get all rich and famous and then you can be my financial backer?" I ask him, both a little bit teasing and a little bit testy both at once. "You can front the money and find me a manager and a CFO or whatever and I'll just work in the back. And I'll know how to do all the baking because, by that time, I'll probably have about three decades of experience."

That's just a ballpark guess, though I'm probably not giving Carson enough credit. Given his drive, I wouldn't be surprised if he's running the city newspaper within the year and maybe running for office within five.

Goodness, there's a scary thought.

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