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cantteachanoldguardnewquotes · 3 years

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Trich

Special thanks and much love to my beta readers @energievie @thebiggestnaturaldisaster @god-of-narcissism @haniawritesthings they were a Delight to work with and my story was very much improved 💕💕💕💕💕

Read on ao3

Warnings: Trichotillomania, emotional hurt/comfort (please let me know if I should tag anything else)

It was still unbelievable. It had been four months and Andy still couldn't believe Quynh was back with her. Most of the time when she had to remind herself this was real, that she wasn't only dreaming, she would have to find Quynh and tell her again how much she loved her. This time, as she mulled over the miracle of Quynh's return in her mind, she only needed to whisper it in her ear.

"I love you." Andy murmured, stroking Quynh's hair.

Quynh was already half-asleep but she still smiled and managed to mumble it back.

Quynh was still getting used to the twenty-first century. She loved the modern conveniences and how simple many things had become, her favorites being a toss-up between showers and how easy it can be to make food, but everything was so new and different it was still a lot to process, still a lot she needed to catch up on. She would excuse herself from the group frequently, still feeling the need to rest a lot. This meant ample time for cuddles and Andy was not complaining.

Andy continued to stroke her hair as the two of them drifted off. She was surprised when her hand ran across a smooth patch on the back of her head. She ran her hand over it again, wondering what it could be. It was covered by the rest of her long hair. She tried to look but couldn't with how Quynh was laying on top of her. She shrugged it off, since it hadn't been bothering Quynh enough to mention it and quickly joined her love in slumber.

Quynh woke up early that morning to make coffee and brought it back to Andy. She sat quietly, waiting for Andy to open her eyes, letting the smell slowly wake her up. Of course if you asked Andy she would argue that with all the sugar and cream Quynh added it couldn't even be called coffee.

Andy looked up at her and smiled a half smile letting her eyes drift closed for a few more moments before she stretched and sat up. She took her cup, taking in a long slow breath to smell the wonderful aroma and then let it out in a contented sigh. "Did you sleep well?" It had become something of a habit to ask Quynh how she'd slept. Andy tried everyday to ease the pain in Quynh's heart, but she couldn't chase away all of her nightmares. It was her way of gauging what pace to set for the day.

Quynh took a sip of her coffee. "It was alright. I slept most of the night and this time it actually feels like I did." She gave Andy a soft smile.

Andy smiled back. "I'm glad to hear it." She then set her cup down. "Can I fix your hair for you?" She never tired of brushing and fixing Quynh's hair, but she was also thinking about the spot she'd found last night.

Quynh didn't need to be asked twice, nodding happily and moving to the edge of the bed so it would be easier to sit without putting her drink down.

Andy grabbed a brush and an elastic and started gently working the knots out.

"Will you tell me a story?" Quynh asked sweetly. She loved hearing about all the things Andy had done while she was gone and Andy had a way of making her feel almost as if she was there too.

"Anything in particular?"

"Something nice."

Andy racked her brain for something light and smiled when she thought of just the right story to tell.

"I was the first person to introduce Joe and Nicky to skydiving. It's an amazing rush and I've been hooked since the first time I did it, I'll have to take you one of these days. I did it often enough that I got some training and became certified to jump with someone strapped to me. Naturally, I picked Joe to go with me and Nicky was strapped to another dive instructor. They weren't really scared, I mean, with everything we've been through we've all jumped from things under worse circumstances but the first time is always intimidating. I told him I would jump on three and the noise that came out of his mouth when I jumped on one is going to be something I cherish forever. Thought he might kill me when we landed because I pretended the chute was broken and only pulled it at the last second. Told him to come up with a cover story while we plummeted for why we weren't dead and everything. I don't think he fully believed me but he was still mad." Andy was laughing too hard at the memory to keep fixing Quynh's hair and had to take several deep breaths before she could continue.

Quynh was laughing too, how could she not when Andy's was so contagious?

That was another thing that surprised Andy. Her laugh came so much easier now that Quynh was back. Sure, she had laughed and joked with the guys plenty of times but she felt so free now, so unburdened and her laughter showed it.

Andy began fixing her hair once more and rediscovered the spot, parting her hair to get a good look at it. She frowned, slightly when she saw that it was actually two spots, both about the size of a dime, though not perfectly round. "Does this hurt?" Andy asked, gently running her fingers over the spots.

Quynh seemed surprised. "No, I don't feel anything. Why?" She reached her own hand back to feel where Andy had touched.

"There's just some hair missing but it's small and if it doesn't hurt I'm sure it's nothing."

Quynh shrugged. "Yeah, it's probably nothing."

Andy finished braiding her hair, giving it a playful tug to signal she was done.

*****

A few days had passed and Andy was still thinking about the spots on Quynh's head. She didn't know how concerned she should be since Quynh didn't seem concerned herself and she didn't want to overreact to nothing, so she didn't bring it up again.

It was a quiet day around the house. Joe and Nicky had gone for a hike, Nile and Booker were checking out the farmers' market and she and Quynh were relaxing at the safehouse.

Quynh had the TV on, watching some murder mystery show. Andy had missed the whole beginning despite Quynh's attempts to wait for her, so instead she was working on fixing the wobbly side table.

At a particularly intense scene she looked over to see Quynh's reaction and noticed she was messing with her hair right where she had seen the bald spot. "Does it itch?"

"Hmm?" Quynh put her hand in her lap and looked at Andy, confusion written on her face. "Does what itch?"

"It looked like you were scratching the spot I found the other night." Andy gestured to her own hair as a reminder.

"Oh no, it doesn't itch."

Quynh got sucked back into her show and didn't say anything else about it, so Andy went back to fixing the table.

*****

The next time Andy noticed Quynh messing with her hair was when she took her to a very busy mall. Sometimes she still struggled with the hustle and bustle of twenty-first century life. Andy had made sure she actually wanted to come and wasn't just doing it for her sake and Quynh had insisted she would be alright.

Quynh was not alright, though, it was too loud, there were too many smells and too many people. She should have taken up Andy's other offer to go for a bike ride instead.

Andy was holding her hand, taking great care not to get separated and add more unnecessary stress on top of what her love was already experiencing. She knew Quynh was trying to put herself out there, being the fearless spirit that she was but Andy also knew it was overwhelming and she was still healing emotionally and mentally from being isolated for so long. Andy tried to get her to take things easy but Quynh refused. She wanted to feel like she fit into these times now, not in a few months or even worse, years. Andy both admired her for it and worried about her. Most days she wasn't sure which emotion was stronger. In the end, she always let Quynh set her own pace.

"We can leave anytime you want." Andy reassured her, pulling her in close and linking their arms together, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Quynh smiled gratefully but ultimately shook her head. "I want to try that ice cream you've been talking about."

Andy chuckled at her undying love of sweets. "Alright, it's right this way."

Andy noticed when Quynh was trying to pick a flavor that her hand went to the back of her head again. She found herself wondering why that spot in particular if it didn't hurt or itch? She made a mental note to check on it again.

They enjoyed their ice cream and bought some new clothes, then went back to the safehouse. Booker and Nile had dinner ready for everyone and they all had a good time catching up on everyone's day.

When they retired to their room after helping with dishes, Andy asked. "Can I braid your hair before bed?"

Quynh looked about ready to fall asleep as soon as where head hit the pillow but it had been a while since Andy had done her hair and after such a long day it was an offer she couldn't refuse. She hummed her agreement and they both sat cross-legged on the bed.

Andy carefully brushed her hair but before she began braiding it she checked the spots again. To her dismay they were bigger and there were a few more spots near them. She looked more closely and could see that some of the hair was starting to grow back but it was so short you couldn't even grasp it yet.

Quynh was too tired to notice Andy had stopped, so she finished braiding her hair, wondering the whole time what was going on. She knew Quynh was still healing, she had watched a paper cut heal just this afternoon.

After Quynh had fallen asleep, her head resting comfortably on Andy's shoulder and one of her legs thrown over her, Andy decided to see if the Internet had any suggestions for the hair loss. She hated using her phone for anything other than talking into it but it was a practical way of getting information.

She saw plenty of reasons why someone could be losing their hair and it was a little tricky factoring in their healing abilities. Trichotillomania kept coming up and it seemed to fit. Usually caused by stress, PTSD or anxiety. Andy knew just how much Quynh was suffering from all three of those despite trying to hide it. She decided she would keep a closer eye on her to see if she could tell whether or not Quynh was doing this to herself.

*****

A few days after that night Quynh wanted to go with Nile and help with the grocery shopping.

Andy double-checked that Quynh was sure about going out again but she insisted it would be fun, even telling Andy she could stay home and relax if she wanted.

Of course, that was the last thing Andy wanted to do.

Driving there Andy watched Quynh out of the corner of her eye and noticed her hand going back to that spot. Andy felt her heart break a little when she saw that Quynh had plucked a piece of hair from her head. In that moment she desperately wished she could take all of her troubles away with just the sweep of her hand or a gentle word but healing always takes time. Andy decided to simply place her hand on Quynh's knee and give it a gentle squeeze. She smiled when Quynh used both of her hands to cover Andy's.

*****

Andy continued watching Quynh. She was waiting for the right moment to sit down and talk to her about what she thought was going on but she was also trying to figure out if there were specific times Quynh was pulling so that she could find a kind way to distract her. She was worried it would only stress Quynh out more if she talked about it.

"Can I fix your hair before bed?" Andy asked one night. She felt like they could both use a little help with unwinding.

"That's ok, I can do it." Quynh answered.

Andy nearly got whiplash from turning to look at Quynh so fast. "What?"

Quynh shrugged like it was nothing. "I can do it."

Andy just stared at her. Of course there were plenty of nights when Quynh would braid her own hair, even a handful of nights when Quynh had told her no, for one reason or another but Andy instantly knew this was different.

Still it had been a long day, so she kept her voice light and teasing as she said. "I know you can do it but don't you want me to?"

"Tonight I'll do it."

Andy didn't miss the guilty look that passed over Quynh's face, and Quynh knew it. She looked anywhere but in Andy's eyes and quickly started braiding her own hair.

Andy walked over to her, gently covering Quynh's hands with her own to still them. "Quynh, what's going on?" She asked softly.

Quynh still wouldn't meet her eyes, instead looking down at the carpet. "Nothi... Wha-?" She tried to say Nothing, silly, to ask her Whatever do you mean? But she couldn't lie to Andy, she wouldn't, but she also didn't have the heart to tell Andy what was going on, she didn't want her to worry. Instead she squeezed her eyes shut and just stood there.

Andy tugged lightly on her hand, leading her to their bed and Quynh followed, she would always follow Andy.

"Hey, hey it's alright, Quynh. You can relax, I've got you." Andy murmured as they sat down and Andy gathered her into her arms, laying Quynh's head over her heart, kissing the top of her head and then resting her cheek on it.

"Please, Quynh. Please talk to me." Andy pleaded as the silence stretched between them. She couldn't stand the thought of Quynh feeling like she couldn't talk to her, like she needed to hide anything from her.

Quynh couldn't refuse, not when Andy held her like she was scared of losing her again. "I..." She trailed off with a shuddering breath and then started again. "I don't want you to see how much hair I've lost. Because... It's me. I'm the one causing it. I... I keep pulling out my own hair and I don't know why and I don't know why I can't stop."

Andy felt Quynh's tear land on her arm and realized she had waited too long before talking about this. She hadn't thought Quynh would feel the need to hide this and carry it on her own. "Oh my heart, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, I should have talked to you earlier about this. I think you have something called Trichotillomania and it's when people pull their hair because of stress and anxiety. It's compulsive, you'll hardly realize you're doing it, but a lot of people have it, you're not the first."

"There are other people who do this? So many it has a name?"

"Yes and considering everything you've been through..." Andy's arms tightened protectively around her. "Well, I count myself the luckiest person alive just for having you back with me."

Quynh pondered her words and when she spoke it was barely a whisper. "But what if I pull it all out? I know how much you love my long hair, how much you enjoy braiding it."

Now it was Andy who had to squeeze her eyes shut to keep the tears at bay so they could keep talking. "Oh, Quynh, I hope you know that nothing will ever stop me from loving you and wanting to take care of you."

"I know, Andy, I do."

Andy believed what she said, but she had to make sure there wasn't a shred of doubt in Quynh's mind. She tilted Quynh's head back and kissed her soft lips, tasting the salty tears. She kissed her long and slow and Quynh kissed her right back.

"I love you, Quynh. You could have no hair, no limbs, your face scarred beyond recognition and I would still love you because those things don't define you, those are not what I fell in love with a millennia ago."

Andy saw her eyes relax some but not completely, so she kept talking. "I fell in love with your brave spirit that never puts up with cruelty, I fell in love with the way you laugh at every bad joke you've ever heard, I fell in love with the way you fight for what you believe in. Everything that makes you you, Quynh, that's what I'm in love with."

Now Quynh was crying even harder. She wrapped her arms around Andy's neck and sobbed into her shoulder.

Andy held her tight, slowly rubbing Quynh's back just the way she liked and she cried too.

They stayed like that for a long time, until both of them felt like they had cried out every tear they had.

"Hey, how about I get us some water? Are you as parched as I am?" Andy asked, placing a kiss to Quynh's neck.

Quynh nodded her head and squeezed Andy's hand, returning a kiss to Andy's temple.

She came back with two cups of water and they both drank them down quickly. "More?" She asked, taking the cup from Quynh.

Quynh shook her head. "No, thank you."

Andy put the cups on the floor and crawled back in bed, gathering Quynh close to her once more. They were both completely exhausted.

"I love you." Quynh whispered.

Andy nuzzled her neck. "I love you too."

*****

Quynh was up before Andy and went to make coffee and start the day.

Andy was awake when she came back into their room. "How are you feeling?"

Quynh shrugged. "Tired. Worn out." She handed Andy her coffee.

"You could have stayed in bed with me." Andy tugged playfully on her pajama shirt.

"I like bringing you coffee in bed, it makes your eyes light up."

"Oh, it's not the coffee that makes my eyes light up." Andy leaned forward and gave Quynh a kiss.

They fell silent drinking their coffee and staring out the window at nothing in particular.

Quynh cleared her throat, breaking the silence. "I got up early to look into Trichotillomania." She said it quietly, as if she almost sounded guilty about it.

Andy's eyes softened. She moved so they were sitting side by side and took her hand. "You are not alone in this, my heart. Please don't forget that."

Quynh laid her head on Andy's shoulder and stroked the back of her hand with her thumb. "I know, I know you're here for me. I just wanted to look for myself while the house was still quiet and everyone was asleep."

"And?" Andy felt like she wanted to continue.

"While I'm getting used to everything." She vaguely gestured." To being back, to adjusting to the twenty first century, I... I think I would like to shave my head. I can't stand the thought of pulling it all out, and even if I start to pull from somewhere else it should be better than this." She paused, tracing the rim of her mug with her thumb. "Then when I'm more adjusted to this new world I can try growing it out and work on getting help." She held her breath, waiting to see what Andy would say.

Andy kissed her forehead. "I have clippers with me, whenever you're ready. May I do the honors?"

Quynh let out the air she'd been holding. "Thank you, my love. Thank you for understanding, of course I'll let you do it."

"There's nothing to understand. I've been wondering what you would look like with a new do anyway. I think it will look incredibly chic and sexy."

Quynh actually laughed at the way Andy wiggled her eyebrows when she said that and it warmed Andy's heart so much she thought she might burst.

"I'm ready now, let's do it this morning." Quynh said with confidence.

Andy jumped up and grabbed the clippers from the drawer she kept them in. "How short do you want to go? Do you want to see skin? No skin?"

Quynh cocked her head to the side. "You pick, just make it short."

Andy placed a hand dramatically to her heart. "Your trust in me is touching."

Quynh grinned. "Drama queen."

They headed out to the kitchen and Andy began to set up just as Nile and Joe emerged from their rooms looking barely awake. Nicky was already in the kitchen making omelets for everyone.

"What's going on?" Nile asked, looking skeptically between the two of them.

"Quynh's getting a haircut." Andy flicked the clippers on and off once for emphasis.

"She's letting you do it?" Nile asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Hey, I can cut hair."

"Hmm, I'll have to see it to believe it."

"She's cut all of our hair before but she's not allowed to touch Joe's anymore." Nicky chimed in.

"Why can't she cut Joe's?" Quynh asked.

"She gave him a terrible mohawk and then hid the clippers so we had to wait days before we could fix it." Nicky explained. "I haven't let her touch his curls since."

Andy threw her head back and laughed. "He deserved it."

"I did not!" Joe interjected.

"He ate my baklava and didn't even buy me more." Andy explained.

"It wasn't me, that was Booker!"

"Booker didn't do it. I knew instantly you were lying."

Joe grumbled something about her having no proof.

Nile looked around. "Is he still in bed?"

"Most likely, I think he stayed up late watching movies." Nicky said.

"Sorry, my heart, for the delay, I'm ready now." Andy patted the chair and Quynh sat down.

"Hmm, I don't know, I think they've changed my mind about letting you do it." Quynh teased.

"Turning my own wife against me." Andy shook her head.

Nile rolled her eyes. "As if."

Quynh only laughed.

Andy studied her assortment of clips before selecting the number two. "It's gonna be short." She warned Quynh.

"I'm ready."

"A buzz? Oooh, that's exciting, Quynh!" Nile moved chairs so she could easily watch Andy work.

Andy turned the clippers on, took a breath and made the first cut. She worked the clippers around Quynh's head and made sure it was perfectly even before turning them off and admiring her handy work.

"I love it." Andy said, running her hand over the top of Quynh's head feeling how different it was compared to what she was used to. She had to resist the urge to kiss it until after Quynh could wash it and make sure all the little hairs were gone.

Quynh ran her hands over it. "It feels so weird."

"Good weird or bad weird?" Andy asked.

"It's good." Quynh reassured her.

"Wow, Quynh, you pull it off so well! It makes you look very elegant." Nile said.

Joe and Nicky chimed in with their love for the new look.

"I'm gonna go look at it." Quynh said.

"Wait." Andy said, causing her to pause. "You said you trust me?"

Quynh eyed her, trying to figure out what she had up her sleeve but answered immediately. "Yes."

"I'm gonna add something, alright? A finishing touch I think you'll like."

Quynh nodded and settled back in the chair.

Andy picked up the trimmers and got to work.

Nile came up behind her to watch what she was making. "Aww." She exclaimed once she realized what Andy was doing.

Quynh smiled but didn't say anything, waiting patiently.

"Done. This time for real. Go look, my love." Andy kissed Quynh's cheek.

Quynh ran to the mirror to see and was surprised by how much she liked the shaved look. Then she turned her head so she could see what Andy did to the side and saw she had shaved a heart just above her ear.

She ran back out to the kitchen, flinging her arms around Andy to give her a crushing and urgent kiss.

Quynh knew she had a lot of healing left to do, that none of it would be easy but if her heart remained by her side, she knew they could face anything.

#The Old Guard #trichotillomania #trich #Andy #Quynh #immortal wives #soft #fic #Twi writes sometimes #hurt/comfort #healing is a process

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gemsofthegalaxy · 3 years

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okay ive had what i would consider a fairly minor case of trichotillomania (like self dx but i mean. i compulsively pull the hair that grows at my chin and neck until the point it hurts my finger nails and then i will search for tweezers until i find them, it takes a lot to force myself to stop) but the past couple days ive been pulling hair from my eyebrows and then the sort of side of my face and :( please god i dont want this to............ spread........? to other areas it's annoying enough that i MUST pull hair from my chin

this is like the first time ive ever really posted about this, and i dont like every talk about it but. also.

im still a little irked one time I DID offhandedly say, in response to a person talking about their friend, "oh its not THAT bad but i have a hair pulling habit idk if i'd be considered trich" and one of my sort-of friends was like "UM yeah i dont know the person im talking about has bald spot and it severely interferes with her life its like actually a serious thing" and im like okay,,,,,,, true,,,,,,,,, but i also, again, feel fully compelled to pull hair from my body and at times i Cannot Stop that's like. the definition.

also? that person would necessarily know it even if i did have a serious problem bc there are unnoticeable parts of the body you can pull hair from yknow.

#trichotillomania #personal #mental health #i guess #also im reading the symptoms list and the playing with the hair by rolling it across ur face......... didnt realize that was uh part of it

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terresdebrumestories · 4 years

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WIP: trilingual soldiers

This started out as part of my answer to a prompt from lulunicorn on the TOG server and grew into its own thing. I'm experimenting with a different form of planning with this one: I'm writing the dialogues alone for now and when I rewrite it I'll add the narration.

And translate everything into English.

Anyway, if you're into French / English / German messes set during ww1, please read on ;)

(TW: suicide gets referrenced in a fairly flippant manner.)

"Oh putain—t'as trouvé ça où ?"

"Bet he stole it from the Lieutenant."

"Hein? Ça va pas la tête ? Si jamais Lebrun l'apprend il va devenir fou!"

"You might get shot."

"Eh bah au moins j'aurai les pieds secs pour une fois, ça me changera."

"That's not funny."

"Ouais, y a déjà assez d'Fritz qui veulent nous faire la peau, file leur pas un coup de main hein!"

"Vous voulez du chocolat oui ou merde?"

"I can want chocolate and want you alive."

"Non, dans la vie faut faire des choix."

"Bon ben donne ton chocolat, alors."

"Merci. Enfin un peu d'bon sens. Joe? Chocolat ?"

"You're an ass. And a thief."

"I can steal or I can drink. Your pick." [Miming]

"Moi je vote pour que tu restes sobre, vu qu't'es l'seul qui sache viser."

"Ta gueule, Jean-Claude."

"Fuck you too, rosbeef!"

"Ah, see, you got the accent right in the end."

"Y dit quoi?"

"Y dit qu't'as une sale gueule. Aïe! Put—"

"COCOTTE !"

Joe and Sébastien move to shield Jean-Claude at the same time, which results in them nearly breaking their noses against one another—and for nothing to boot, seeing as nothing explodes in the vicinity. Rubbing his nose, Sébastien shares a look with Joe and turns toward the East side of their trench to try and see what's happening... which is when Jean-Claude, somehow extirpated from below two sheepish immortals, pokes his head over Sébastien's helmet and hisses.

"Y fout quoi Berger là ? Il est con ou quoi ?"

"Il en a p't'être marre? Ça sera pas l'premier."

"What?"

"I said maybe Berger's trying to end it."

"With no one shooting?"

"Y dit quoi?"

"Y dit qu'le suicide de berger va pas aller loin si les Fritz se décident pas à tirer."

"Tu dis ça comme si c'était dommage!"

"Mais non laisse le, c'est moi qui traduit mal."

"Why's Jean-Claude pissed at me?"

"Y dit quoi ?"

"Because he thinks I'm doing word for word translations."

"Oh, Bouquin ! Y dit quoi?"

"Attends deux minutes—il en est où Berger ?"

"Il est au milieu du champ! Le con!"

"What's he saying?"

"He says Berger's a dumbass. I think we can look, they're still not shooting."

"T'as dit quoi?"

They poke their noses over the edge of the trench, like the dirtiest mushrooms ever created, and watch as Berger from around the bend walks through no man's land with what looks like a ball held high above his head. Then he shouts:

"Comment on demande si ils veulent faire un match ?"

"Wollen sie spielen!"

"Y dit quoi?"

"Je sais pas, je parle anglais, pas allemand. What did you say?"

"I said 'do you want to play?'"

"Il a demandé si les Fritz voulaient jouer."

"Ah ouais. Logique."

"Ils disent 'bla bla bla hören'!"

"They're not hearing him."

"Ils t'entendent pas Berger, gueule plus fort!"

"T'es tout con toi, je gueule autant qu'je peux!"

"What did he say?"

"He says he can't shout louder."

"He needs to tell them to send someone over."

"Y dit quoi?"

"Y dit qu'il faut que Berger leur dise d'envoyer un gars. Berger! Dit leur d'envoyer quelqu'un pour te parler !"

"Mais je parle pas allemand moi! T'as qu'à envoyer ton rosbeef c'est lui qui sait leur causer !"

"He's saying I've got to go there isn't he?"

"Yeah you're not going up there—y peut pas sortir Berger!"

"Y fait quoi?"

"Putain Joe! I said stay down there!"

"They're not shooting, I'll be fine."

"Y dit quoi?"

"Y dit qu'il est con, Joe reviens ici !"

Joe goes over the side of the trench. Nobody shoots, but from the English trench to the West, several voices rise in clamor.

"Ah bah y sont contents de l'revoir les rosbeefs. J'espère que les Fritz vont pas lui éclater la caboche maintenant, ça serait con."

"Y vont pas lui mettre une balle, ils sont en train de lui parler !"

"Pas faux. C'est à moi qu'y fait signe ?"

"Non, à moi. Son copain là bas doit pas parler français."

"Tu vas y aller ?"

"Si j'y vais pas on est encore là demain."

"Sebastian! Come on up here! We're trying to organize a tournament!"

"Y dit quoi ?"

"Y dit qu'ils veulent faire un tournoi."

"Un tournoi de foot? La comme ça ?"

"Faut croire que les Fritz aussi ils font la trêve."

Sébastien goes over the wall. The other three are done gesticulating when he gets to them, looking at him expectantly.

"Gentlemen, this is Sebastian."

"Sébastien."

"Schon Sie zu treffen, Sébastienne."

"Ta gueule, Berger."

"Oh allez, soit pas chienne. Aïe!"

"What's the problem?"

"His accent makes it sound like he's using the woman's version of my name."

"Was sagt er?"

"Er sagt, dein Akzent ist sehr gut. Ow."

"So what do you want to do for the tournament?"

"Use your head as a ball."

"Had a good time over with the froggies, didn't you Joe?"

"They're decent, but their rations are as gross as ours."

"Qu'est-ce-qu'ils disent?"

"Was sagen sie?"

"Joe. The tournament thing?"

"Right. Daniel and I were thinking two teams each, draw for the first matches, see who wins?"

"Ils veulent qu'on fasse deux équipes chacuns et qu'on tire au sort pour les premiers matchs."

"Ça me va. Pas d'armes à portée de main, on garde les casques pour marquer les joueurs ?"

"He says no weapons out, and the helmets mark the teams."

Joe translates into German.

"Gut."

"Bouquin! Y disent quoi?"

"I'm gonna have to go back, Jean-Claude's not gonna stop asking. On fait une équipe tranchée Nord, une pour la tranchée Sud ?"

"Pas de problème. Tu dis pas au revoir à ton rosbeef?"

"Oh...right. Gotta go back to your own trench."

"Yeah... I mean, I'll be back topside in a few but uh. At the end of it I'll have to get back to my side."

"Right. Yes. Makes sense."

"See you when I kick your ass, Bookin."

"Ta gueule, Joe."

They make their way back to their respective trenches, where Jean-Claude is waiting for news and proves eager to play the game, if customarily overenthusiastic about it. They set up the teams, get the captains up in the field where non players have started to sit and mingle.

Then Sébastien gets called over again.

"Wir haben ein Problem. Wir haben keinen Schiedsrichter."

"Qu'est-ce-qu'il dit?"

"Il dit qu'on a pas d'arbitre."

"Tu parles allemand toi maintenant ?"

"Non, j'ai des yeux."

"Warum kämpfen sie?"

"Sie sind Französisch. So zeigen sie ihre Zuneigung."

"Why are the French fighting?"

"I don't know, I think it's a French thing."

"Berger thinks I'm an idiot. I can referee if you want."

"Qu'est-ce que tu leurs a dit sur moi?"

"J'ai dit qu't'étais con. Si j'arbitre, ça te va ?"

"Tant qu'on laisse pas compter les points aux Fritz."

"Haben Sie einen Soldaten namens Fritz?"

"Attend—what does he want?"

"He wants to know if you've got someone named Fritz."

"No. Listen, Berger says it's okay with him if I Referee for the match."

"I'll be honest with you mister Bookin, that might not fly with my men."

"Was sagt er?"

"Sébastienne—ow—er sagte er könne vermitteln."

"Es ist ok für mich, aber die Anderen..."

"He doesn't want me to do it either does he?"

"It's not him, it's his men. He thinks they won't want it."

"Now wait a minute—"

"Qu'est-qu'ils disent ?"

"Ben... What's his name?"

"Willhelm."

"Thanks. Daniel a dit que ses hommes voudraient pas d'un arbitre français, ensuite Wilhelm a dit que des hommes voudraient pas d'un arbitre français alors maintenant Daniel est vexé et il veut bien d'un arbitre français. You *are* okay with me referring, right? Offended as you are."

"He's got a point, you know."

"...fine. But only if someone from our side shares the duty with him."

"Fine, I'll do it."

"He's your friend. You might want to help him."

"And the rest of your men gave Joe a huzzah when they saw him. If they don't trust him they won't trust anyone else."

"Fair point."

"Qu'est-ce-qu'ils disent ?"

"Joe et moi on va co-arbitrer."

"C'est qui Joe?"

"Is he asking who I am?"

"Ignore him, he's an ass."

"Wait, you've been there two weeks and they still don't know your name?"

"That's irrelevant—it *is* irrelevant, hush. Now—wir brauchen eine deutsche Schiedsrichter."

"War—oh. Ja, genau. Schneider! Komm her. Schneider wird den dritten Schiedsrichter sein."

"Good. Joe, if you see them cheat, just do the same, I'll personally forgive you for it."

"Don't worry, we'll have a watcher. Jean-Claude! Viens ici."

Berger groans. Jean-Claude's head pokes over the lip of the trench, pretty much alone by then.

"Vous êtes sur le territoire de qui?"

"De personne, c'est la trêve. Viens ici!"

"Warum kommt das Kind zu uns?"

"Er ist ein Verfechter der Regeln."

"What did you say? Why are they calling a baby frog over?"

"Because no one can cheat when he's around—we banned him from all card games. Bouge tes fesses, Jean-Claude, y caille trop pour traîner."

"I'll vouch for the kid mate, he'll call any foul out as he sees it."

"Vertraust du ihm?"

"Ja klar."

"Y disent quoi?"

"Y disent que t'es un bon gamin. On a besoin de toi pour surveiller les arbitres, vérifier qu'on triche pas."

"Tu vas pas tricher pour notre tranchée, tu les aime pas."

"Ta gueule, Balland."

"Fous lui la paix, Berger, c'est pas comme si il avait tort. Tu veux surveiller ou pas ?"

"Ils vont s'énerver si je surveille ?"

"What are they saying?"

"Was sagt er?"

"He wants to know if the referees will get pissy if he calls them out. Les arbitres ça sera Joe et moi—et Schneider. Si il s'énerve on peut toujours lui mettre une balle."

"Ben voyons, et tu redémarre le merdier pour tout le monde?"

"Ta gueule, Berger."

"Schneider says he'll behave."

"Great. If he doesn't we'll just kill him."

"Tu dis quoi?"

"Juste qu'on va pouvoir commencer. Va voir Lepage et demande lui s'il a toujours son sifflet pour arbitrer."

"Ce gosse. Je sais pas qui l'a foutu là mais si je le croise, je lui fait manger mon casque."

"Am I going to have to agree with Berger?"

"He says whoever got Jean-Claude here should get his face caved in."

"Damn it."

"Don't make me pick sides between the French, Joe."

"Go get your team, Daniel."

"Bon, je vais appeler les gars hein. Qu'ils soient là pour le tirage."

"Tu fais ça." [pause] "I want to take Jean-Claude along, when we leave."

"Sebastian..."

"He's never going to survive this thing. You know he's not."

"I know! And I don't want that for him, but 'Bastian...you have to remember how it went—"

"Yes, of course I do. I don't want to *tell him* I want to take him away from here."

"If he's caught as a deserter it'll be the firing squad for him."

"If we take him far enough away...."

"Sebastian. He's already got trouble adapting to French people in the *army*. What do you think is going to happen if you drop him on a whole different continent altogether? Just because he's got no family doesn't mean he's got no roots there."

"It's not going to be quick, Joe. They keep saying it's going to be over soon but they always say that and it's *never* true."

"I..."

"Ich könnte den Jungen nehmen. Wenn das Waffenstillstand endet. Ich könnte ihn nehmen. Wenn ich sage dass ich ihn gefangen habe..."

"What does he want?"

"He says he could take Jean-Claude. Pretend he's a war prisoner."

"Jean-Claude? Lying?"

"Es würde nicht funktionieren. Er lügt nicht."

"Aber..."

"Er lügt nicht."

"Gottverdammt."

"Ouais."

"Bouquin ! J'ai un sifflet! Je le donne à qui?"

"À moi, on va voir si les autres en ont avant de refiler les affaires de Lepage à n'importe qui." "D'accord. Ça va?"

"Ouais ça va."

"Ça a pas l'air d'aller."

"C'est la guerre, Jean-Claude. Personne a l'air d'aller."

"Oh."

"Hey, Jean-Claude. This is Schneider. Schneider, Jean-Claude."

"Y dit quoi?"

"Y dit que l'allemand s'appelle Schneider."

"Oh. Enchanté. Euh. Comment on dit—"

"'Schön Sie zu treffen'."

"Schön Sie zu treffen, Schneider."

"Sag 'enchanté Jean-Claude'."

"Enchanté, Jean-Claude."

"Oh. Il a l'air sympa."

"Jean-Claude magst du."

"Y dit quoi?"

"Y dit qu'tu trouves Schneider sympa. Trouve toi un coin ou t'asseoir, on va démarrer."

After the match.

"I got word from Andy, while I was with you."

"Hé, Bouquin, ton rosbeef y veut—"

"Il boit pas d'alcool."

"Ah merde. Problème ?"

"Non, religion. Y a du café ?"

"Ouais attends, j'vais en chercher."

"Merci. What did she say?"

"Might be time to regroup. Nico's—"

"Yeah, I can't leave Jean-Claude in this mess."

"I had a feeling you'd say that."

"You're going to go anyway, aren't you?"

"Nico needs me."

"Yeah. Of course."

"Will you be—"

"I'm always alright. How are you going to do it?"

"I figured I'd wait until it occurred naturally."

"Or you could—merci Jean-Claude."

"Vous parlez de quoi?"

"Joe va devoir repartir dans sa tranchée à la fin de la trêve. On cause tant qu'on en a le temps."

"Oh. Je peux causer avec vous ? Je l'aime bien, ton rosbeef."

"He wants to know if he can sit with us."

"...if you're okay with a change in topic."

"Vous voulez pas que j'reste?"

"Si, vas-y, assied toi."

"Vous avez pas l'air de vouloir que je reste."

"Que tu restes ou pas, on peut pas se dire tout ce qu'on a à se dire de toute façon. Et pis y t'aime bien aussi, Joe."

"What did you just say to him?"

"Just that we didn't have time to finish our talk right now, wh—ça va, Jean-Claude?"

"C'est ton ami particulier ?"

"Sebastian?"

"Yeah uh—not right now. Un ami particulier?"

"Comme mon oncle. Il est parti au Maroc en 1907 avec l'armée et il s'est fait un ami particulier. Quand il est mort, Paul—c'est son ami—nous a ramené ses affaires et ensuite il est resté habiter chez nous. Il arrêtait pas de parler de mon oncle avec ma mère, elle faisait les mêmes têtes quand elle parlait de mon père."

"Can I—"

"Wait, please."

"Je sais que j'suis pas comme tout le monde, mais j'suis pas con, hein. Le rosbif, c'est ton ami particulier ?"

"Non. On s'est connus avant la guerre. Lui et moi c'est de la famille. C'est comme si je disais au revoir à mon frère, tu comprends ?"

"Ouais. Tu m'le dirais, si c'était un ami particulier ?"

"Tu sais pas mentir, Jean-Claude. C'est dangereux, pour les hommes comme ça, si on apprend leur secret."

"Why is Jean-Claude upset?"

"I think he thinks I'm lying to him."

"Tu sais, quand Paul était vivant, j'ai dit à personne que c'était l'ami de mon oncle. Je sais pas mentir quand on me pose une question, mais on m'en pose jamais, des questions."

"Sebastian what's going on?"

"We're having a bit of a crisis here—"

"Yes, I can see that thank you—what is the crisis *about*?"

"He thinks you and I are an item and I don't want to tell him because I don't trust him."

"Crap."

"Yeah."

"C'est pas grave, Le Livre, j'ai l'habitude."

"Jean-Claude, attend—"

"Jean-Claude, come back."

"Y dit quoi?"

"Il te demande de revenir. S'il-te-plaît."

"Bookin and I aren't together. I already have someone."

"Y dit quoi?"

"Are you sure?"

"It's not like anyone from your trench is going to ask him about me outside of my relationship to you.”

“Bouquin. Y dit quoi?”

“Y dit qu’il a déjà quelqu’un.”

#The Old Guard #WIP: Trilingual Soldiers #Sebastien Le Livre #Yusuf Al Kaysani

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snarkwriteswrasslin · 4 years

Text

what ifs; adam page [one]

Notes:

This is my rewrite / alternate version of my fic Wild Side. Yeah, I’m gonna post and continue both on this blog. If I can just get myself unstuck / out of the hole I wrote myself into with Wild Side, that’d be fuckin gr9.. But for now, it’s time to put everything I have so far for What If’s on this blog, I think. Ya’ll.. I swear I plan to update this soon. I have plans. I just.. have to make my brain form the words/sentences.

Summary:

Adam and Ivy went from childhood best friends, to a couple and then they were torn apart by life and it’s pesky obstacles. Those pesky obstacles have thrown them back together now, when it seems they need each other -and most importantly, their closure, the most. Will they rekindle their flame or will everything fizzle out and die before it’s given a proper chance to grow? And just how are they going to handle all the things currently going on in each other’s lives?

Warnings:

alcohol tw, mentions of stripping / exotic dance culture, angst... heavy angst to start with. slow burn. awkward situations and occasional flashbacks / memories. fluff eventually. not as of yet, but I promise you, we will get there.

Pairing:

Adam Hangman Page x OFC, Ivy Barlow.

Header made by me. Images from Google. Don’t steal it if you didn’t make it/write it.

“Ivy Barlow?” the words of the cardiologist echoed through a mostly silent waiting room as the cardiologist looked around, trying to locate the daughter of his patient.

Ivy’s head snapped up and she rubbed her eyes. The older man walked over and sat down and Ivy swallowed hard. Before he could even get anything out, Ivy felt her eyes starting to sting with unshed tears.

From beside her, her sister Constance was starting to sniffle, shushing her two children so that she and Ivy could hear what the doctor was about to say, both of them holding hands and sharing a scared look. Ivy was the one who asked first.

“Dad… He’s.. He’s okay, right?”

“Your father’s had a heart attack.”

“No.” Constance was about to lose it and start sobbing. Ivy looped her arm around her sister’s shoulder and pulled her against her side and wiped at her eyes, addressing the doctor again. “Is he okay? What’s… Is there anything you can do?”

“We’re preparing to do a stent as we speak, Ms. Barlow. The procedure might take a few hours, but after the fact, we’ll let you both know how it went.”

“A stent… That’s… That’s good, right? It has a fairly good chance of working?” Ivy questioned, starting to feel a little numb from the shock of it all. Not even 24 hours ago, her father had been fine, they’d been face - timing and she’d been laughing at him as he bitched about one of the cows from the Henderson farm up the road getting in with his herd and the chaos that ensued. She’d been offhandedly making plans to return to West Virginia to visit as soon as she got a break from work and wedding planning.

Just the thought of Ty and their argument before she broke it off and left had her annoyed all over again. And twice as sure that she’d made the right choice, the best choice.

Her family came first. If Ty didn’t understand that by now, Ty wasn’t ever going to understand it. His reaction to her postponing the wedding to return to West Virginia to care for her father and help him on the farm clearly showed her just how wrong she’d been about the man she’d been about to settle for.

Because she made no mistake about it. She’d had about 9 hours to stew on the whole thing and Ty was simply someone she settled for.

The cardiologist explained the procedure to her and her sister Constance and after he walked away, Constance took a shaky breath, glancing at Ivy. “Dad’s gonna be fine. It’s the farm I’m worried about, sis.”

“The farm?”

“Yeah, you know last year was rough… With those 3 cows getting trich right before time for market and then the tractor going tits up. Dad… He had to take out a few loans. Then he started getting sick.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Ivy asked as she met her sister’s gaze, taking a deep breath and digesting what her sister was telling her.

“Because.” Constance air quoted, “You were out there in Florida doin’ things with your life like you always planned. He didn’t want to disrupt that. Guess he felt like losin’ Mom was bad enough and he didn’t wanna make you feel like you had to come back here. We all know you were hell bent on leavin’ anyway, even before Mom uprooted me n’ you n’ Carly back then.”

Ivy’s mouth opened and closed and she gaped at her sister. Finally, she managed to get out the truth. “I never wanted to leave, actually. I just adjusted to what Mom put us through because she made it seem like that was the only option we had to ‘really live life’. It was not something I would’ve chosen, otherwise.”

“I… I didn’t know.” Constance muttered after a few seconds as she squeezed her younger sister’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

Ivy shrugged and brown eyes darted around the waiting room. “Where the hell is Carly? Typical, it’s home, it’s Daddy, so she’s not comin’ unless there’s a will to be read.”

“Ivy…” Constance took a deep breath but Ivy shook her head firmly. “We all need to be here. He needs us right now. She’s always been selfish like…”

“Like Mom?” Constance questioned, sighing and shaking her head. There may be years between their mother leaving and making them tag along for the ride and now, but she’d never really been able to bring herself to forgive her mother for it. And now, knowing that Ivy hadn’t wanted to leave either and that was the cause of strain between their mother and Ivy, it only made Constance that much more convinced that she was right to keep low contact with their mother. Let her live her dream life in that Miami mansion with the stupid pool boy man on the side and an even dumber plastic surgeon husband. Constance loved the life she had here.

“Exactly.” Ivy sank back into the hard plastic chair, sighing in exhaustion. The past few hours had been scary and frustrating and lonely for her. Her eyes settled on the television screen across the waiting room and when she saw him walking down the ramp and to the ring, she nearly spat out the lukewarm coffee she’d been nursing for an hour and a half now.

“Is that… No. That can’t be… Adam?” Ivy gaped and bit her lip, raising a hand to drag slowly through light brown hair. Constance gave a soft laugh and nodded. “It is, Ivy. He goes by Hangman now.”

“Momma! Hangman!” Ivy’s nephew Jake burst through, tugging at her sister’s sleeve and pointing at the tv.

“Hangman, huh?” Ivy was still gazing at the television set in awe, biting her lip as she took a deep breath or two.

All she could think about was the last conversation she had with him. The night before she wound up being dragged off to Florida to live with her mom.

OoO

“Aw, c’mon. It’ll be fun. Just you n’ me out there together. This is gonna be my ticket outta here, darlin.” Adam’s blue eyes locked on her own and she sighed, biting the inside of her cheek. She didn’t get it honestly, why did he just have to leave? Why did everybody want to take her out of the only home she’d ever really known and wanted to know? She already had her life mapped out… And up to five minutes ago when Adam sprang the news of trying out for some small time wrestling company, she’d thought that he was going to be a part of those plans.

“Adam, I… Nevermind.”

Adam eyed Ivy and took a deep breath. “What’s wrong, hon?” he leaned in, his thumb wiping away a tear that started to roll down her cheek.

“It’s just… I thought you were gonna take over your daddy’s farm… And I was gonna go to WVU with you in the fall and we were…” Ivy paused, taking the chocolate shake from his hands and taking a big sip just to mask her unease at saying too much, giving him too much power to hurt her. Because she knew that if she said it, it was out there and it couldn’t ever be taken back.

“ Darlin’… We can still do that, hell… I mean… I might not even get signed with this company. You know yourself I ain’t the best right now. But if I don’t try, I won’t ever know. ‘Sides..” Adam took a deep breath, fumbling around in his pocket for the locket he’d gotten her. It wasn’t much, but it was a placeholder until he could one day do better. “I’ve always thought it was gonna be you n’ me against the world, remember? It’s just a week. Then we’ll figure things out a lil better..” Adam coaxed.

Ivy gazed at him, taking a few deep breaths. Finally, a smile played at her lips and she gave a slow nod, turning so that he could slip the locket on her neck. “Okay, alright. Why you gotta play dirty, huh? You know I always cave right in when you give me that look, Adam.”

Adam’s nose nuzzled against the side of her neck and he chuckled, pulling her against him, resting his head against her shoulder as he muttered in a shaky whisper, “Love you, Ivy.”

“Love you too, Adam.”

OoO

Constance cleared her throat again and snapped her fingers in front of her sister’s face. “Are you okay, Ivy?”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. It was just… weird. Seeing him again after all this time, even if it was just on television.”

“He comes home all the time.” Constance grinned to herself as she said it and watched her sister’s interest perk. Ivy tried to downplay it, but Constance could tell she’d gotten her attention.

“Oh yeah? Nice to know. Maybe he didn’t go off and let the fame go right to his head.” Ivy shrugged and took the pink crayon from Jenny, her niece and went to color in Ariel’s long flowing hair in the picture. But she couldn’t get it all out of her head, either. It was like seeing Adam Page on television a few minutes ago had opened Pandora’s Box for her and now, all those old what if’s were flaring up all over again.

What if she hadn’t just quietly gone with her mother that night? What if she’d fought and made it known that she didn’t intend on leaving the farm? What if she’d actually gotten to say goodbye? What if she’d tried to say goodbye and instead, she and Adam ran off that night together?

Maybe everything would be totally different right now. Maybe it wouldn’t. But at least I’d have a little closure, Ivy sighed as she thought about it and she shook her head, standing to make her way over to the little coffee pot by the nurses station.

–

The further away Adam Page got from the arena, the more solidified the thought became in his mind. He needed to get his head on straight. He needed to regroup and the only place he seemed to be able to do so was at his parents farm. The thought prompted him to pick up his cell phone and scroll through his contacts list, finding his father’s number and hitting call. While he waited on at least one of his parents to answer, he found himself stewing over the argument he’d had with Matt and Nick and Kenny before leaving.

They just weren’t listening, they didn’t care lately and that was beyond frustrating. They called themselves his friends and yet, they didn’t see that everything going on lately was starting to wear him more than a little thin. The more he pushed, the more they shoved. All he wanted to do was pull away for a while… Get some needed distance and be his own man again.

Why was that so damned hard for the three of them to understand?

His father picked up and he raised a brow when he heard the older man swearing and yelling to one of his hands on the farm. “It goes over there, damn it! You know Dalton has a place for everythin’, shit. Act like you got sense, kid.”

“Dad?”

“Hang on a sec, son.” Adam’s father took a sip of coffee and waved over his mother to take the phone. Adam’s mother took the phone from him and eyed her husband.

“It’s our son, woman!”

“Adam? What on Earth are you doin, sweetie? I just got through watchin the replay of last night?”

“I’m… I’m gonna come home a little bit, mom. Just need to think. What’s Dad doin’ on the Bar Low?”

“Ivy’s daddy had a heart attack earlier… So your daddy thought he’d come over and pitch in while Dalton was recoverin because their crop isn’t gonna harvest itself… Are you alright, son?”

Adam sighed and shook his head, found himself thinking bitterly that even knowing her dad was layin in a hospital probably wouldn’t be enough to drag Ivy home..

… because I sure as shit wasn’t enough to keep her around years ago… the thought came, even though by now, Adam knew the truth for the most part. He knew Ivy hadn’t really been given a choice in the matter, but he also felt the bitterness because she didn’t even give him a proper goodbye. She didn’t even try to fight it.

… you know she wasn’t a fighter back then, she just went along with whatever somebody asked of her, tried not to make waves… makin waves was always Connie and Carly’s thing… Adam’s mind veered off and he cleared his throat. “I’m on my way in. What all needs t’ get done?”

“Clever. My sweet clever boy.. You’re not dodgin the discussion we’re gon have. But we’ll figure all that when you get here. How far out are ya?” Adam’s mom smiled to herself as she turned to his father and nudged him. “He’s comin home for a little while!”

“What? It ain’t his downtime. He better not be quittin. Raised more n’ enough hell to go off and do that foolishness, he better not give it up. Ain’t everyday a man gets to accomplish his dream.” Adam’s father muttered, eyeing his wife who shrugged. Adam’s mom repeated her question and bit her lip, excitedly waiting on an answer.

“About 6 hours, give or take.” Adam answered after consulting his GPS. Kenny was flooding the other line with calls but Adam only rolled his eyes and let the calls keep going to voicemail. “Does Ivy? Does she know?” Adam finally bought himself to ask the question, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of his tone at the mention of her name. Adam’s mother sighed and answered calmly, “She’s movin back in, from the looks of it. Came in the mornin after it happened, your daddy was down there half the afternoon helpin her get her things in and do some repairs around the farm…”

She knew about the way things ended. And she knew it hurt her son. But she also knew there were more than two sides to a story and she felt like maybe it was high time they sat down and talked it out. Or yelled it out.

Because Adam hadn’t really been the same since.

And from what Constance let slip on occasion, neither had Ivy.

Closure was needed between the two.

Adam processed what his mother told him and grumbled quietly, taking a deep breath. Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure about his idea to go back to the farm for a few weeks and try to get his head on straight. How the hell was he supposed to do that with his biggest lingering what if right across the field? Knowing they lived in a small town and at some point, he’d inevitably have to run into her.

He was already dreading it.

“Adam?”

“I’m still here, Momma. Just thinkin.”

“Son, it’s been almost ten years. You’re every bit as stubborn as your daddy.” his mother sighed and Adam gave a dry laugh. “I ain’t the one who just up n’ left. Surprised she dragged herself back here. Heard she was doin’ real good down in Florida. Even landed herself a doctor n’ everything.”

“Accordin to what I overheard earlier, she broke it off with the guy. Apparently, he didn’t want her comin back here to do what she needed to do. And he refused t’ come with. She left him n’ came home.”

“Color me shocked.” Adam muttered dryly, letting it sink in. Talking himself right out of even remotely getting his hopes up on any form of closure.

He had more than enough to deal with right now.

Besides, Adam found himself thinking, bet she ain’t given me a second thought. It’s water under the bridge now and that’s where it needs t’ stay. In the past.

The GPS announced his turn and after a few more minutes of conversation, he hung up with his parents and went back to driving and thinking.

And he tried to keep himself from thinking about her being back, but he failed at it miserably and it annoyed the living hell out of him.

#adam hangman page fanfiction #adam hangman page fanfic #adam hangman page fic #adam hangman page imagine #adam hangman page imagines #part 1 of ?#// alcohol tw #// mentions of stripping #// fluff #// hurt comfort #// angst oh god so much angst.

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asterythm · 5 years

Text

A is for Amour || Just Another Manic Monday (4)

Pairings: Eventual Logicality, eventual Prinxiety Word Count: 6.3k Chapter Summary: As any reasonable high school student would tell you, school sucks most on Mondays. Patton knows this all too well. Chapter Warnings: food mention, one jerk of a teacher

(A/N: I think that tagging didn’t work on the previous chapter for some reason? So if you don’t recall reading about a certain Monet Triche, make sure you check out chapter three before continuing with this one!)

<< First Chapter || < Previous Chapter || Read this chapter on AO3

On Monday, Patton woke up.

Ugggghhhh.

Patton had never liked Mondays. Mondays were miserable days built on the crushed dreams of students — students with better things to do than be rudely woken by their squawking alarm clocks and put thought into their outfits and go to school. What kind of madman would ever be a fan of Monday?

Although to be fair, it wasn’t like high school was all bad all the time. Sure, classes could be a bummer, but school could mean so much more with the right attitude: a regular excuse to see friends, a community ripe with opportunity, and sometimes even baking if he was lucky (Home Ec. had been a good choice)! Things could be a lot worse.

Especially considering how sweet everyone always was. On the first day of Patton’s freshman year, Sandford Secondary School had felt bigger than elementary and middle school combined; so many unfamiliar faces, so many uncertain opportunities, so many things that could go wrong… But it hadn’t taken long for Patton to start making friends.

Now, navigating the familiarly packed halls, he could put a name to every face he passed. “Morning, Linda; cute earrings! Brendan, good to see you, how’d football go? You won? Awesome!” Patton called over the hustle and bustle of the crowd, greeting everyone he could. He exchanged smiles, returned friendly nods, even gave a few hugs here or there after the hallways had cleared up enough to allow it.

Everybody had a story to tell, each one as complex as the last. It fascinated Patton to no end to think about how he could dip his toes into so many at once with no more than a quick “hello”. And he really, genuinely cherished every single one of them.

Well…

Patton turned away from a bout of banter with another student to find himself staring at the door to his homeroom class.

…maybe not every single one.

Sure, school meant friends, and community, and baking, which was all well and good. But you see, school also meant facing his English teacher Mr. Mitchell first thing in the morning.

Every. Single. Day.

***

On the first day of tenth grade, many months ago, Patton had shown up to class wearing a brand-new shirt, his favourite lucky sneakers, and the biggest smile that any of teachers had ever seen.

He’d been chatting with some upperclassmen earlier that day, a small gaggle of eleventh and twelfth graders — all of whom had expressed sympathy upon finding out that Patton’s homeroom teacher was to be Mr. Mitchell this year. “Poor you,” one girl had said, pulling a face. “My friends all tell me that he’s a really strict marker. I heard half the class had to retake their exams last year.”

“Yeah, and he picks favourites,” her friend had chimed in. “So you’re gonna want to make sure he likes you early on. Otherwise, you’re gonna be in for a hell of a nightmare year.”

But Patton had refused to let his optimistic smile falter. “I’m sure it won’t be that bad!” he’d said cheerily. “Thanks for the warning, though. I’ll keep it in mind.”

And he had — nightmare or not, Patton always liked to try and bond with his teachers. What better way to start than by showing up to class early? One of the first to arrive, Patton had considered himself lucky to be able to take a seat at the front of the room.

If only he’d had the sense to keep his butt in the chair.

While the other students were trickling in, Patton figured he might as well take this time to get to know his new teacher a little better. Despite what the girl and her friend had said, Mr. Mitchell didn’t seem too scary. He couldn’t have been older than thirty, thirty-five at most, and the way he carried himself almost reminded Patton of his father.

The girl’s warning the last thing on his mind, Patton had made his way over to the classic wooden teacher’s desk at which Mr. Mitchell sat, holding a plastic bottle of something colourful that he took a few sips out of every now and again.

“Hi, Mr. Mitchell, what’cha drinking?”

Much to Patton’s dismay, a look of annoyance had instantly crossed his teacher’s face. He tensed. Uh-oh. That can’t be good.

“What are you.”

“Huh?”

Mr. Mitchell sighed heavily before speaking again, exaggeratedly enunciating every syllable, as if explaining a painfully basic concept to a foolish toddler having trouble keeping up. “Your statement ought to have been what are you drinking, not whatcha drinking.”

Patton should have quit then and there, should have apologized and turned around and sat down before he could dig himself any deeper. Maybe then, homeroom might have at least been bearable this year. But what did he do instead?

With a chuckle: “Oh! My bad! What are you drinking?”

Mr. Mitchell’s response was to put down his bottle and steeple his fingers, studying Patton carefully and all the while saying nothing. When he finally spoke, it was with a question of his own. “Young man, what is your name?”

“Um — Patton?”

“Well, Patton —” the boy in question barely suppressed a shudder at how bitter Mr. Mitchell managed to make his name sound — “I’m not sure why you, a student, are behaving in such a familiar manner with me. A teacher. In this class, you speak only when spoken to or when answering a question. There are no other instances where I should ever hear your voice.” Mr. Mitchell picked up his plastic bottle once again, clearly indicating that the conversation was over. “Now, I suggest you return to your chair. Class will begin shortly, and I will not hesitate to mark you as late if you are not fully seated when the bell rings.”

“O-oh. Right. Sorry.”

A moment later, he was back at his desk, gripping the sides of his chair just a little tighter than usual. Patton took a moment to steady himself. Don’t overreact, Pat. He wasn’t about to let his first day of tenth grade be tainted with this negative encounter. So you guys got off to a bit of a rocky start, big deal. He’ll probably forget about this before you know it. Comforted by the positive self-talk, Patton’s grip loosened, and he breathed easy.

…that is, right up until he messed everything up again .

As promised, the bell rang only a few minutes after Patton’s failed attempt at making friends. Without missing a beat, his teacher stood to deliver a (probably obligatory) welcome speech, seeming quite bored the entire time he was speaking — which, as far as Patton was concerned, was a-okay. Bored was better than angry, after all. Mr. Mitchell went over schedules, covered classroom expectations and school rules, dedicated a few minutes to the whole “you’ve got to be responsible now that you’re not freshmen anymore” spiel… pretty much a carbon copy of what teachers last year had told Patton, if he swapped out “freshmen” with “middle schoolers”.

It didn’t take long for Mr. Mitchell’s words to begin blurring together; Patton simply wasn’t the kind of student who could just sit still and listen for an hour and a half. But tempted as he was to tune out entirely, what if Mr. Mitchell said something important, and he missed it? He just needed some kind of outlet for his energy, then he would be able to focus much better.

A notebook and some pencils were already out on his desk; a habit that he’d carried over from last year, when none of his teachers had ever objected to him doodling in class. So when he grabbed a pencil and idly flipped his notebook open, his mind barely registered the motion — it was almost second nature at this point. Patton’s hands moved of their own accord, aimlessly scribbling shapes into the margins of a fresh, blank page. His own eyes drifted down to his page from time to time, but his focus stayed all the while on his teacher droning on at the front of the classroom. It was a harmless, idle action, offending no one.

Or so Patton thought, until for the second time that day, he heard his new teacher call his name in a manner that hardly suggested harmless.

“Patton Foley,” came his teacher’s voice, startling Patton into dropping the pencil he’d been doodling with. It fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

Patton’s notebook quickly flipped shut. “Y-yes?” Though he kept his gaze on Mr. Mitchell, he could feel his ears beginning to burn as he grew uncomfortably aware of many more sets of eyes all staring at him.

“What, exactly, do you think you’re doing?”

Mr. Mitchell’s voice was so cold that Patton could almost feel sharp icicle tips nudging up against his skin. Patton shrank inwards, sure that they would pierce in him a thousand tiny holes if he let them. “I — er — nothing.”

“Sir,” his teacher added harshly.

Patton bit his lip. “Nothing, sir. ”

“Is that right. It didn’t look like nothing from over here. To me, it looked like you weren’t paying attention.”

“I was paying attention… sir. I promise. It’s just easier for me to pay attention when I give my hands something to do,” Patton tried to explain.

But Mr. Mitchell wasn’t buying it. Slowly stalking over to where Patton was seated, it seemed almost like he was enjoying this. “There’s no need to worry. After all, I’m sure that you must have been working on something of immeasurable importance, for it to have taken priority over the very first class of the year. So.” He eyed Patton’s notebook. “Care to show me what you were doing?”

“Um, uh… yeah, of course, sure thing.” Patton nervously opened the notebook up to the page he’d been drawing on. It was covered with tiny hearts and stars and houses, those little boxes with the triangles for a roof and two windows and a door, and with smiley faces, a few of those manga-styled eyes that everyone learns to draw at some point in their lives, with half-erased failed attempts at hands of completely unreasonable anatomy… he had simply let his fingers do what they wanted, and it showed. Usually, Patton didn’t mind messy doodles, but under the careful scrutiny of Mr. Mitchell, he suddenly found himself embarrassed. From his teacher’s point of view, it must have looked like some kind of stormy monster made of pencil graphite and eraser shavings had come and gone, leaving behind crinkles and rips everywhere it touched.

“Interesting. Mr. Foley, I must say, this does not look like ‘nothing’ to me. It seems that you were too preoccupied with your fine arts to be worrying about the words of an inconsequential teacher like myself. Is that correct?”

Patton shook his head nervously. “Not at all, sir. I’m… I’m really sorry, I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think. ” Mr. Mitchell grabbed the notebook. “Clearly not. Come find me after school and I may return your precious drawing book if I deem it necessary. I believe that we need to have a nice, long discussion about classroom etiquette, since I’m sure you didn’t hear the behavioural rules that I laid out earlier, did you?”

Though Patton briefly debated arguing, the fact of the matter was that he had somehow managed to make Mr. Mitchell mad twice in about twenty minutes. The last thing he wanted to do was make that a third time. No, it would be better to keep his head down and co-operate. “ ‘kay,” Patton mumbled.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean… yes, sir.”

Mr. Mitchell stayed standing, staring at Patton for just a little while longer, mouth twisted with distaste, perhaps searching for something else to point out to further hammer his point home. Patton wished he would just go away already. Then again, he was starting to figure out that the universe didn’t really feel like granting his wishes today.

“Fix your posture. Slouching is indicative of a lack of respect,” Mr. Mitchell finally griped. Then, apparently finding nothing else, he tightened his grasp on the notebook before carrying it to the front of the room and starting again to drone on and on about classroom rules, voice resting at a steady and certain monotone.

On the first day of tenth grade, many months ago, Patton had never been quite so happy to hear a dismissal bell ring in his life.

***

That day, Mr. Mitchell had apparently made up his mind that Patton was going to be a troublesome student, and since then, he’d refused to even entertain the notion that he could ever be anything but. The freckled boy had long since given up on trying to convince his teacher otherwise, choosing instead to just be as polite and un-disruptive as possible in the hope that his teacher would someday grow tired of tormenting him. He was starting to think that the day would never come, though.

Ah, well. Better get this over with. Patton steeled his nerves and opened the dreaded door.

Not even a second later, his English teacher materialized in front of him with arms crossed and lips pressed together. “Mr. Foley. Your shoelace is untied. Show some respect for the school’s dress code, can’t you? You ought to be thinking about presenting yourself in a more appropriate manner when you enter my classroom.” He sighed dramatically, as if personally victimized by the loose bit of cord. “Don’t be so careless tomorrow. Tie your shoes and have a seat.”

Patton gritted his teeth, biting back hot speech. To argue would only give Mr. Mitchell another item to add to an ever-growing list of failures and shortcomings. Rather than grant his teacher the satisfaction, Patton patiently did as he was told, then sat at his front-of-the-room seat without complaint. This pointless nitpicking was nothing new, but knowing that didn’t make Patton any less vexed. If anything, his frustration was only building with each day.

He often wondered, if he’d only acted differently back then, would things be different today? If he’d focused on blending in instead of standing out, would his teacher have left him alone?

The bell rang, interrupting Patton’s thoughts. Within the same second, Mr. Mitchell was on his feet and starting the day’s lecture.

Time to pay attention. Or at least pretend to . Pencil at the ready, Patton opened his notebook (which he now used exclusively for taking notes) and tried not to think about how slowly the seconds were ticking by.

***

"Patton! Man, am I glad to see you,�� gushed Sloane, thumping a brown paper bag down onto the lunch table and sliding into the seat next to Patton.

“Hey, good to see you too! How was second period? Geology, right?” Patton greeted his older friend with a hug.

“Yeah, about as good as talking about rocks for an hour and a half can be. I’m so jealous that you get to have Home Ec while I’m stuck in science class,” was Sloane’s groaning reply. “I’ve missed you so much, Pat!”

Patton’s older cousin Corbin sighed, sitting down on the other side of his notably peppier boyfriend. “Sloane, chill out. We literally eat lunch with Patton on the daily.” He pulled out his lunch as well: an apple, some pretzel sticks, and a ham and cheese sandwich cut diagonally with no crust (Corbin had been eating the exact same thing every lunch of his life since grade school).

“Okay, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still be excited to see him! Patton gets me, Corby.”

“Why would you call me ‘Corby? It doesn’t shorten anything, my regular name has the exact same amount of syllables.”

“Nicknames are cute, though!” Patton piped up, defending Sloane.

“Yeah, exactly! See, Corbin? This is what I’m talking about — he totally gets me! Like, I love you and all, but I need Patton to keep me safe from your influence or I might actually become a reasonable person, you know? No one wants that.”

Corbin considered that, taking a bite of his apple as he reflected on Sloane’s words, then suddenly melted. “Okay... you’re right. You’re perfect the way you are. Don’t ever change, alright?”

“Woah, break it up, lovebirds,” laughed a voice from behind Patton. Three heads turned in unison to greet the newcomer.

“Valerie!” greeted Patton cheerfully, scooting over to make room for his longtime friend. “I thought you had jazz band today?”

“It got cancelled,” Valerie replied, sitting down and somehow taking out almost half a slice of pizza in one bite. “Some kind of scheduling conflict or something — I think Mr. Brussels is on a field trip with his class? It’s alright, we sound fine. Except maybe the trumpets, but they wouldn’t have improved with the extra rehearsal time either way, so...”

“I’m glad you have time to eat with us again, then,” said Corbin. “You’re so busy with your extracurriculars all the time that I sometimes wonder if you ever even do eat.”

“Says the guy who does debate team for five hours after school every single day,” Valerie shot back, stealing a pretzel stick.

“Touché.” Corbin sat and watched his container of pretzel sticks not-so-slowly disappearing into Valerie’s stomach, as was bound to happen whenever she spent lunch with them. Encouraged by Corbin’s apparent indifference, Sloane and Patton grabbed a few, too.

As the four friends comfortably lapsed into aimless laughter and chatter, Patton felt himself relax. There was food in his stomach, half of the school day was already over, and he was surrounded by people he loved. Nothing could go wrong! Nothing could stress him out!

“Oh, Patton, I forgot to ask. How’d your English quiz go?”

...Perhaps he had spoken too soon. Patton hoped his long, heavy sigh was answer enough.

“That bad, huh?” sympathised Valerie. “Don’t worry, Pat. It really isn’t your fault. Mr. Mitchell’s just a… just a massive fire-breathing jerk!”

Patton had to laugh despite himself. “Funny that you should call him fire-breathing, Valerie. It fits. My brother Roman’s started calling him Dragon Witchell, did you know?”

“Oh. My goodness.” Sloane’s eyes widened in delight. “Patton, your brother’s a genius. We have to start doing that.”

“Um, actually, I’d rather just… not. Talk about him, I mean. Or talk about English class at all anymore, to be honest,” was Patton’s quiet response. “It’s not a big deal, honestly. And I don’t think I should blame Mr. Mitchell. He’s just… got a stricter teaching style than I’m used to.” At his friends’ vehement protests, Patton only shook his head. “Seriously, can we please just drop it?”

Seeing that the discussion was heading nowhere, Corbin was the first to give up, inquiring instead after Patton’s recent tutoring session. “That was this past Friday, right?”

“Oh — yeah!” Patton grabbed the offer immediately, grateful for an opportunity to change the subject. “Yeah, that was great. I was really nervous that my tutor and I wouldn’t get along, but things didn’t turn out too bad! He’s so, uh…” Patton trailed off as he realized he didn’t know what to say. The truth was that he and his tutor hadn’t gotten along, but Patton didn’t want to make his friends any more worried than they already were. “He’s so dedicated to his work, you know?” were the words that Patton eventually settled on.

“That’s fantastic, Patton,” replied Corbin. “See, what’d I tell you? There was never anything to worry about. The tutoring program at our school is really great at matching students and tutors; I’m not really sure how they do it, but I don’t think there’s been a single time that a tutoring match hasn’t worked out —”

“Getting a little passionate there, Corbin,” Valerie said. “Your inner nerd is showing.”

“No, let him talk. I don’t mind.”

Which may have been a lie. Patton knew that Corbin hadn’t meant any harm by his words, but he couldn’t help but think: if all the other tutor-to-student matches had worked so well, how come he was the exception? Maybe it’s a sign that I can’t really learn anything after all, Patton thought miserably.

Then he caught himself. What was he doing, wallowing in self-pity like this? There were plenty of positives to focus on, too, weren’t there? Like…

“You know… Logan’s actually, uh, really cute,” Patton admitted.

The reaction from his friends was immediate — Valerie and Sloane both squealed, Sloane’s voice somehow even higher-pitched than their group’s resident first soprano, and even Corbin couldn’t stop a smile from stretching across his face.

“Patton, have you, like, got a crush on him?” Sloane sang out, an intentionally annoying twang creeping into his voice. Patton gave him a light shove in response.

Valerie bounced in her seat. “Oh my gosh, you totally have a crush on him!” Her voice was just loud enough to attract the attention of some kids sitting at nearby tables.

“Valerie, not so loud!” Patton hissed. Still, despite the awkwardness of the situation, the freckled boy found himself laughing along, his friends ooh- ing in the background. “I just… I think he’s kinda good-looking, that’s all! I’m just — I’m just saying, I… Corbin, a little help?”

But Corbin seemed, for once, immune to Patton’s puppy eyes. “Sorry, Pat. You’re on your own with this one.” With a shrug, he rose to his feet to go throw out his apple core, conveniently abandoning Patton with the other two friends, who were now taking turns peppering Patton with questions.

“Wait! No! Don’t leave me!” Patton made a grab for the back of Corbin’s jacket, but missed. He could only watch as Corbin, snickering, dropped the apple core in the school’s green bin before leaving the cafeteria entirely — surely waiting just outside the cafeteria doors for Sloane, as the two of them were never far apart, but still far enough away to allow Corbin to escape the rapid-fire inquisition that Patton was trying his best to fend off.

“So does he have dimples like the last guy?”

“Valerie! You can’t just ask something like that!”

“What? I’m curious!”

Patton groaned. “Corbiiiiiin…”

***

Hours later, Patton groaned again. Maaaaaath.

The second half of the school day had proven just as exhausting as the first. After being set free by the lunch bell, he’d gone straight into struggling through Math class, then nearly fell asleep in History. Now, home at last, Patton was tiredly trudging his way through a worksheet that seemed to have no end. A glass of water or a year-long nap or a hard surface to bang his head against would be ideal right about now.

In other words… Monday.

Staring blankly at the swirling mess of numbers before him, Patton picked up his eraser for the umpteenth time that night. Or tried to — the tiny stub of rubber slipped right out of his tired grasp. Patton let it fall, too tired to care.

This was ridiculous. Patton’s Math teacher couldn’t be more different from Mr. Mitchell; she was fantastically kind, immeasurably patient, and on occasion would even give out candy to her students. It wasn’t difficult to see why Mrs. Lauren was everyone’s favourite.

So what on Earth was she doing teaching the blandest, bleakest, boring-est subject of them all?

Though Patton would never outright say so, there were few things he hated more than doing math. Not even Mr. Mitchell was as bad. Of course, it wasn’t Mrs. Lauren’s fault. It was just that he’d never really understood… well, anything past simple addition or subtraction, to be honest. He’d tried to memorise his formulas and times tables and digits of pi — honest, he had!

But try as he might…

It was during middle school that Patton began falling farther and farther behind (or, at least, that he began to really notice). Throughout lessons, he’d jumble his numbers, mix up place values, accidentally drop a digit here or there, forget how to tell positives from negatives. You name it. Most of the time, he even struggled with figuring out the time of day; the numbers displayed on digital clocks meant nothing to him, and Patton couldn’t for the life of him tell you the difference between a minute and an hour anyway. One was longer than the other, but which one was it? How much longer? As for using analog clocks to tell time... might as well use owl dung, for all the good it would do him. Although Patton had eventually managed to figure out how to read analog clocks in theory, it would take him so long to muddle through the numbers in his head that by the time he figured out what was being displayed on the clock face, so much time would have gone by that he’d have to start all over again from scratch.

That was the case for most mathematical concepts, actually. Technically speaking, Patton did know his formulas well enough. The issue was applying them. Problems that were apparently simple to his classmates took Patton forever to even figure out how to approach , let alone solve. As for double-checking his solution? Forget it. Working through the problem just once was already one time too many.

For sure, Patton had come a long way since grade school. But it got difficult to look on the bright side when his progress was so slow, so agonisingly slow, and he was so far behind the rest of his classmates — let alone the speed at which Roman had picked these same subjects up.

He did have help, though. To her credit, Mrs. Lauren’s kindness was almost enough to make Math class tolerable. Once she’d noticed how much Patton was struggling, she’d started going out of her way to check in on him after lessons and spend as long as necessary explaining and re-explaining tough concepts that he hadn’t grasped the first time around. Though she did assign lots of homework, Mrs. Lauren genuinely cared about her students and was always ready to drop everything and help one out.

...A fact that Patton was all too aware of. He hadn’t hesitated at first to ask for help when he needed it, but that had changed once he’d realized he was the only one doing so. Yes, other students would swing by the teacher’s desk from time to time, but Patton spent so much time there he might as well switch spots with her. With all the extra work he was constantly forcing upon her, he couldn’t help but feel that he was being a burden on his kind teacher. It didn’t help when Mrs. Lauren started suggesting that Patton look into the school’s tutoring program. She was very gentle about it, but Patton knew she was just trying to politely get rid of him. He asked less questions after that.

None at all, in fact.

Until one day after class, clearly concerned, Mrs. Lauren pulled him aside to ask if something was wrong. “It seems like you’ve been holding back recently” had been her exact words — not entirely a what’s wrong with you , but Patton could read between the lines well enough.

He nearly told her the truth. Stupid idea, right? Something told him saying he was avoiding her so she wouldn’t get worried about him would be counterproductive, to say the least.

So instead, Patton told Mrs. Lauren what she was surely hoping to hear — he hadn’t been asking for help because he didn’t need help. Her teaching had been incredibly useful, Patton assured her; he was getting faster at picking up lessons and better at holding onto them, and that was why he hadn’t been checking in as much lately.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he saw the soft creases in his teacher’s forehead disappear, her lips un-purse, her shoulders relax. The sight was almost gratifying enough to make him forget he’d just lied to his favourite teacher’s face.

Almost.

Although... he had told the truth, to an extent. All Mrs. Lauren’s teaching and extra help had been incredibly useful. He was learning faster, and he did understand some basic concepts better. But his implication that he understood everything couldn’t be further from the truth, and as time went on Patton came to really regret his lie of omission.

Especially since Mrs. Lauren eventually came to see right through it. As his grades plummeted, Mrs. Lauren asked him again and again if he was sure that he didn’t need any more extra help. And yet, despite all the evidence to the contrary, Patton continued to tell Mrs. Lauren that everything would be just fine, that he really could do this on his own, that her offers were appreciated but unnecessary, that she must be tired of needing to hold his hand and walk him through classes.

(When Mrs. Lauren gave up at last, Patton couldn’t decide whether he should be relieved or disappointed.)

After he got his midterm marks back, though, it became clear that at the rate he was going, there was no way that he’d be able to catch up with the rest of the class by the end of the year. But asking Mrs. Lauren to resume their unofficial one-on-one help sessions was out of the question after how vehemently he’d refused all her previous offers. At this point, his situation couldn’t really be described as up the creek without a paddle anymore; no, he’d been given heaping armfuls of perfectly good paddles, and his response had been to light first them and then his own boat on fire.

He needed Math help. That much was for sure. But if not from Mrs. Lauren, then who?

The answer had come to him just before winter break, when he’d suddenly remembered Mrs. Lauren’s suggestion that he look into finding a tutor. Why not, after all? As outgoing as he was, he’d never been one for clubs — that had always been more Roman’s thing — meaning he’d have more than enough time on his hands. And though Patton wasn’t too keen on the idea of willingly subjecting himself to even more math , he knew that he’d need to put in the extra work if he wanted to pass the course. It was either work with a tutor or continue trying to figure it out on his own.

The more he thought about it, the more sure he felt. He could probably even get some English help while he was at it; according to the school’s official website, Sandford SS had an abundance of tutors with a wide range of subject mastery to offer. The school apparently went to great lengths to create good student-tutor matches, with almost 100% success rates; students very rarely requested to switch tutors, the site told him. Patton had to admit that he was a little skeptical of that last part — he didn’t need to be a genius to know that 100% was a pretty hefty claim — but it had provided some comfort to know that at least the school wouldn’t just slap him together with someone at random.

After tentatively bringing the idea up at the dinner table one night, Patton’s parents had responded with enthusiasm (maybe too much enthusiasm, actually, but Patton tried not to think about that). His father had loudly announced his support without missing a beat; his mother had taken a more subtle approach, first asking Patton a few questions, but still agreeing just a little too easily. Clearly, Patton had not been the first in his family to think of tutoring.

After spending a handful of days discussing the how’s and when’s and where’s, Patton’s parents gave him the okay just before winter break to visit Sandford Secondary’s tutoring office, which turned out to be filled with wonderfully warm-hearted students and staff alike. One merrily smiling upperclassman named Emile offered to contact the Foleys via email over the break.

Although perhaps a little eccentric, Emile was exceptionally kind and patient. He walked Patton and his parents through the entire process, answering questions along the way and explaining things that they hadn’t even thought to ask. To make sure Patton was properly matched, Emile was even willing to meet up with the Foleys in person and conduct a quick get-to-know-you interview. All in all, things were going well.

Emile’s last email came two weeks before winter break. The subject line: Great news — your match has been finalized! It was only then, faced with the knowledge that there would be no going back now, that Patton started getting nervous. What if he and his tutor didn’t get along? What if his tutor thought he was stupid? What if it turned out that even tutoring wasn’t enough to fix Patton’s broken brain?

The very first conversation he’d had with his new tutor, which had taken place over text, had been friendly enough but did very little to ease Patton’s concerns. Remembering Emile’s assurance that students and tutors typically got along very well, Patton had greeted his tutor as if speaking to an old friend:

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:21 pm): heya!!

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:21 pm): is this logan?

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:21 pm): i’m patton

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:22 pm): your new student :)

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:24 pm): super duper pumped to meet you!!!! emiles been saying lots of great stuff, looks like you really chamred him lololol

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:24 pm): oops *charmed

mycroft-er-jam (2:26 pm): Hello there. Yes, you’ve reached Logan Berry. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Patton. I look forward to meeting you face to face during our first session. Speaking of which, we ought to arrange a time and location now. My schedule is flexible; what works for you?

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:27 pm): uh

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:27 pm): honestly im not really too busy either?

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:27 pm): lolol

mycroft-er-jam (2:29 pm): Hm. I see. Perhaps it would be more effective for us to establish how many times a week you’d like to meet before we get into the specifics.

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:30 pm): yah sure!! :)

mycroft-er-jam (2:38 pm): ...So?

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:38 pm): oh

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:39 pm): wait

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:39 pm) : were you asking ME

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:39 pm): sorry! let me go check w my parents

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:43 pm): ok does 2 a week sound ok? maybe tuesday and friday?

mycroft-er-jam (2:45 pm): Yes, I believe that will work out just fine for me. Do you happen to be situated near the Sandford Main Public Library? I would like for us to use that location as a study space if possible, on account of its optimal volume and lighting conditions.

mycroft-er-jam (2:46 pm) That said, if you had another place in mind, I would certainly be open to hearing your suggestions.

TheJollyJollyFoley (2:46 pm): no thats good :)

The rest of the conversation had gone by in a similar fashion; strictly business. By the end, Patton still knew next to nothing about his new tutor. He attempted chitchat several times in the following days, but Logan never once responded unless it was to answer a question.

Patton had to admit that he’d been hoping that Logan would be a little more friendly in-person; it was part of the reason why he himself had been so loose-lipped during their first session — he was still hoping he’d have a chance to coax out the student-tutor bond that Emile had promised. Alas, nothing. In fact, it was probably safe to assume that Patton’s tutor already hated him at this point.

Ugh, and the whole thing wouldn’t be quite so painful if it weren’t for how painfully cute Logan was. Miserably, Patton buried his head in his hands. There’s no way I’ll be able to look him in the eye tomorrow.

Wait.

Tomorrow?

Logan had assigned him homework for tomorrow, hadn’t he?

Patton jolted upright, fumbling to snatch his pencil back up before tearing through the math worksheet as quickly as he could — which, to be fair, wouldn’t have been very fast at all if it hadn’t been for him giving up on the last few questions and scribbling numbers at random. I can redo them during lunch anyway , he told himself, knowing full well that he wouldn’t. As soon as he was finished, he stuffed the worksheet into his binder, pulling out a fresh sheet of lined paper in its place.

Patton chewed at the end of his pencil as he tried desperately to recall what Logan had said on Friday. A page… single-spaced, he believed. Or was it double? No, single.

A single-spaced page of what, though? Something to do with learning goals… Yes! Short-term and long-term learning goals, that was it!

Now, where to begin? For a short-term goal, perhaps he could say he wanted to improve his grades by 10% by the end of the school year. Ambitious, but broad enough to apply to both Math and English, killing two birds with one stone.

Long-term turned out to be a little trickier. For Math, he supposed he ought to focus on understanding the concepts that gave him trouble — really understanding, so he could actually know what he was doing instead of just plugging numbers into formulas and hoping that they would work.

As for English, he wasn’t so sure. Patton had long suspected that one of the biggest factors bringing down his English mark was his own rocky relationship with Mr. Mitchell, but how could he work that into a long-term goal? Maybe he should just focus on the Math for now; he could figure out the rest after a few more sessions.

That is, assuming Logan could stand to stick with him for that long. Patton tried not to think about the alternative as he put dull pencil to paper and his even duller mind to work.

***

[next chapter]

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