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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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.

"I refuse to give hand-outs." Carson replied with an inelegant scoff. "Once you have successfully built up your business I might consider investing so that you can expand. But you have to do your own foot-work. Any self-respecting entrepreneur does." He leaned back, nearly glowing with satisfaction.

"See that?" He said, getting up from the couch to stalk towards the kitchen. "You went from not even considering what you would be doing in a few years to plotting out your business plans, unwittingly or not. We are so applying to Barton. Trust me, it's a good idea. In a few years time, you could be a chef with a degree and propects. Then I can have my degree in journalism and start my plans to take the city by storm. When I launch my news magazine, I can set up a section for local business. Or maybe even cuisine. Maybe both. Food is always a people pleaser. Restaurant reviews, editorial exposes on local businesses, interviews with local chefs. I could do a write up for your bakery to generate a buzz and stir up clientele."

He snapped his fingers as an idea sparked off. "Do you write?" He asked, whipping his head to stare at the boy from where he had been grabbing two sodas from the fridge. "You could have a column. Recipes, baking anecdotes, funny client stories. Whatever eye-grabbing click bait you would see on a cooking blog, but as it's own section."

"I'm not plotting anything," I insist with a slightly hysterical scoff, though Carson hardly seems to notice, still carrying on about Barton and his news magazine with a business section and a spot for restaurant reviews and interviews and my goodness, he really has plans. I've heard and indulged in my fair share of pipe dreams, but this really doesn't sound like that at all. This is all stuff I'm pretty sure Carson actively plans on making real.

And it's kind of exciting, I guess. In a terrifying way.

I jump a little when Carson suddenly snaps his fingers and notice he has two Cokes in his hand as he walks toward me.

"Oh. No," I tell him, frowning a little with a strange bundle of nerves as I shake my head. "I'm not much of a writer at all. I have a vlog, though. Mostly just for baking tips and... and stuff." Here, of course, it's more about the people I've met and the experiences and I really, really shouldn't have mentioned it, I'm pretty sure. Blue's the only one who's seen it so far and I'd really sort of like to keep it that way. "I'm pretty internet savvy, though? I love social media. Uhm, I have a twitter?"

As he deposited the two sodas onto the coffee table, Carson couldn't hold back the wince. "Oh, twitter." He said, with a tone that made it clear how he felt about that. "Why is it teenagers and young adults these days refuse to write something unless it's one-hundred and forty characters or less?" He didn't hate twitter. Or any social media platform, not really. But it had gone from being a useful platform for shared information to daily reminders of the general public's boring lives and shallow world views.

Tapping his chin he thought. "But still," he thought. "Most successful magazine and papers are transcribed onto the internet these days, and have their own social media pages. My high school newspaper had a FaceBook page." With exactly two followers: Himself and Malerie. "I'll have to look into that. Maybe once it's up and running it could have a social media department. I prefer the idea of people having to actually pick up a bundle of paper and read, but what can you do?"

Dropping back down onto the couch he frowned at the wall and thought. "Maybe we could do a transcription of the vlog," he mumbled. "Key points and pictures, with promises for more if they visit the webpage." He cocked his head thoughtfully. "Maybe," he decided. It wasn't ideal, but it could work. Eric had that sweet southern charm that might lure in loyal readers if he played his cards right.

"This might work," he announced. "I'll have to keep you on standby as I figure it out. But I'm getting ahead of myself. We need to apply to Barton first." He would be keeping an incredibly detailed outline for his magazine as ideas occurred to him, though.

Despite the obvious offer of Coke, I can feel myself getting defensive again already. It's hardly the first time someone's made a derisive comment or snort about my using Twitter -- heck, I used to get it all the time from my teammates -- but Carson's disapproval is so condescending that it grates right away and I don't even bother to hide a glare as I rambles on.

He changes his tone pretty quickly, but it's clear he's only thinking about the potential advertisement or monetary side of things when I definitely prefer Twitter as for actual social reasons. And for keeping up on celebrity gossip, of course.

Not that Darrow really has any celebrities. Celebrity faces, yes, but it's definitely not the same.

My heart leaps with a sudden burst of panic when Carson mentions transcripts and it takes me a few seconds to realize he means a vlog tie-in for his hypothetical magazine and not the one I have now. I slowly let out a breath. "Just about every publication has a website," I point out, more than a little eager to keep him distracted from applying to Barton right this second. Even if I maybe I am thinking about doing it, I'd still like to think a bit longer. I only came over to deliver a pie! Not decide my entire career path. "Or some kind of multimedia tie-in. So you could still have vlogs. A lot of them even for editorials or additions to particular sections or what have you. Maybe the editor-in-chief could even put one up occasionally to add a little bit of personalization to it."

Eric's glare was about as threatening as that of a kitten, and Carson suppressed a snort. He didn't go out of his way to piss people off, but when someone is willing to tell the truth there would always be people who took offense. It wasn't his fault that the majority of the youth population was in deep seated denial.

He popped the tab on his own soda and held the cold can thoughtfully, letting the chill soak into his palms. "Obviously I'll be the editor-in-chief," he mused aloud. "But I haven't tried doing any kind of vlog before. The written word is so much more respectable." He took a sip and thought. People as a general rule tended to dislike him once he started talking, and most days he honestly didn't give a shit. But if he was going to be in the public eye beyond social necessity, he might need to figure out how to engage the audience in a way that didn't make them throw trash at his face.

Or leave cow shit on his car.

Pulling a face he set down his soda and grabbed for the laptop. Opening a new tab he keyed in a search for 'vlog' and watched the results load. "I'll need to do some research on this," he said unnecessarily. "In addition to local business and cuisine there could be write ups for... I don't know, entertainment. Pop culture. Art. Local news and events. Maybe each section could have a vlog figurehead, someone who summarizes and represents the section, while the magazine is a bulk of individually written articles." He frowned. "I'll need people with charisma. For some reason my public speaking never ends well."

"Goodness, I have no idea why," I reply with just enough sweetness that he might not see the sarcasm, though not nearly enough my mother wouldn't catch it. I can practically feel her glaring from another entire dimension so I quickly push on, reaching for the other Coke and quickly popping it open before taking a quick sip.

"I don't know if you've noticed yet, but this whole city is full of charismatic people with pretty faces," I tell him, holding the can between both hands, my arms rested on my knees. "I really doubt you'll have much trouble filling positions in the vlog area. I could help, even. My friend Kate would be great for fashion section and Blue could do help out with art. I'd suggest Jack for the sports section, but he honestly doesn't know much outside of hockey and he can seem a bit stiff and awkward if you don't know him very well. Oh, and you could have a section maybe for interesting happenings? Because there's always something strange going on here and, while the natives barely seem to notice, the people like like you and me always kinda get caught up in stuff. Not sure what sorta angle you'd want on that, but it's just an idea."

I can't actually believe I'm getting caught up in all this. Carson seems excited though and, at the very least, he's not still taking about Barton anymore. For the moment.

His eyes narrowed at the syrupy sweet tone, but despite his instinct to raise his hackles it quickly bled away into amusement. For the first time in days he was actually making progress, and whether he was willing to admit it aloud or not all this planning and scheming was fun. Excluding Malerie it was the first time anyone had ever taken any kind of interest in what he had to say, or about what he wanted to accomplish. Actually having someone to hash it out with instead of being told to fuck off and be ignored was refreshing.

"I haven't left the apartment since Thursday," he admitted with a shrug. He hadn't wanted to. Everything had been too new and overwhelming, his thoughts and anxiety leaving him a bundled mass of raw nerves. But as strange as it was to have someone in his apartment, it was almost nice. For a moment he could stop panicking over the perplexity and just enjoy getting caught up in dreams and plans. It almost felt like when he and Malerie had been planning Clovergate, but with less illegal activity involved.

"That's a good idea," he said thoughtfully, and genuinely surprised. "It could be an unbiased recollection of events. Or if we're feeling bold, first hand experiences and testimonials. Hell, as far as strange happenings go, maybe in the very back we could even have a page for new arrivals. That way if it's someone people know they have a better chance at reconnecting. Or just as a welcome or acknowledgment." He would need to put some more thought into that. He flashed the other boy a hesitant smile. "You're actually pretty good at this."

On some level, I know it's completely irrational, but the second he says he hasn't been out of his apartment in days, I want to know if he's at least gone to the grocery store for essentials. But then I remember the Coke in my hand and I can't imagine that's all he would've bought for himself.

Though I still can't quite shake the feeling that I should've brought something of more substance than a graham cracker pie.

I'm so distracted worrying over the state of Carson's refrigerator that I almost miss what he says, startling a little when I realize he actually means it. "Oh," I reply, feeling my cheeks warming again despite myself. It feels good in a way I can't quite describe, that I've managed to earn his approval in some way. Even if he is kind of a condescending jerk sometimes. "Am I? Honestly, I'm just tossin' out ideas; it's not like I really have a clue on any of this stuff. But I'm glad I'm helping!" Then, because I honestly just can't take it anymore, "Have you really not been out of here in nearly a week? Carson, I promise it's not scary out there. At least not right now. Do you need to get groceries? I've been meanin' to pop by the pet store to get Elvis some more food, but we can swing by the grocery store on the way if you wanna come with."

He shrugged. "Most people would have told me to fuck off by now," he said honestly. "Instead you're helping me spit-ball ideas. And you actually brought up some decent points." Malerie had been capable of unexpected insight and raw enthusiasm when he steered her the right direction, but her creative process had been lukewarm at best. Blackmail aside, she hadn't so much had ideas as just regurgitated existing information. Or blatantly plagiarized famous works of fiction.

He needed to stop thinking about her. It just made him miss her.

Squirming under the sudden scrutiny, he frowned and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. "I'm not scared," he insisted. "I just wanted some time to process everything." And as a result had spent one day in an exhausted rage and the rest figuratively banging his head against the wall. "If I haven't left since then, it's because I was busy. Processing." Well, that didn't sound idiotic. He sighed and glanced back towards the kitchen. "I could probably go with more groceries though," he admitted. "I mostly bought apples and ramen noodles." And some off brand Lucky Charms, which he had already eaten through. Dry.

Another idea flashed through his mind and he suddenly stopped squirming. "Okay," he agreed, though his expression had switched from uncomfortable to smug. "I'll go get groceries with you if you go see Barton with me." There. They were negotiating.

"Strangely enough, keeping yourself adequately fed doesn't actually lower your ability to process," I tell him with an eyeroll. "I realize we've only just met for the most part and that there all kinds of interesting people here so you could actually be a robot for all I know, but I really sorta doubt it. Especially since I saw you take a sip of that Coke only a few seconds ago You need food. Preferably some fresh fruits and vegetables."

Goodness, it's going to be just like Thomas all over again, only worse.

He seems to consider for a moment and I can just see where his mind is going a second before he opens his mouth. And my stomach plummets.

Some part of me really thinks I should've seen this coming.

"Good Lord, Carson, do we really have to go today? I only came over to drop off a pie! I'm not ready for this!"

"I bought apples!" He insisted, suddenly indignant. It wasn't as though he had made a thorough grocery run. He had made his trip to the convenience store and quick as concise as he could, grabbing only what seemed necessary or appealing at the time. Ramen had seemed like a cost effective decision at the time; he could buy enough to feed a small army and have barely made a dent in his shiny new bank account.

He was fully capable of conducting himself as an independent adult. A fully stocked kitchen had just struck him as extravagant and unnecessary at the time being.

Although he probably should have bought milk to go with the cereal.

Turning a shrewd eye on the other boy he grabbed the laptop and clicked back onto the homepage for Barton. "Why not?" He demanded. "Do you have anything more pressing to attend to than your own future? I'm not suggesting we take a blood oath or offer a virgin sacrifice, just that we go and take quick peek at the campus to get a feel for it. Where's your sense of curiosity?"

Somehow I have the feeling he isn't going to rest until I give in. And, maybe he's right; there isn't any commitment involved in having a look at the campus. I suppose it couldn't hurt.

"Alright, fine," I finally grumble. "We'll do the campus first, but no more than an hour and then it's off to the pet store and groceries. I have to work today so I'm on a schedule. And I am not applying today so just get that notion right out of your head, mister."

With a sigh, I stand up, grabbing my oven mittens from the table and stuffing them into the pockets of my coat. They don't really fit, but I'm possibly being a little petulant right now.

Despite all of his pushing, Carson hadn't actually anticipated that Eric would cave so easily. He allowed himself a short second of genuine surprise before it bled into a sense of satisfaction so strong he was sure he would have purred were he physically capable of it. It was a small victory, and despite his insistence he wasn't even sure why he was so determined to get the other boy to that university. Maybe it was his sense of charity for someone who was clearly afraid to take the next step.

Maybe I just don't want to go alone.

"Awesome." He breathed, jumping from the couch and stuffing his glasses into his pocket. His shoes were tossed into a pile near the bedroom door and he scrambled to stuff his feet into them without bothering with the laces. "We'll make it quick," he assured the other boy. "Just a walk around the grounds, maybe take a peek at the student services center." Stop in to the academics and enrollment office. Running a quick hand through his hair to give it a sense of order he spun on heel to face the petulant boy and flashed him a lopsided grin.

"You can quit the pouting," he reprimanded. "Years from now when you're cutting the grand opening ribbon on the business of your choice, you'll look back at this moment and want to fall at my feet in gratitude." He promised.

"I'm not pouting," I argue, but it sounds terrible even to my own ears so I suck in a breath and force myself to stand up straighter. I can do this. It's just a college campus and there's nothing, not even Carson, that says I have to apply today.

But it won't hurt to look, won't hurt to know what the options are in case I ever do want to try something besides baking in Derek's kitchen.

Carson's a whirlwind in seconds, slipping his classes into his pocket and shoving his shoes on. I try to remember to breathe, inhale and exhale slowly before the anxious feeling in my gut can wind too tightly. It's just a school campus, it's not a big deal. I already know it won't be anything like Samwell, I already know that, even if they do have a hockey team, I won't be attending on a scholarship and none of the boys on the team could ever match my Wellies.

It's okay, Bittle. It's okay.

"And I am not ever 'falling at your feet,' I don't care how grand an opening you're envisioning, so you just erase that little fantasy from your noggin' right now."

I realize, a half a second too late just how that statement came out and feel my face go warm instantly. Turning away immediately to hide it, I head for his door. "Let's just go and get this over with. Don't you dare try and trick me into stayin' longer, either. I'll leave you to carry your own groceries, don't think I won't!"

Intended or not, a double entendre of that caliber couldn't be ignored. Both the words themselves and the flustered face of the boy responsible had him nearly giddy from the hilarity of it, but he also had that moment of panic when the provoked mental image was provided. Oh god, ew. For a split second Carson was actually afraid he had choked on his own tongue, but instead of asphyxiation what he got was a startled wheezing laugh.

"Woah, easy tiger." He smirked, holding up his hands to placate the retreating boy. Who was clearly blushing, if the harsh red of the tips of his ears was any indication. Serves you right. "I promise I have no fantasies about your grand opening. Which I have to say, wow. Conceited much?"

Grabbing his keys before the other boy could reprimand him or run away with an indignant squawk, he double checked that he had the correct keys and began herding them out the door. "I promise it won't take long," he promised, knowing full well that might have been a lie. "And wow, can't you muster a little excitement? We're going to see a university. Yeah, okay, it might be the only one in the city, but it's a legit place with decent looking programs and hopefully instructors who have some sense of pride in what they're doing instead of huffing glue or having sex with freshmen. Exciting."

"That isn't what I meant," I argue quietly, my face so hot I'm sure I must be about the shade of a rip tomato. For a second, I'm right back in high school, the butt of just about every gay joke imaginable. This isn't quite the same, Carson isn't committing some sorta hate crime or giving me crap for liking boys (I'm honest enough with myself these days to know that even if I haven't told him I'm gay, he's probably made an assumption based on certain... qualities) but the feeling in my chest is the same. He's laughing at me. I brought it on myself, maybe, with a slip of the tongue, but he's laughing at me and calling me conceited about a thing I'm honestly so, so embarrassed about.

I'm upset enough I don't even respond to anything else, keeping my head down and eyes narrowed as we head out the door.

Maybe I should be excited, if just for the potential. Or maybe excited for Carson. If I were a better person, maybe I would be, but right now I just feel stupid and small and I just want to get outside where the cool air should at least help my cheeks not feel so warm.

"Well, if they don't, I guess you're stuck with them anyway," I point out after a long moment, still staring down at the floor. "So maybe you should lower your expectations."

For a split second, Carson was convinced he had actually pushed too hard, gone too far, and that they had finally reached the point where he was told in certain terms to go to hell before the other boy left. The swell of agitation is both unpleasant and unwelcome, and for a moment he fiddles with his keys as he waits for the inevitable.

If he walks away, then fuck him. Don't set up something like that and expect nothing to come of it. It's your own fault. He thought angrily.

But despite his mulish protest, he had to concede that so far Eric hadn't been an asshole to him. Like, at all. The other boy had been nothing but kind of friendly, going out of his way to be helpful. He had even brought him a pie just as a courtesy and to see how Carson was faring. And here he had made the kid look so embarrassed and ashamed that it was like he was waiting for a sinkhole to open up right under his feet. Had it been Scott, or Nicholas or Justin he would have laughed to his heart's content and basked in the glory of the ribbing. But instead he just felt like a jerk.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, he settled for locking his apartment door and tried to ignore the sting regarding his expectations. It was bitchy, but both true and a fair retaliation. He could respect that.

As the awkward silence grew, as did his anxiety. Oh, fucking damn it. Playing with the keys in his hand he stared at a point ahead of them on the hallway floor. "Don't be mad." He said quietly. "I know it was a slip up, it happens. I," he waffled and suddenly he realized the perhaps pushing Eric to go somewhere with him was a massive mistake. Shrugging, he rubbed his neck. "Well, shit."

There's a part of me that wants to point out that the best way to make someone angry (or angrier) is to tell them not to be mad. But I feel like the glare I send his way is probably message enough.

And I can feel myself start to relax when I notice how awkward he suddenly looks, his own head ducked as he rubs at the back of his neck. I can't tell if he's trying to apologize or not and I'm not even sure I want one. It's stupid, but I feel guilty then and I look away to punch the button for the elevator before quickly shoving my hands back into my pockets as we wait for it to arrive.

"Are you like this with everyone?" I ask once we're inside, the tension downright stifling. "Or am I just an easy target?"

There was an odd sense of relief when Eric didn't storm away. This was strange for a multitude of reasons, many of which Carson would have had difficulty explaining even on his best days. He doesn't like people. People were just selfish, cruel, short-sighted herd animals hellbent on their own satisfaction on the best of days, giving no heed to anyone but their own small miserable lives.

And to be honest, he knew that most days he wasn't much better. Smarter, but not better.

But it was rare for him to want someone around him. Even Malerie, for all of her infallible and inexplicable loyalty, had been taken for granted until it had finally hit him that they were friends. That she was his only friend. And the fact that she hadn't been as certain in that fact as he had been had been both disappointing and heartbreaking. It was unsettling to think that he had already been taking Eric for granted, and hadn't even stopped to consider where the other boy was standing in their short-lived acquaintanceship.

Stepping into the elevator, the tension was palpable and he continued to play with his keys, running the pad of his thumb of the ridges of the apartment key. Shrugging, he stared at the wall. "Everyone." He said simply. "People don't like me. So I normally don't like them either." He frowned at the wall and pressed his thumb tightly into one of the ridges. "I wasn't trying to make you feel bad, though."

"They might like you more if you acted like less of a jerk," I tell him, but I'm careful to keep my voice quiet, going for more of a gentle suggestion than another snipe. I shrug then, glancing over to where he's fiddling with a crease in the wall awkwardly. He still hasn't apologized, but I think this might be his way. I know everyone does it differently.

I shrug then, looking back at the closed elevator doors. "And I'm probably a little more sensitive about some things than other people," I confess, afraid to meet his gaze right now, to face that scrutinizing look he's been giving me since practically the moment we met. "We've all got our baggage, right? Honestly, if I'd have made that slip with some friends back home, they'd have chirped the heck out of me. And maybe that's what you were trying for too, but it felt... well, it came off kind of mean."

The elevator shudders to a stop, the doors opening and I step out into the lobby, pausing just long enough to make sure he's following. "I know we're just gettin' to know each other so there's bound to be some missteps, and I know it's a lot harder for you having just gotten here. I'll try to be a little more understanding if you can try to be a little less judgmental. How's that?"

Carson had never worried about being mean. For years it had been his default setting, something to help him shut out all of the idiots and bastards he encountered every day. He often joked about being jaded, which he felt like was an overstatement, but pushing people away had stopped bothering him a long time ago. He had stopped giving a shit about what anyone else thought of him by the time he had hit middle school and had embraced the freedom of it. Being alone and being disliked was a safe bubble. It kept people away, kept him focused on what was important instead of fleeting things like emotions and relationships. And if he was honest, most days he enjoyed cutting into people with his words and dismissal. After years of rejections and barbed words, every sting had felt more like victory.

But for some reason he suddenly remembered the day he saw the line of cuts on Vicki's pale wrist, and with a stomach churning sense of dread he frantically prayed that none of those marks had been because of him.

Wincing, he compartmentalized that thought and stored it as far away in the back of his mind as he could. Vicki was gone and he would never see her again. She gave as many shits about everyone as I did. It's not my fault.

It didn't ease his sudden nausea any.

"I'm not," he stopped to let that thought form properly before he continued. "I'm not very good at that. I mean, I guess I'm capable. I have a best friend back home, so not everyone runs screaming when they see me. But we were only officially best friends for a couple hours before... here." He sighed and followed along after Eric. "I'll try. Just know I wasn't trying to be a complete dick, okay? Up until just now, I thought we were doing pretty good. At least on my side. You hadn't left yet."

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