Chapter Text
His bedroom was a tomb of morning light, pale and unforgiving, slanting through the blinds in strips that cut across the dust motes suspended in the air. William sat on the edge of his bed, the frame creaking under his weight, and stared at the pair of wire-rimmed glasses in his hands like they'd personally betrayed him.
The optometrist had called them "classic." William called them a fucking death sentence. As if high school hadn't been kicking his shit in enough lately.
He held them up to the light, watching the lenses catch the glare. Cheap frames, because those were what his mom could afford. Thin wire that dug into his temples when he wore them too long. A prescription that made the world sharp but made him want to gouge his own eyes out every time he caught his reflection.
"You're being dramatic," he muttered to himself, and his voice sounded small in the empty room. Then again, what else was new?
He slid them on.
The world snapped into focus. The water stain on the ceiling, the crack in the mirror from when he'd slammed a door two years ago and knocked it off the wall, the pile of laundry he'd been meaning to fold for three days. Everything sharp. Everything real. Everything ugly.
William pushed himself off the bed and crossed to the cracked mirror. The reflection stared back at him. Pale skin, chestnut hair, pale blue eyes now magnified behind the wire rims. The glasses made his face look smaller. Made his hooked nose more pronounced. Made him look exactly like what he was. A twig of a kid who couldn't afford to be anything else.
"Fucking fantastic," he said, adjusting the frames. They sat crooked on his face. He pushed them straight. They slid back. "I look like a complete dork."
He grabbed his backpack from the floor, decorated with a faded pin of a pride flag he'd stuck on ages ago, and slung it over his shoulder. The weight settled against his spine, familiar and grounding.
His phone buzzed. A text from his mom.
Left early. Breakfast on counter. Love you. Stay out of trouble.
William's chest tightened. He typed back: Love you too.
He headed downstairs.
The house was quiet in that specific way it got when his mom was gone. The hum of the refrigerator louder than it should be, the creak of the floorboards under his feet echoing through the empty rooms. The kitchen smelled like coffee and the pancakes she'd left under a tin foil tent on the counter, still warm. A note sat beside the plate, her handwriting neat and quick: Eat. I mean it. -Mom
William smiled. A small, private thing that warmed his chest.
He ate standing up, shoveling pancakes into his mouth while he stared at the clock. He had twenty minutes to get to school. Twenty minutes to brace himself for another day of being the school's favorite punching bag.
He grabbed his keys from the hook by the door, the keychain a stupid little rubber duck his mom had bought him at a gas station years ago, its paint worn off from handling, and stepped outside.
The morning air hit him, crisp and cold, carrying the smell of damp asphalt and someone's woodsmoke from a chimney down the street. His car sat in the driveway.
It was a piece of shit. A 1998 Honda Civic with a dent in the passenger door from when he'd misjudged a turn in the grocery store parking lot, rust creeping along the wheel wells like a disease, a bumper held on with zip ties because he couldn't afford to replace it. The paint had faded from whatever color it used to be to a dull, sun-bleached blue that looked more like a grey at this point.
William loved it with his whole goddamn heart.
He'd saved for this car. Two summers of washing dishes at a diner where the grease stuck to his skin and the manager called him "buddy" like he couldn't be bothered to learn his name. Two summers of coming home at midnight with his fingers pruned and his feet aching, counting every dollar he shoved into the shoebox under his bed. Two summers of telling his mom not to worry, he'd figure it out, he'd get himself to school next year.
And he had. He'd bought this rust-bucket with his own money, and no one could take that from him.
He slid into the driver's seat, the upholstery cracked and sticky from years of sun damage. The engine turned over with a cough and a sputter that made him hold his breath every single time, praying it would catch.
Today, luck was on his side.
William backed out of the driveway, the car groaning like it was personally offended at being asked to move this early in the morning. He flipped on the radio to his favorite station and drove.
The streets scrolled by in a blur of familiar landmarks. The convenience store where he bought gas, the stop sign with the bullet hole through the O, the house with the perpetually barking dog that he'd fantasized about running over at least a dozen times. Suburbia in all its mundane glory.
He pulled into the school parking lot ten minutes later, and the weight in his chest settled back into its usual spot. Heavy, cold, a knot of dread he'd learned to carry without showing it on his face.
The school rose in front of him, a brutalist monument of gray concrete and narrow windows, the kind of building that looked like it had been designed by someone who hated freedom and children and also puppies probably. The flag above the entrance hung limp in the still air. Students milled around the front steps in clusters, laughing, shoving, living their lives like they didn't share oxygen with the kids they tormented.
William killed the engine and sat for a moment. His hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white.
You can do this. You've done it before. You'll do it again.
His daily morning pep talk in the car. William grabbed his backpack, pushed open the door, and stepped out anyway.
The parking lot gravel crunched under his shoes. He kept his head up, adjusting his glasses for the hundredth time, they still sat crooked, and he knew he looked like a dork, knew the frames weren't a look he would ever go for, knew everyone was going to notice and say something because that was just what they did.
"Nice glasses, Clockwell!"
There it was. Right on cue.
William looked up. A group of students by the front steps, he didn't know their names, were staring at him with the particular brand of glee that came from spotting an easy target. The one who'd called out was a stocky guy in a letterman jacket, grinning like he'd just won something.
William stopped. Met the guy's eyes. Let the silence stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable.
"Thanks," he said flatly. "I got them so I could see your face clearly. Now I regret every penny."
The guy's grin faltered. A few of his friends snickered.
William walked past before anyone could come up with a comeback.
The front doors groaned open, and the hallway swallowed him whole.
The smell hit him first, floor wax and sweat and the faint chemical tang of cleaning products trying to mask the fact that hundreds of teenagers spent eight hours a day in this building. Lockers clanged shut. Voices echoed off the linoleum floors, a cacophony of laughter and shouting and conversations that blurred together into white noise.
William kept walking. His shoulder brushed against someone who shot him a dirty look, and he muttered an apology without stopping.
The hallway stretched ahead of him, a gauntlet of judging eyes and whispered comments he could feel prickling against his skin. The glasses were a new variable. Fresh ammunition. He could already hear the jokes forming in people's mouths, the way they'd twist his appearance into something worthy of mockery.
He passed a cluster of jocks by the water fountain. They didn't say anything, but one of them, a guy with a buzz cut and a neck as thick as a tree trunk, gave him a long, slow once-over that made William's skin crawl. He didn't acknowledge it. Just kept walking.
The first bell hadn't rung yet. He had time to find his locker, get his books, maybe disappear into his first period classroom early and pretend to do homework until the day officially started. It was a strategy he'd perfected over the last two years: be invisible, be forgettable, be anywhere the bullies weren't looking.
He rounded the corner toward the east wing, and that's when he saw them.
Mark Grayson stood by the row of lockers near the science lab, leaning against the metal with the kind of casual arrogance that came from knowing no one would dare challenge him. His blue letter jacket hung open over a gray t-shirt that stretched across his chest, and his new mohawk was freshly styled, black hair standing up in a ridge that made him look even taller, even broader, even more like the apex predator he played at being.
Rex was beside him, gesturing wildly as he told some story, his rust-colored hair pulled back in its usual messy updo, his grin wide and sharp. Rick stood a few feet away, arms crossed, green eyes scanning the hallway with a distant expression that suggested he was only half-listening.
William hated that he hesitated but he just didn't want to do this today.
He could turn around. Walk the long way to his locker. Avoid the whole interaction entirely.
But that would mean letting them win. Letting Mark win. And William had spent the last so many years refusing to let that bastard have the satisfaction of seeing him run.
So he kept walking.
He kept his eyes forward, his stride steady, his expression carefully blank. The glasses sat crooked on his face, and he could feel Mark's gaze land on him like a physical weight, that coal-dark stare that had once looked at him with warmth, with laughter, with the easy affection of a childhood friend.
Now it looked at him like he was something to crush.
"There's the fairy," Mark's voice cut through the hallway noise, smooth and laced with cruel amusement. "Look who decided to show his face."
William didn't stop. Didn't turn his head.
"Clockwell." Mark's tone sharpened. "I'm talking to you."
William stopped.
He turned slowly, letting the pause hang between them, letting everyone in earshot feel the weight of his deliberate defiance. When he finally met Mark's eyes, his face was a mask of calm disinterest.
"And I was ignoring you," William said. "Was that not obvious?"
Rex snorted. "Damn, he's got jokes today."
Mark's grin widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. Those black irises stayed cold, fixed on William like he was calculating the best angle of attack. "Love the glasses. Really ties the whole 'I get shoved into lockers' look together."
William smiled. It was sharp and brittle and cost him everything. "Thanks. They help me see what a loser you still are. And that new haircut? Not helping."
The hallway went quiet.
A few students nearby stopped to watch, sensing the tension like sharks scenting blood. Mark's jaw tightened, just barely, and William saw the flash of something dangerous behind those dark eyes, a hunger, a fury, a need to dominate that had never learned how to take a hit without swinging back.
But Mark just laughed.
It was loud and barking and forced, and William knew it was a performance. Knew Mark was playing to the crowd, showing everyone that William's words didn't land, that he was still in control.
But William saw it. A sliver of insecurity.
"Same old Clockwell," Mark said, shaking his head. "Still running your mouth. Still can't back it up."
"At least I've got shit worth saying," William shot back. "What's your excuse?"
Rex howled with laughter. Rick winced, but there was almost a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the closest thing to solidarity William had ever gotten from their posey.
Mark's eyes narrowed.
Then the first bell rang.
The hallway erupted into motion, students scattering toward their classes, lockers slamming, voices rising in a tide of last-minute chaos. William turned before Mark could say anything else, adrenaline thrumming through his veins, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.
He didn't look back.
He walked to his locker with his hands shaking and his breath coming too fast, and he told himself that he'd won that exchange. That Mark's silence at the end had been a victory. That the flash of something in those dark eyes had been Mark losing, for once.
But as he spun his locker combination and pulled the door open, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd poked a bear.
And bears, in William's professional opinion, probably didn't appreciate being challenged.
First period was a blur of whispered comments and sidelong glances that William felt like ants crawling across his skin. Someone behind him snickered as he took his seat, he didn't turn around, didn't give them the satisfaction, just kept his eyes forward and his jaw tight. The wire rims sat heavy on his nose, foreign and wrong, and every time he adjusted them, he caught someone staring.
The glasses, at the end of the day, weren’t that bad. Ugly, but he wasn’t wearing coke bottle glasses or anything.
But it wasn’t really about how he looked.
It was about how his supposed peers, over the course of years, had learned he was free game. That they could be as nasty as they wanted, vent out all their teenage frustrations on a common punching bag, and not face any real consequences.
"Nice binoculars, Clockwell."
William didn't flinch. He turned his head slowly, let his pale blue eyes land on the kid who'd spoken, some sophomore he didn't bother to name, and smiled with all the warmth of a scalpel. "Thanks. I can see your acne from here. Might want to wash your face before third period."
The kid's face went red. A few people laughed. William turned back around and pretended the victory didn't taste like ash. Like he didn't feel shitty for making others feel the way they made him feel.
By third period, he'd stopped counting the comments. "Librarian chic." "Did you lose a bet?" "Whoa, Harry Potter got a glow-down." He'd fired back at most of them, quick and sharp, because if he stopped, they'd know it got to him. And if they knew it got to him, it would only get worse.
The glasses pinched behind his ears. He pushed them up his nose for the hundredth time and tried to focus on the whiteboard.
I picked these, he told himself, the lie wearing thin. I chose them. I like them.
His mom's face when she'd handed him the case, apologetic, guilty, like she'd failed him, flashed behind his eyes, and he swallowed hard. She'd saved for a long time. This purchase wasn't an easy one. He wasn't going to complain.
Didn't mean he had to like them.
By lunch, his head ached from the tension and the new prescription. He spotted Eve and Amber at their usual table near the windows, Eve already halfway through a sandwich that looked suspiciously like two sandwiches stacked together, Amber scrolling through her phone with the weary expression of someone who'd already dealt with too much today.
William dropped into the seat across from them and let his head fall forward onto the table.
"That bad, huh?" Amber's voice, dry and knowing.
"I've been called a dweeb, a nerd, a librarian, and-" He lifted his head just enough to level his gaze at Eve. "-someone asked if I was cosplaying as a substitute teacher."
Eve snorted, not quite hiding her smile behind her sandwich. "Okay, that one's kind of funny."
"I hate you."
"You love me. I'm the only one here who'll tell you the truth." She pointed her sandwich at him. "You don't look that bad. You look like you're trying to be taken seriously. It's almost working."
William groaned and dropped his head again. The table was cool against his forehead. "My mom spent her tip money on these. I can't tell her I hate them."
"So don't tell her." Amber's voice softened, just a little. "They're not forever. You'll get contacts eventually."
"I'm not gonna survive that long."
"Dramatic." Eve took another bite of her sandwich. "You know what helps? Owning it. Walk in tomorrow like you’re totally rocking them. Make them a thing."
"A thing." William lifted his head and adjusted the frames with deliberate precision. "Like a thing people make fun of?"
"Like a thing people wish they could pull off." Amber joined with a grin. "You've got the face for it. Pale, sharp. Fashionable twink energy."
William blinked at her. "Did you just call me a twink?"
"I said what I said."
He couldn't help the laugh that escaped him, rough and surprised. It felt strange in his chest, like a muscle he hadn't used in a while. "You're an idiot."
"I'm a supportive idiot. There's a difference." Amber set her phone down and fixed William with a long, steady look. "For real, though. How bad was it? Be honest."
William considered lying. Considered pretending he'd shrugged it all off like water. But Amber's gaze was too sharp, and Eve had stopped eating, watching him with that focused attention that made him feel seen in a way he wasn't used to.
"Mark said something in the hall this morning." He kept his voice casual, like it didn't matter. "Called me names. The usual." He paused, then added, quieter, "It was fine. I handled it."
Amber's eyes narrowed. "What did he do?"
"Nothing. I talked back. He walked away." William shrugged, but his fingers found the edge of his glasses and adjusted them again. "It's whatever."
Eve and Amber exchanged a look, the kind that said "we'll circle back to this later”, and let it drop. Eve launched into a story about a villain fight she'd witnessed on her way to school, something about a guy with plant powers and a car that had gotten wrapped in vines, and William let himself sink into the rhythm of their voices, the normalcy of it.
For forty minutes, he almost forgot about the morning. About Mark's dark eyes and that silence at the end of their exchange. About the feeling that he'd poked a bear.
Almost.
The final bell rang at 3:15, and William's shoulders relaxed a fraction as the last of his classes ended. He packed his bag slowly, deliberately, letting the rush of students flow past him while he gathered himself. Football practice ran until five-thirty most days, which meant he had a couple hours to kill if he wanted to hang around and watch.
Not that he was going to watch Rick. Obviously.
He'd just...be in the vicinity. Doing homework. On the bleachers. Near the field.
Where Rick would be.
William's face warmed, and he shoved his textbook into his bag harder than necessary. It was fine. It was a crush. A stupid, hopeless crush on a guy who was tall and blond and green-eyed and probably straight, who nodded at him in the hallway like that was enough, like that small kindness would sustain William for another day.
It kinda did.
It gave him cruel hope.
He made his way to the bleachers, settling onto a cold metal bench near the top where he could see the whole field. The autumn air was starting to bite, and he tugged his jacket tighter, pulling out a notebook he had no intention of writing in.
Down on the field, the football team was running drills. He spotted Rick immediately, number 47, moving through the warm-up with that easy athletic grace that made William's chest ache. Rick laughed at something a teammate said, his head tipping back, and William's heart did a stupid little flip that he ruthlessly suppressed.
You're pathetic, he told himself. He's nice to you because he's nice to everyone. It doesn't mean anything.
But he watched anyway, his notebook open and blank on his lap, the cold wind biting at his cheeks as the sky shifted from afternoon blue to the bruised colors of early evening.
By the time practice wound down, the sun was slipping behind the horizon, painting the field in shades of orange and purple. William packed up, his fingers numb from the cold, and made his way toward the parking lot. His shitty beater was parked near the back, a pale blue speck among the nicer cars, and he walked with his head in his phone, his other hand shoved in his pockets.
The parking lot was mostly empty this late. A few teachers' cars. The football team's scattered vehicles. And near his car, two figures waiting in the fading light.
William's steps slowed.
Mark Grayson stood beside the driver's side door of William’s car, arms crossed, that familiar grin on his face. Rex was a few feet away, sat on the hood, scrolling through his phone like he had all the time in the world.
William stopped walking. The distance between them felt suddenly terrible, the parking lot stretching into a no-man's-land he'd have to cross.
He could turn around. Go back inside. Find a teacher.
But that would be running. And Mark would know he'd won. And then it’d get worse.
William's jaw tightened. He kept walking.
"Clockwell." Mark's voice was warm, almost friendly, which made it worse. "Long day?"
"Don't start." William stopped a few feet away, his hands still in his pockets, his heart hammering against his ribs. "What do you want, Mark?"
"Just wanted to talk." Mark pushed off from the car, taking a step closer. He was taller than William by a good bit, broader, and the evening light caught the sharp lines of his face, the gleam in his eyes. "About this morning. You had a lot of mouth on you for someone who can't back it up."
"I backed it up fine. You just didn't like what you heard."
Mark's grin widened. "See, that's the thing. I don't think you understand how this works." He took another step, and William held his ground even though every instinct screamed at him to step back. "You talk shit, I shut you up. That's the deal. That's how it's always been."
"That's not how it's always been. That's just how it's been since you decided you were just oh-so-much better than me."
Something flickered in Mark's eyes, something dark and hungry, and then he moved.
He grabbed the straps of William's backpack and yanked. Hard.
William stumbled backward, the straps digging into his shoulders, and then a loud rip as the fabric tore, the backpack coming away in Mark's hands while William staggered, arms flailing, catching himself before he fell.
"Hey--!"
Mark ignored him, already pulling the zipper open. He upended the bag, and William watched his things scatter across the asphalt, a notebook, a pencil case, his history textbook landing with a heavy thud, papers skittering in the evening breeze. Mark crouched, rifling through the contents with casual disinterest.
"Stop." William's voice came out sharp, edged with panic. He stepped forward, reaching for his bag, for his things. "Mark, stop, that's mine-"
Mark stood up, straightening, shoving William away. In his hand was William's wallet. It didn't have a lot in it. But he didn't have much to begin with.
"Give that back!” He reached for it again and Mark laughed as he swatted his hands and chucked the wallet to Rex.
"Cha-ching!” Rex opened it, pulled out the cash, and pocketed it. Then he tossed the wallet back at William's feet.
William's vision went red. "I said give it back!"
He lunged.
He didn't think. He just moved. All he got for his rage was an eyeful of a familiar blue jacket before Mark's fist connected with his face.
The world exploded into white light and pain.
William hit the ground hard, his skull bouncing off the asphalt, and for a long, terrible moment, he couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The pain was a star bursting behind his eyes, radiating through his skull, and he lay there, stunned, tasting copper.
His hands found the ground, pushing, trying to get up. His glasses had fallen off, he could feel their absence, the wrongness of his face without them, and he blinked, trying to focus, trying to find them through the blur.
"Look at you." Mark's voice came from above him, amused, almost fond. "Down where you belong."
"Fuck you." His voice was thick, blood trickling from his split lip. "Fuck you, Mark."
Mark crouched in front of him, bringing his face level with William's. Those dark eyes were bright, electric with something that looked almost like joy. "You just don't know when to quit, do you?"
"Do you?"
For a second, something shifted in Mark's expression. Something softer, almost admiring. Then it was gone, replaced by that cruel grin.
"Nope. That's why I always win."
He stood up, and William heard it, the crunch of glass under a boot.
His breath caught. He looked down, but he couldn't see clearly, couldn't tell which of the scattered fragments was his glasses and which was just debris. He crawled forward, hands searching the cold asphalt, and his fingers found a twisted frame, a shattered lens, the delicate wire bent into something useless.
"Oops." Mark's voice, light and mocking. "Guess you'll need a new pair. Maybe next time, your mom will buy you something that doesn't make you look like a total fag."
The word landed like a punch. William's throat closed.
He heard footsteps, Mark and Rex walking away, their laughter fading into the evening air. The parking lot went quiet. The wind picked up, scattering William's papers across the asphalt, and he knelt there, holding the broken remains of his glasses, his split lip bleeding, his vision blurry, and something inside him cracking open.
He didn't cry. He wouldn't give Mark that.
William sat down on the cold asphalt, his back against a tire, his broken glasses in his lap, and he didn't cry.
He just sat there, breathing, until his hands stopped shaking.
Then he stood up, shoved his ruined belongings into his torn backpack, and drove home in the dark.