Chapter Text
The day Tango Tek walked into my classroom, my mother died in a plane crash. I’m not exactly saying it’s his fault, but, considering the state my life is in right now, I think it’s his fault.
He came into class just like everyone else did. He found the desk with his name on it, just like everyone else did.
What was different about him, is that he shattered my life.
Destroyed all I thought was important.
And he didn’t care one bit.
At least, that’s what I thought.
”Eyyy! Jimmy!” Grian calls down the hall.
I smile. It was usually nice to see Grian. Even if he always teased me.
”Hello,” I say, preoccupied by digging in my new locker.
I can hear his footsteps as he moves on to find his own locker.
”Oh, hey Tim,” Joel ruffles my hair as he walks past.
I roll my eyes. “Hi Joel.”
Then Scott came through the doors. His eyes met mine.
“Timmy. Hi.”
I frown. That wasn’t normal. His voice sounded dull and tired, while his usual tone was sweet and chipper. Really wasn’t normal.
Crossing my arms, I ask him, “What’s wrong?”
”N—“
”Don’t even say ‘nothing’,” I cut him off. I ask again, ”Scott, what is wrong?”
Now, it wouldn’t be strange if your friend was sad on the first day of school, maybe because they had a bad night, or their dog died, or something. But Scott is too good at hiding his feelings. He wouldn’t show any sign of being upset because of those things.
His blue gaze dropped to the floor, only his long eyelashes showing. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
My heart broke slightly for the poor boy. “You sure?” I check.
”Yeah. Sorry,” he says, still not looking at me.
”Gayyyyyy,” Katherine calls from her locker a few meters away.
I roll my eyes good-naturedly. “We’ve been over this, Katherine.”
Scott forces a laugh. It would look normal to most people, his eyes shining, mouth curved up at the ends. But I could tell something was off.
Something was really wrong.
Looking over Scott’s shoulder, we had coordinated what classes we would have together.
Homeroom, Cultural Studies, Mathematics, and Art.
He smiles at me. A real one this time. I know he loves art. The things he could create using paint and pencils, images of fields of flowers, swaying in the wind, a desert with a sandy house sitting lonely and strong at the top, a ranch, teeming with all sorts of farm animals.
Once, at his house, I saw something I don’t think I should have.
A portrait in his room, just a black and white sketch, hidden in his closet. I had found it while helping him look for a major grade science essay, (which we never found by the way) and I had the idea of trying to look in his mess of clothes.
It was lying under the piles of forgotten shirts, still perfectly intact, no bends, folds, cuts.
It was of two people hugging.
Two people that looked strangely like me and him.
I had always known Scott was gay, ever since the end of eighth grade. But I didn’t think I was. But for some reason, something happened in my chest, something like longing.
But after that, I shoved it down, burying it underneath all the stocks of hurt and sadness that had built up over the years.
And I ignored it.
Why?
Because I’m an idiot.
”C’mon Tim,” Scott says taking my hand. He begins to drag me to homeroom. “You walk so slow.”
My mind is still filled with that memory that I had roused thinking of Scott’s art skills.
Did he like me?
That was a question I never thought I’d ask myself.
And an answer I never thought I’d want to hear.
But I had to hide it again. Right? It’s wrong to feel that way. Especially over Scott.
We arrived at the classroom way before the bell was going to ring. “Why’d you interrupt my day dreaming?” I whine. ”We still had plenty of time!”
Scott smirks. “What’cha day dreaming about, Tim?”
I could feel my face heat up slightly. “Nothing!” I yelped indignantly. “Find your seat!”
He pleasures in annoying me. And I knew it.
A short blonde walks into the classroom. Quietly taking a desk, next to mine, he hangs a small bag off the back of his chair. Smiling at me, I could see that his eyes glittered red.
Almost like fire…
"Hey," he says, taking out a pen.
"Oh. Hey," I went back to pretending to studying my schedule. But I couldn't help but notice something.
Scott's blue eyes were cold as ice staring at the new kid. His fists clench with an anger I didn't know was in him.
I turn to him in surprise. "Scott . . . are you sure you're okay?"
Tearing his gaze away from the new student he forces another smile. "I'm fine, Tim. I'm okay."
But his fingers shook slightly as they closed around a sketching pencil. Coated in a silver-colored wrapper, and sharpened almost half way down, I could tell this was one of his graphite ones.
Now, don't get me wrong, Scott can do amazing things using color, like paint and pastels, but his true talent was black and white sketches. So real they almost take you back to the place where they happened.
Like that picture I found in his closet. . .
My homeroom teacher wiped the dusty board clean, introducing herself.
”Ms. Stress” she writes across the marker board.
She starts talking about how we’re older than the freshmen now, and how we have to be an example, and stuff like when we’re supposed to be in class and whatever.
But Scott isn’t really listening, I can tell.
He usually draws in class while the teacher is talking, and they don’t mind. He gets A’s normally, so they can’t get mad at him for drawing if it helps him focus.
But he’s not drawing or anything.
He’s just staring at a blank sheet of paper.
What in the world is wrong with him?
Was it that new kid?
Why does he hate him so much?
Ms. Stress goes on about being respectful and treating the new kids nice.
Well, Scott doesn’t seem very welcoming right now.
But of course, only I could see that.
Anyone else in the class, even Pearl maybe, would think he was doing perfectly fine. They wouldn’t notice the cold fire in his eyes, the
blankness. . .
I flop down into a lunch bench, looking at my tray. It actually wasn’t that bad today, given it was the first day of school. Mashed potatoes and a carton of milk.
”Hi,” I looked up to see that new kid looking down at me. “Okay if I sit here?”
”Oh, uh sure,” I offer, turning to Scott. “If that’s alright with you?”
”Yeah,” Scott muttered, not exactly looking at me.
I cross my arms and lean over the table. “So, what’s your name?”
His red eyes flash warmly. “I’m Tango,” he introduced. Turning to Scott he said, “And I think Scott knows me already.”
“What?” I look to Scott.
Is that why he’s acting like this?
Some past thing with this Tango?
Speaking of Tango, his eyes are just so intriguing. . .
”Yeah, uh Tango,” Scott starts. “He’s my friend.”
I frown. “Oh, okay.”
”I’m Jimmy,” I say, half-hugging him. Why are those eyes so familiar?
I feel his hand brush against mine and I shiver. Despite his warm demeanor, his fingers are freezing cold.
Also, his accent was different. Most of the kids in our school were British or Australian, given we were in Europe. But some people were from America, like Katherine, Taurtis, and Scar.
And I guess Tango.
But I still ask, “Where are you from?”
”I moved here from Arizona. From the U.S.”
That explains the red eyes. Arizona.
But why do I feel like he’s familiar?
”Do I know you?” I blurt. Wait why did I say that?!
He tips his head sideways. “Maybe. I feel like I’ve seen you before. Feels like it’s important.”
I sag slightly with relief. We probably met at a shop or something.
”But your hands,” he takes one of them in his own. “They’re . . . pretty.”
I know a blush is blooming across my face. “Oh, um, thanks,” I stutter.
Scott comes up from behind me. Wrapping his arms around my neck he smiles at me. “You are pretty.”
What? That’s new.
“I—I uh,” WHY CAN'T I FUCKING SPEAK PROPERLY?!
Tango’s blazing eyes narrow. “You guys dating?”
”N—“
”Maybe,” Scott cuts me off. His ice blue eyes harden.
What is going on?!
“Not yet,” I push in front of the two. “Not yet.”
Scott bites his lip and looks away. Tango smiles slightly.
”So you’re free,” Tango states, moving closer to me.
"He's not." Scott steps to the side of me, trying to cut him off.
“So you're free," he repeats, this time looking at me.
The world kinda stops for a second. If I say yes, Tango will win. If I say no, Scott will win.
Who do I want to win?
"I—I'm not," I get out.
Scott wins.
I can almost feel the pride Scott has.
Tango shoots a glare at Scott before walking away.
He crosses his arms smugly, watching him leave.
What was that about!?
"S—Scott," I turn to him, close enough that his blue bangs brush against my forehead. "What in the world was that?"
"Oh, um," his gaze flits downwards. "It was nothing. I just had to beat Tango." He spits his name.
"I thought you were friends," I press, looking into his pale blue eyes.
So pretty. . .
"We were," Scott says. "N—not anymore."
"But why?" Why are you hiding things from me, is what I really want to ask.
“Not here.”
”But Scott,” I protest.
”Later.”
I eat my lunch in silence, wanting to sulk. I push the potatoes around, not hungry.
Scott doesn’t make eye connection with me and when the bell finally releases me from this awkward torture, he pulls be back. I’m wrapped into a hug, with my arms thrown around his neck, and Scott’s resting around my waist.
”Jim. . . I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I promise to tell you later.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
His teal blue hair dangles in front of my eyes.
”Well, I guess see you soon,” I say, breaking away from the hug.
”After school?” He asks. “Maybe your house?”
”Yeah, I think it’ll be fine.”
”Okay, well, art is soon, so also see you then.”
”Yeah. See you then.” I watch as he walks towards the back door of the cafeteria.
Picking up the books that I had brought to lunch, I headed down to the science classroom with the teacher Xisuma.
Weird name.
He started off the year by first telling us the rules in his class, and showing the seating chart, and then beginning the lesson.
Which was circuits.
Now don’t get me wrong, I love science, especially physics, but circuits? On the first day of school?
Again and again, he explained what to do, and how to reroute the circuit board and which lightbulb we were supposed to turn on using minimal amount of cord, but all of it immediately drained out of my head when we were instructed to start.
What do I do again? Tie this thing around that blue thing and turn on the battery thing and. . .
Pale fingers guide my hands to the correct place to plug in a red cord to power the first lightbulb. I shivered from the touch, the skin being freezing cold.
Tango.
He shows me which wire would power each light and how to string it across the board using the least amount of the cords.
And finally, it might have clicked in my head.
”Oh! So, you go like this and,” I trail off, lighting the fourth and final light.
Tango smiles, his hand still resting on mine. “Perfect,” he whispers, looking at my circuit board. “I’m going to do mine now.”
I watch as his long fingers weave the wires back and forth with ease, lighting each lamp without any difficulty.
”How do you do that?” I ask after he finished the last bulb.
He shrugs it off. “Just some practice on old light switches back in Arizona.”
But I feel like it might be more than just old light switches.
“How old were you when you learned how to work like this?”
His face flushes slightly. “Oh, um, six?”
My jaw drops in awe. “You’re kidding.”
He gives a smile before realizing that he’s still holding my hand. He drops it. “Well, uh I hope that made sense to you,” and slides back into his seat.
The desks in Xisuma’s classroom aren’t normal desks. They’re more like white lab tables that can fit maybe four people working in each one. Shelves are filled with rocks, boxes of dirt samples, magnifying glasses, beakers, and even a cardboard box that has LUNGS written in purple Sharpie on each side.
Talk about mad scientist vibes.
Xisuma continues explaining how the wires work and different ways to solve the circuit electricity puzzle.
I think I like him.
Even if he teaches about circuits on the first day of school.
Finally at the end of class and I’m gathering my books to leave, I meet Tango’s scarlet red eyes.
And they glitter with kindness as he leaves the class.
I lean against the cold stone of the school building.
E. V. O. Horizon Highschool reads across the center of the building in big black letters.
Come on Scott.
I tap my foot against the concrete sidewalk, contently waiting for him. I hear a sharp cry of a bird, and whip around.
A yellow lump is lying on its side towards some trees away from the building. Everyone walking past ignores it, pulling on their new backpack strings not noticing the animal despite its whines.
I hurry towards it, careful not to startle it. “Hey, bud,” I whisper gently, stroking the top of her head.
Where have I seen that distinct yellow?
The feathers. . .
”You’re a canary?” I ask quietly, searching for the place where she was hurt.
She stretches out a single wing, a whimper of pain escaping her beak. The bird seemed to see that she could trust me.
I gasped, the bird flinching from the sudden noise. Feathers had been torn out from the wing, empty spaces crusted with blood filling the missing areas.
”I’m getting you home,” I decide, looking around for Scott. He came rushing towards me at the sight of a hurt animal.
”Awwww! You’re so cute,” he smiles, petting the canary softly. I allow him because he’s great with comforting creatures, but not exactly the best at healing them.
”She’s a canary,” I tell him, the distinct yellowness of its plumage almost screaming the obvious.
”She?” Scott wonders, cradling the bird in his arms.
”Oh, yeah. She’s a she.”
Why do I know that?
“Let’s bring her home then,” he says, placing her back in my arms. She cuddles into the nook of my elbow, settling down from the warmth.
We walk to my house, talking about how our days went. Most of it is side stepping fallen branches from the storm that had just passed through. I can’t believe no one had ever thought to clear their sidewalks after the hard rain.
Until I remembered something.
”Scott, you never told me why you were down this morning,” I press.
”Oh. Um. Well,, my parents, might be. . .” He trails off, still hiding things from me. A stutter seemed to appear, which was almost nonexistent for him.
”Scott, shit, I’m sorry,” I say, running a hand through my blonde hair. “You don’t have to tell me if it makes you this uncomfortable.”
”No, I have to tell you. That’s what friends do.” He insists.
More than friends?
”You sure?”
He nods. “My. . . My parents are getting a divorce.”
”WHAT?” I explode in confusion. “But, but, but—“
”I know,” he mutters with a sigh, “They were such a good match for each other.”
“But, who’s gonna take care of all your siblings? Are you staying with Katy or Mr. Major?”
Still, insane thoughts were wheeling through my head.
Katy, Scott’s mother had moved here from Scotland, which wasn’t too far away. Still, she had a thick accent and many tiny kids running around her house. She was always kind, but her husband was almost the opposite.
”We’re all staying with my mom, and I think Mr. Major is going to live downtown somewhere.”
I always thought it was crazy that Scott called his dad Mr. Major. But I guess if you weren’t around for a kid’s entire childhood, that’s what you would call your dad.
But Katy and Mr. Major were a great team. They both worked in architecture and could practically read each other’s mind. Even though her husband wasn’t the kindest, she evened him out, and he stopped her from being so nice that she would give away all her belongings.
“Scott—I’m so sorry I pressured you this much,” I say, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. The canary in my arms peeps in protest, climbing onto my head.
”It’s alright. I should have told you at school, I just thought it was too—“
“Negative?”
“Yeah,” he hugs me back.
By now we had been nearing my house when Scott asks, "What are you gonna name her?"
I look down at the yellow canary, so innocent.
"I think I'll name her,” she gazes up at me with dark eyes. “Curse.”
Scott considers the name. “Seems pretty accurate.”
When I open the door to my house, I remember something. “My mom’s not here because she’s on a work trip to the U.S. so yeah.”
”Oh, okay,” I know he’s slightly disappointed that he couldn’t see my mom. I think he’d only ever seen her once or twice.
She’s always on work trips these days.
The house on the inside has no lights on except in the kitchen. Broken plates and shattered glass are scattered around the floor, cupboards open and my dad is tearing a hand through his hair sitting on the counter.
Probably important document papers are underneath his elbow and falling onto the ground flitting gently to the surface.
When he looks up, dark circles are under his thin rimmed glasses, strands of grayish hair falling over his grieving eyes.
”Do we have any birdseed?” I ask, and immediately know it’s the wrong question to voice right now.
”Jimmy,” my dad started.
“Mom’s dead.”