Angel Boys Chapter 2
May. 6th, 2013 02:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
asphaltcowgrrlTitle: Angel Boys Chapter 2
Pairing:Travis Marks/Wes Mitchell
Rating: PG at this point, maybe R later
Word Count: 2,261
Warnings: Navel-gazing, mildly graphic but upsetting violence towards one of our boys
Short Summary: New kid Wes Mitchell moves to LA from the East Coast unexpectedly. He hates being the new kid in school, making friends, fitting in, none of it has ever been all that easy for him. And then he meets Travis…
Structural Engineer (aka beta): skyesurfer12 – my pal and right hand and I FORGOT HER LAST CHAPTER. *headdesk* Anyway… moving on. Thank you for the nudges and the support and encouragement. As they say, I couldn’t have done it without you.
Author’s Notes: This chapter will probably make you all hate me. However, it gets worse. I’d apologize, but well, I have no shame… and lots and lots of issues. Besides, the boys have each other, right? Doesn’t love heal all wounds? *G*
Available at these fine retailers:
AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/778891
FF.net: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9247746/1/Angel-Boys
Story starts here.
Nobody Knows (http://youtu.be/sOVbgAQGhQQ )
Like a clown I put on a show,
the pain is real even if nobody knows
And I’m crying inside
And nobody knows it but me
Homework had never been much of a challenge for him. Some would say he was a nerd, but he just figured he paid better attention than the rest, thus making the completion of assignments that much easier in the end. But whatever the real reason was, tonight his brain wasn’t having any of this studying business. It had other, more important things in its queue.
With a sigh, he pulled his biology text back in front of him and forced himself to re-read the section on mitosis. On any other afternoon, he’d enjoy losing himself in the science of it, the illustrations, the technical terms, the learning and understanding as it all came clear. But not today because today had a pair of blue-grey eyes haunting his memory, disrupting his concentration, making rational thought damn near impossible.
Damn his brain anyway.
His previous therapist had warned him about bonding with the first friendly face he found, and he’d sworn to himself that he wasn’t going to do that again, not after what had happened to him the last time with… No. Enough. There was nothing to be gained by rehashing the loss of the one person he almost dared call a friend. Wes forced those thoughts from his mind, focusing twice as intently on the series of illustrations leading him through the various phases of cell division.
What his therapist hadn’t prepared him for, however, was being drawn in by the most arrogant, aggravating and annoying individual on the planet.
Huh. Alliteration, he thought with a quirk of the lips. And I’m not even studying English yet. Score yourself five bonus points for that one, Mitchell.
Fact was, despite having the most alluring blue eyes he’d ever seen, the brightest smile anywhere, and a laugh that rang out like church bells, Travis Marks was a jerk. A beautiful, enticing, jerk, but a jerk just the same. He wasn’t the kind of person Wes would seek out as a companion, ever, so why was he still on his mind?
Travis had Wes’ emotions in a knot. Wes wasn’t generally very emotional, he had learned long ago to contain all those unruly, unreasonable feelings and channel them into something more productive. More appropriate. Like his schoolwork or laundry. Which was why he was having such a hard time reconciling his love/hate relationship with one Mr. Marks.
Life Science in Your World! slipped from his desk and he let it fall, losing his place and scattering his notes across the carpet. It thumped heavily when it landed, the carpet muffling the sound. His frustration with himself could have burned a hole through the center of the enormous textbook. This sudden inability to concentrate was not acceptable. He had to force all inappropriate thoughts out of his head immediately and get back to studying. Pronto.
Instead of kicking the monstrous text across his room, as his first impulse demanded he do, he crossed his arms across the battered desk, dropping his head into the crook of a folded elbow. Desperation welled up within him, warring with the disgust his mind threw up in defense of his fragile, irrational emotions. It was always like this for him, however. That immediate urge to act and do, that was always smacked down and beat up by that bitch called reason.
Reason and that ultimate consequence of wait till your father gets home that his mother was so fond of throwing at him whenever he even so much as thought about acting out. It made him feel like a frightened child, but those six words tended to instill more than a little fear in his weakling heart. In his defense, he’d had to raid his mother’s makeup kit more than once to hide the errant bruises left after such threats had been carried out. On the bright side, he’d gotten rather good with a bottle of concealer and a triangular shaped sponge.
But that was neither here nor there, was it?
“Wesley!”
He angled his blonde head towards the sound of his mother’s voice and groaned. Mustn’t get caught woolgathering, he scolded himself sarcastically. Scrambling to grab his book and gather the scattered sheets of ruled notebook paper, she caught him on the floor, looking apologetic.
“Wesley, just what are you doing on the floor?” Her hands found a place on her rounded hips, that suspicious glare locked onto his guilty conscience.
“I – I knocked my notebook off the edge, Mother. Sorry. I’m cleaning it up now.” Please, please, please just let it go. Clumsy, clumsy idiot boy…
Her eyes narrowed, assessing him and the situation. “See that you do. Your father will be home soon and dinner is at six on the dot.”
The threat was left unspoken. The one that said, “And if you’re even a minute late, you’ll go without.” It wasn’t a threat he took lightly, either. He may be lanky, but he preferred eating to going hungry.
“Yes, ma’am.” He tried to look contrite. He was pretty certain he failed.
She watched him closely for another minute before backing out and closing the door behind her. With a whoosh of pent up breath, Wes gathered his fallen homework and settled it into some semblance of order. Lifting his book off the floor, he spied a piece of paper sticking out from between the pages near the back. Curious, he tugged at it.
Unsure of where it had come from – maybe it’d been in the book when he’d been given it today? – he unfolded it carefully and stared at the unfamiliar writing inside. His eyes widened in shock briefly, before narrowing in suspicion.
Well, hells bells, what was that supposed to mean? And where on earth had it come from? It seemed like it had to be directed at him, what with the reference to the blue eyes, but he was unsure. Curious, too.
With a second glance at the note, he figured he’d find out sooner or later. He stuffed it into the top drawer of his desk, the broken one only he knew how to finagle open, just in case. Couldn’t have anyone accidentally coming across something as incriminating at that. Either way, he figured it wouldn’t be long before he knew for sure.
Please let it be sooner, he begged. If I’m going to get my ass kicked again, I’d prefer to just get it over with.
^^^
Dinner was a solemn occasion in the Mitchell household, overseen by the reticent and just plain unfriendly Marlin ‘I have no middle name’ Mitchell. Wes had long ago learned to arrive three minutes early, set the silverware in its true and proper places, and then place himself in his seat, zipping his lips shut for the duration.
He’d just finished placing the last fork, making certain it was parallel to the edge of the plate and aligned perfectly with the base of the knife and spoon on the opposite side of the plate, when his father surged through the front door. He was late, which was a rarity. It also didn’t bode well for the meal that was about to follow. The obligatory evening repast was not going to be a pleasant experience tonight. Cringing inwardly, he hoped for the best and prepared for the worst.
Marlin Mitchell detested being late. He prided himself on running his business ventures – and by extension, his family – like a well-oiled machine. Each gear in place, every cog in working order. And there would be hell to pay for any person who dared interfere with his schedule. Tonight, it seemed, there was a lot of hell to be accounted for, if the look on his father’s face was any indication.
“Marilyn,” he bellowed, looking around for his errant wife.
Wes’ mother poked her perfectly coiffed blonde head out of the kitchen, smiling. “Well there you are, Marlin. I was beginning to worry. You really should call if you’re going to be late like this. You can’t keep your family waiting for dinner, dear. Wesley might faint away from hunger.”
He couldn’t keep himself from wincing at his mother’s words. She knew better and yet, she still insisted on chastising him. Often, he felt she had a death wish cleverly concealed within her motherly demeanor. Personally, Wes thought that simple insanity might be a more logical conclusion. It would certainly explain a few things.
The angry glare on Marlin Mitchell’s face morphed from mildy put out to full on rage in six-point-two seconds. “Marilyn? What have I told you about speaking to me this way?”
Marilyn’s pale features blanched even further as understanding dawned on her. It was never okay to joke with her husband, nor was it ever, ever appropriate to reprimand him. He’d reminded her in so many ways that he absolutely did not have a sense of humor, but she failed to believe him. How can you not have a sense of humor, everybody has a sense of humor, Marlin… Her heart was too big to believe that she’d married a pitiless man. He stepped towards her and she stepped back. Instinct kicking into overdrive.
“I’m so-sorry, Marlin. I was just…” She faltered, voice lost to the threat.
“Just what?” He stepped closer.
Wes focused on the immaculately polished silver resting on the table beneath his fingers, desperate to block out the inevitable. Maybe if he pretended he was somewhere else, didn’t make eye contact, stayed as quiet as humanly possible… maybe they’d forget he was even there. Maybe tonight, he’d be safe. So many maybes.
And then his mother opened her stupid, untrustworthy mouth. Again.
“I was just making a joke, honey.” She smoothed the skirt of her dress against her legs, tried to smile, grimaced instead.
Such idiotic, careless words.
He’d been accused of being slow. Like a sloth, lazy and dawdling, but at moments like these, moments when his father had his meat hook in the air, shaking it at his frail, innocent mother, Wes surprised even himself. That he could get between that angry fist and her poor, shocked face in the hairsbreadth before the shadow fell against her skin was a miracle. A miracle for her, anyway. For him, not so much.
Trying so hard not to fall into his mother, attempting not to topple her to the ground, riding the force of his father’s assault to the ground, he fell, landed, and came to rest, motionless. Warmth spread across his face, followed quickly by the burning sting of pain.
“Impudent, worthless boy,” he heard moments before the size eleven dress shoe connected with his side.
That’s going to leave a mark, he thought idly before being sucked into a vortex of darkness.
A pair of blue-grey eyes following him into the shelter of oblivion.
^^
Blue eyes morphed into an entire face. Round cheeks, full lips, strong chin, ears that stuck out just a bit more than they should from the sides of his head. A nose, a nose in there somewhere. That voice, calling his name. Christening him with silly little endearments. Meaningless words that made his heart skip a beat.
Fleeting images passed behind his eyelids in quick succession. His mother’s concerned face, his father’s unrelenting, angry countenance. The cat he’d had for just a few weeks before his father had found out and taken her back to the pound. A myriad of kids he’d attended school with over the years. Invitations to parties he wasn’t allowed to attend. Travis.
Travis.
Why was he here, now? Was he hell bent on haunting his every thought? They barely knew one another, there wasn’t a single reason he should be here in Wes’ thoughts, not at a time like this.
He was kind to me. Sort of. In his own, deranged way.
A wave of nausea passed over Wes. Intense pain followed quickly on its heels, causing havoc within him. He wanted to curl into a ball, to craw away from the pain, the anger, all of it, but it hurt too much to move. He believed that if he would just stop breathing, stop fighting, stop caring, it’d end. All the agony, all the disappointment, all the hate.
Ride it out, it’ll pass. Just as soon as he gets bored with your limp body. He hates it when you don’t respond, when he can’t make you cry. He hates not being the center of attention every second of every minute of every hour of every day. More than anything, he hates it when no one’s afraid of him. When he’s unable to be the top dog, leader of the pack.
Another sharp pain echoed through his body. It hadn’t taken long for it to start again, this time. He should have known, should have been more aware. But he had been distracted. Preoccupied like a lovesick little girl, fawning over the class clown. He was so, so stupid to think…
He’s yelling at her now, he thought. Focusing on her and not me. Please don’t hurt her, please. Mother means well, Father. She…
Wes didn’t remember crying, or screaming. He couldn’t recall begging, either. He didn’t remember any of it, just the lingering pain that always followed his father’s perpetual rage.
Just ride it out, Wes…
The adventure continues here.
Pairing:Travis Marks/Wes Mitchell
Rating: PG at this point, maybe R later
Word Count: 2,261
Warnings: Navel-gazing, mildly graphic but upsetting violence towards one of our boys
Short Summary: New kid Wes Mitchell moves to LA from the East Coast unexpectedly. He hates being the new kid in school, making friends, fitting in, none of it has ever been all that easy for him. And then he meets Travis…
Structural Engineer (aka beta): skyesurfer12 – my pal and right hand and I FORGOT HER LAST CHAPTER. *headdesk* Anyway… moving on. Thank you for the nudges and the support and encouragement. As they say, I couldn’t have done it without you.
Author’s Notes: This chapter will probably make you all hate me. However, it gets worse. I’d apologize, but well, I have no shame… and lots and lots of issues. Besides, the boys have each other, right? Doesn’t love heal all wounds? *G*
Available at these fine retailers:
AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/778891
FF.net: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9247746/1/Angel-Boys
Story starts here.
Nobody Knows (http://youtu.be/sOVbgAQGhQQ )
Like a clown I put on a show,
the pain is real even if nobody knows
And I’m crying inside
And nobody knows it but me
Homework had never been much of a challenge for him. Some would say he was a nerd, but he just figured he paid better attention than the rest, thus making the completion of assignments that much easier in the end. But whatever the real reason was, tonight his brain wasn’t having any of this studying business. It had other, more important things in its queue.
With a sigh, he pulled his biology text back in front of him and forced himself to re-read the section on mitosis. On any other afternoon, he’d enjoy losing himself in the science of it, the illustrations, the technical terms, the learning and understanding as it all came clear. But not today because today had a pair of blue-grey eyes haunting his memory, disrupting his concentration, making rational thought damn near impossible.
Damn his brain anyway.
His previous therapist had warned him about bonding with the first friendly face he found, and he’d sworn to himself that he wasn’t going to do that again, not after what had happened to him the last time with… No. Enough. There was nothing to be gained by rehashing the loss of the one person he almost dared call a friend. Wes forced those thoughts from his mind, focusing twice as intently on the series of illustrations leading him through the various phases of cell division.
What his therapist hadn’t prepared him for, however, was being drawn in by the most arrogant, aggravating and annoying individual on the planet.
Huh. Alliteration, he thought with a quirk of the lips. And I’m not even studying English yet. Score yourself five bonus points for that one, Mitchell.
Fact was, despite having the most alluring blue eyes he’d ever seen, the brightest smile anywhere, and a laugh that rang out like church bells, Travis Marks was a jerk. A beautiful, enticing, jerk, but a jerk just the same. He wasn’t the kind of person Wes would seek out as a companion, ever, so why was he still on his mind?
Travis had Wes’ emotions in a knot. Wes wasn’t generally very emotional, he had learned long ago to contain all those unruly, unreasonable feelings and channel them into something more productive. More appropriate. Like his schoolwork or laundry. Which was why he was having such a hard time reconciling his love/hate relationship with one Mr. Marks.
Life Science in Your World! slipped from his desk and he let it fall, losing his place and scattering his notes across the carpet. It thumped heavily when it landed, the carpet muffling the sound. His frustration with himself could have burned a hole through the center of the enormous textbook. This sudden inability to concentrate was not acceptable. He had to force all inappropriate thoughts out of his head immediately and get back to studying. Pronto.
Instead of kicking the monstrous text across his room, as his first impulse demanded he do, he crossed his arms across the battered desk, dropping his head into the crook of a folded elbow. Desperation welled up within him, warring with the disgust his mind threw up in defense of his fragile, irrational emotions. It was always like this for him, however. That immediate urge to act and do, that was always smacked down and beat up by that bitch called reason.
Reason and that ultimate consequence of wait till your father gets home that his mother was so fond of throwing at him whenever he even so much as thought about acting out. It made him feel like a frightened child, but those six words tended to instill more than a little fear in his weakling heart. In his defense, he’d had to raid his mother’s makeup kit more than once to hide the errant bruises left after such threats had been carried out. On the bright side, he’d gotten rather good with a bottle of concealer and a triangular shaped sponge.
But that was neither here nor there, was it?
“Wesley!”
He angled his blonde head towards the sound of his mother’s voice and groaned. Mustn’t get caught woolgathering, he scolded himself sarcastically. Scrambling to grab his book and gather the scattered sheets of ruled notebook paper, she caught him on the floor, looking apologetic.
“Wesley, just what are you doing on the floor?” Her hands found a place on her rounded hips, that suspicious glare locked onto his guilty conscience.
“I – I knocked my notebook off the edge, Mother. Sorry. I’m cleaning it up now.” Please, please, please just let it go. Clumsy, clumsy idiot boy…
Her eyes narrowed, assessing him and the situation. “See that you do. Your father will be home soon and dinner is at six on the dot.”
The threat was left unspoken. The one that said, “And if you’re even a minute late, you’ll go without.” It wasn’t a threat he took lightly, either. He may be lanky, but he preferred eating to going hungry.
“Yes, ma’am.” He tried to look contrite. He was pretty certain he failed.
She watched him closely for another minute before backing out and closing the door behind her. With a whoosh of pent up breath, Wes gathered his fallen homework and settled it into some semblance of order. Lifting his book off the floor, he spied a piece of paper sticking out from between the pages near the back. Curious, he tugged at it.
Unsure of where it had come from – maybe it’d been in the book when he’d been given it today? – he unfolded it carefully and stared at the unfamiliar writing inside. His eyes widened in shock briefly, before narrowing in suspicion.
I see you there, buttercup, with your quiet self and those big, blue come love me eyes.
If you’re lucky, I just might.
If you’re lucky, I just might.
Well, hells bells, what was that supposed to mean? And where on earth had it come from? It seemed like it had to be directed at him, what with the reference to the blue eyes, but he was unsure. Curious, too.
With a second glance at the note, he figured he’d find out sooner or later. He stuffed it into the top drawer of his desk, the broken one only he knew how to finagle open, just in case. Couldn’t have anyone accidentally coming across something as incriminating at that. Either way, he figured it wouldn’t be long before he knew for sure.
Please let it be sooner, he begged. If I’m going to get my ass kicked again, I’d prefer to just get it over with.
^^^
Dinner was a solemn occasion in the Mitchell household, overseen by the reticent and just plain unfriendly Marlin ‘I have no middle name’ Mitchell. Wes had long ago learned to arrive three minutes early, set the silverware in its true and proper places, and then place himself in his seat, zipping his lips shut for the duration.
He’d just finished placing the last fork, making certain it was parallel to the edge of the plate and aligned perfectly with the base of the knife and spoon on the opposite side of the plate, when his father surged through the front door. He was late, which was a rarity. It also didn’t bode well for the meal that was about to follow. The obligatory evening repast was not going to be a pleasant experience tonight. Cringing inwardly, he hoped for the best and prepared for the worst.
Marlin Mitchell detested being late. He prided himself on running his business ventures – and by extension, his family – like a well-oiled machine. Each gear in place, every cog in working order. And there would be hell to pay for any person who dared interfere with his schedule. Tonight, it seemed, there was a lot of hell to be accounted for, if the look on his father’s face was any indication.
“Marilyn,” he bellowed, looking around for his errant wife.
Wes’ mother poked her perfectly coiffed blonde head out of the kitchen, smiling. “Well there you are, Marlin. I was beginning to worry. You really should call if you’re going to be late like this. You can’t keep your family waiting for dinner, dear. Wesley might faint away from hunger.”
He couldn’t keep himself from wincing at his mother’s words. She knew better and yet, she still insisted on chastising him. Often, he felt she had a death wish cleverly concealed within her motherly demeanor. Personally, Wes thought that simple insanity might be a more logical conclusion. It would certainly explain a few things.
The angry glare on Marlin Mitchell’s face morphed from mildy put out to full on rage in six-point-two seconds. “Marilyn? What have I told you about speaking to me this way?”
Marilyn’s pale features blanched even further as understanding dawned on her. It was never okay to joke with her husband, nor was it ever, ever appropriate to reprimand him. He’d reminded her in so many ways that he absolutely did not have a sense of humor, but she failed to believe him. How can you not have a sense of humor, everybody has a sense of humor, Marlin… Her heart was too big to believe that she’d married a pitiless man. He stepped towards her and she stepped back. Instinct kicking into overdrive.
“I’m so-sorry, Marlin. I was just…” She faltered, voice lost to the threat.
“Just what?” He stepped closer.
Wes focused on the immaculately polished silver resting on the table beneath his fingers, desperate to block out the inevitable. Maybe if he pretended he was somewhere else, didn’t make eye contact, stayed as quiet as humanly possible… maybe they’d forget he was even there. Maybe tonight, he’d be safe. So many maybes.
And then his mother opened her stupid, untrustworthy mouth. Again.
“I was just making a joke, honey.” She smoothed the skirt of her dress against her legs, tried to smile, grimaced instead.
Such idiotic, careless words.
He’d been accused of being slow. Like a sloth, lazy and dawdling, but at moments like these, moments when his father had his meat hook in the air, shaking it at his frail, innocent mother, Wes surprised even himself. That he could get between that angry fist and her poor, shocked face in the hairsbreadth before the shadow fell against her skin was a miracle. A miracle for her, anyway. For him, not so much.
Trying so hard not to fall into his mother, attempting not to topple her to the ground, riding the force of his father’s assault to the ground, he fell, landed, and came to rest, motionless. Warmth spread across his face, followed quickly by the burning sting of pain.
“Impudent, worthless boy,” he heard moments before the size eleven dress shoe connected with his side.
That’s going to leave a mark, he thought idly before being sucked into a vortex of darkness.
A pair of blue-grey eyes following him into the shelter of oblivion.
^^
Blue eyes morphed into an entire face. Round cheeks, full lips, strong chin, ears that stuck out just a bit more than they should from the sides of his head. A nose, a nose in there somewhere. That voice, calling his name. Christening him with silly little endearments. Meaningless words that made his heart skip a beat.
Fleeting images passed behind his eyelids in quick succession. His mother’s concerned face, his father’s unrelenting, angry countenance. The cat he’d had for just a few weeks before his father had found out and taken her back to the pound. A myriad of kids he’d attended school with over the years. Invitations to parties he wasn’t allowed to attend. Travis.
Travis.
Why was he here, now? Was he hell bent on haunting his every thought? They barely knew one another, there wasn’t a single reason he should be here in Wes’ thoughts, not at a time like this.
He was kind to me. Sort of. In his own, deranged way.
A wave of nausea passed over Wes. Intense pain followed quickly on its heels, causing havoc within him. He wanted to curl into a ball, to craw away from the pain, the anger, all of it, but it hurt too much to move. He believed that if he would just stop breathing, stop fighting, stop caring, it’d end. All the agony, all the disappointment, all the hate.
Ride it out, it’ll pass. Just as soon as he gets bored with your limp body. He hates it when you don’t respond, when he can’t make you cry. He hates not being the center of attention every second of every minute of every hour of every day. More than anything, he hates it when no one’s afraid of him. When he’s unable to be the top dog, leader of the pack.
Another sharp pain echoed through his body. It hadn’t taken long for it to start again, this time. He should have known, should have been more aware. But he had been distracted. Preoccupied like a lovesick little girl, fawning over the class clown. He was so, so stupid to think…
He’s yelling at her now, he thought. Focusing on her and not me. Please don’t hurt her, please. Mother means well, Father. She…
Wes didn’t remember crying, or screaming. He couldn’t recall begging, either. He didn’t remember any of it, just the lingering pain that always followed his father’s perpetual rage.
Just ride it out, Wes…
The adventure continues here.
