Fic; Running Uphill 2/3, Alex/Hank
Title Running Uphill, for this prompt
Rating ...R, for language and drugs and some sex
Summary from prompt: Alex is the outcast and Hank is the jock. There's a new kid in town and Hank is curious.
Disclaimer Will never own, boo.
part one
Everyone’s given up on the pool since the night turned chilly, and now they’re all sitting in the adjacent Jacuzzi, happily buzzed, the music of Hank’s iPod pleasant in the background. Bobby had managed to wrangle Kitty and Jubilee from their protective parents’ respective grasps, promising to get them both home before midnight, and really, who could say no to that face? No one. Plus, they added a happy balance to the group - Raven and Angel could only say so much to one another.
It’s only a little while later, when they’re all laughing over something that Raven shared that Mr. Xavier had done behind Dr. Frost’s back, that Hank’s phone starts buzzing behind him on the pool’s stone deck. He pulls himself out of the warm water, on his belly, shivering when the night air hits him, and answers, “Yeah?”
“Hey.” It’s Alex. Hank stands completely, reaching for a towel that’s draped over the back of a pool chair nearby, throwing it over his shoulders.
“Hey, man.”
“Uh, I’ve been ringing your doorbell for, like, the past five minutes.”
Hank slaps his forehead. “Oh, man, hey,” he starts, smiling despite himself. “Sorry about that. We’re all just in the backyard by the pool. Just come around the house.”
“Cool. See you.” The line clicks. Hank feels something like excitement bubbling in his stomach. It’s nice, but he climbs back into the hot tub before he can dwell on it.
“Alex is here,” he announces to the group. Across from him, Angel scowls, but she looks ridiculous as she does so, nearly completely submerged in the water.
“You didn’t tell us he was coming,” she bites out.
“Oh, my god,” Raven chides. “Chill out, Angel.” They’re both wearing dark bikinis that Hank is pretty sure they had picked out together.
“Who’s Alex?” comes Kitty’s voice. Her eyes are bright with curiosity. She probably thinks he’s Angel’s new love interest. Bobby loops an arm over Kitty’s shoulders, and then he loops his other arm over Jubilee’s shoulders.
“He might be Hank’s new pet project,” Bobby explains amicably.
Sean puffs on the joint he had rolled. “You’ve seen him; he’s that new blonde kid.”
John adds, “And he was expelled from his last school for fucking a kid up.” He makes little grabbing motions at Sean, who passes him his joint.
“Ooh,” Jubille coos. “Dangerous. I like it.” Everyone turns to stare at her, surprised by the change - she’s usually so soft-spoken and sweet. The beer probably brought that out. John looks at her with new appreciation.
“Oh, my god, guys, shut up,” Raven says again, because that’s when Alex appears from around the house, dressed simply in slim sweatpants and a tee, a towel and plastic bag slung over his shoulder. Hank waves at him; the others follow, except for Angel, who just rolls her eyes and blow bubbles in the water.
“Hey, Alex,” and that’s Bobby, extending the first olive branch. Alex’s eyes flicker to him and he smiles, briefly, nodding hello.
“You found the house okay?” Hank asks, noticing and dreading the lull in conversation.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Alex says, corner of his mouth quirking up, and then everyone laughs and everything’s okay. Raven tells him to join them in the pool, and Jubilee extricates herself from Bobby’s arm, climbing out to grab a beer from the cooler.
“Drink?” she asks, coy. Water drips down from her long black ponytail, over her shoulders and into the small of her back. She puts the beer in her hand forward, toward Alex.
“Uh.” He pauses while taking off his sweatpants, revealing swim trunks underneath. “I don’t drink.” The look of confusion that passes Jubilee’s face is amusing, to Hank at least. Alex throws his sweatpants to the side, hands swiftly pulling his shirt over his head, and then he throws the shirt and his towel and bag over to the side, too. Hank gulps, reaching for his beer, suddenly thirsty.
Alex is, well, fit. He’s all smooth lines and trim muscle, the cut of his biceps and abs something that other guys would be jealous of. It’s not like Hank and his friends are flabby, anyway. Hank’s long and lean, though, from all the running, hardly able to build bulky muscle; Bobby’s a swimmer at heart and has the body to show for it. And John and Sean may not be sports people but they have wicked metabolisms and enjoy the occasional run in the park or on the track to blow off steam, so they’re not bad to look at, either.
But, Alex’s arms. Hank chugs his beer. Behind him, Angel makes a noise of interest.
“Your body is a temple and all that?” she asks, sultry, and god, Hank thinks. She can be so shallow. If he had known that all she needed to be nice to Alex was to see him without a shirt on - well, Hank’s not sure he would have gone that route, honestly.
“Not at all.” Alex climbs in next to Hank, sinking into the steaming water. “Medical reasons.” He leaves it at that. Angel smiles at him. Alex smiles back. Hank wants to throw his beer at someone’s face, preferably Angel’s.
“Sounds mysterious,” she practically purrs, eyes smoky. Jubilee climbs back in next to Bobby, drink in hand, effectively feeling like she’s been rebutted and refused. Then Sean and Raven drag Hank into a conversation about the latest movie they’ve all seen together, and which ones look like they’ll be good next, and when he looks again, Alex and Angel have moved next to each other, sitting close in the water, heads bent together and speaking in low voices. They laugh over something, quiet and surprisingly intimate.
Hank paddles over, says, “What’s so funny?” a little too bright, a little too sharp. They pull away from each other quickly, like they’ve been caught. He forces a smile on his face.
Angel recovers first. “Alex was telling me about this one time he ran away in L.A. You know he’s lived like, everywhere? The cops found him, though, what, in an In-N-Out, with like twenty burgers in his bag.” She laughs again, doubly delighted by the story and by the fact that someone else actually knows what an In-N-Out burger tastes like. She leans against Alex, easy, her elbow resting on the deck right behind his shoulder. It’s only taken her a little over an hour to become this close, this comfortable, with Alex, and Hank wonders what he’s doing wrong. Why he feels like he’s never really got anything to say to him or about him or with him.
“How old were you?” he asks, settling in on Alex’s other side. A jet presses into his back but he tries to ignore it.
“Must’ve been about eight, I think.” Then something happens. Alex’s face changes like he’s shuttered off, eyes blank.
Angel sighs, placing a warm hand on Alex’s shoulder. “You don’t have to…” she begins, drifting off. She takes a deep breath, resolute. “You’re cool, Alex. I’m going to get changed, and then we can go to that thing with your friend?” Water drips from her sloping shoulders and curves and legs when she pulls herself out of the water. She gives a playful wave to the boys before turning and grabbing her towel and change of clothes, bringing them inside with her.
Hank wants to say, What friend? What thing? Can I come? but only manages, “Oh?”
Alex, apparently back to himself now, admits, “Turns out she knows my buddy Armando. I promised him I’d show for a gig. She wants to say hi.” He looks directly at Hank and tilts his head, considering. “I’ll invite you next time, if you want.”
“Yeah, that’d be nice. We could all go.” At that, Alex narrows his eyes, and Hank quickly retracts his words. “Or not. Whatever. Sounds fun.”
“No, it’s just-“ Alex breaks off, smiling to himself. “Everyone’s welcome. But it’d be nice to hang out, just us, you know?” Then Alex gives him a look that Hank can only describe as hopeful and it makes his throat drop into his stomach, and god there is something wrong with him.
Angel comes back, then, dressed in tight jeans and a low-cut tee. She puts a dark purple hoodie on over it. “You didn’t change yet?” she asks at the same time Hank says, “Yeah, that’d be nice.” And Alex looks between the two of them, slowly. He settles on Hank.
He says very deliberately, “Can I borrow a sweater or something from you?”
“Of course,” Hank says, catching onto whatever it is he hopes he’s supposed to be catching on to. “I’ll have to get one. From my room. You wanna come to my room?”
There seem to be too many knees and elbows in the way to climb out of the hot tub gracefully, but they manage it. Angel just says, “I’ll wait for you by the car, okay?” and then she’s saying goodbye to Raven with a wet hug and waving and winking to Bobby and Sean and the rest of them. Meanwhile Alex is dripping onto the deck and shivering and Hank wraps his towel over the blonde’s shoulders, and no one notices. But Alex’s teeth chatter just a bit when he says, “Thanks,” and then Hank is shivering and he just needs to get into the house so this horrible and embarrassing experience can be over and so they can just go to his room and-
Do what? Hank pauses on his rapid dash to the door that leads into his house through the kitchen. Alex stills behind him. Do nothing. Get him a sweater. Go back to the party. See him on Monday. That’s normal. That’s expected.
So that’s what he does. They stomp up the stairs to Hank’s bedroom and spend far too long trying to find something warm that isn’t a cardigan - Alex finally pulls an old Yale hoodie that Hank had thought he had lost out of somewhere. Alex towels off right there, his hair dark from the water and spiking and messy. He pulls the hoodie on, sans shirt, and then Hank has to think about all that skin next to the fleece fabric of his sweater. He says, “That work for you?”
It’s a little baggy on him, truthfully, but Alex shrugs and smiles and says, “Perfect.”
x
After that, it’s not like Angel and Alex are buddy-buddy, joined-at-the-hip, or anything, but sometimes he’ll sit next to her rather than next to Hank at lunch, and it’s ridiculous because Hank knows it’s a not a competition, except it might be because Hank understands competitions and definitely can’t think of any other reason he feels like someone has beaten him to the finish line by half a step when Alex and Angel turn to each other and effectively close out anyone else. At least, Hank thinks, it’s only Angel. Bobby may be nice but he’s always at a loss when it comes to actually conversing with the blond boy. And Sean and John could care less. Hank figures that Raven is the only person who might understand how he feels - she’s Angel’s best friend, after all.
So, he corners her one day at her locker, as they’re gathering books for Physics class.
“Do you think there’s something going on between Alex and Angel?” he asks in a rush without preamble. She gives him a funny look, simultaneously shifting her books to one arm and flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder.
“No,” she says plainly. “Why? Do you?” Her tone is faintly accusatory.
“You don’t think it’s, like, weird?” Hank hedges. Disappointment creeps into his stomach. Turns out Raven might not understand, after all. He holds his books tighter.
“I think it’s nice that Angel finally has a guy friend who isn’t constantly staring at her tits.”
“I don’t constantly stare at her tits,” he defends instantly.
“What shirt was she wearing yesterday?”
“That purple one that has the big butterfly right here.” Hank makes a broad sweeping motion across his chest. Raven smirks. “Oh.”
And that had been the end of that conversation. So Hank may be the only one who is crazy and vaguely threatened by the burgeoning friendship between the two most unlikely friends in the world.
They had taken their usual seats - Shaw lording in the front - and Hank and Alex had completed some ritualistic male handshake that had somehow become theirs in the weeks they had known each other, and Hank had felt a small victory as they did so, because no way would Angel be in on this weak display of maleness.
The weeks pass by quickly. Before Hank knows it, snow has fallen on the track and field, and the cross country season has come to an end. Lensherr threatens them all with suicidal practice sessions if they don’t take up a sport in the spring or otherwise keep in top running form. Hank figures his position on the lacrosse team is pretty much guaranteed, and doesn’t worry about it. Sometimes, he drives Alex home, usually on Fridays. He sees his older brother once when he’s dropping him off, having lingered in the car for longer than usual, chatting about nothing and everything, and finds he’s not surprised by the stern set of his lips, his dark sunglasses, how he’s toweling the grease off a large wrench. It’s kind of…how he had always pictured Scott. He’s like an older, tanner, brunette version of Alex. Hank had waved and Scott had nodded back at him as Alex climbed out of the car, smiling. Hank promised that, next time, he would go inside and meet him officially. He goes home. Sometimes his mother is there, and they exchange pleasantries and share a quick meal. Most of the time, though, she’s not.
The parties that had included most of the senior class in the beginning of the year taper down until it’s just Hank and his core group of friends most weekends, and Alex comes more often than not, and Hank focuses way too much on how, when he doesn’t come, Angel isn’t there, either.
“We’re all thinking about catching a movie and then grabbing pizza afterwards on Saturday. Wanna come?” Hank asks him the next time they see each other in Physics. Alex smiles, his mouth opening to respond, and he’s going to say yes, and Hank is going to offer to drive, and it will be a fantastic weekend. Except then Alex shakes his shake and shrugs.
“Sorry, man,” he says, frowning. “Sounds fun but I’ve got other plans.”
“Oh, yeah?” Hank doesn’t mean for it to come out as a challenge. “What are you up to?”
“Armando’s got another gig lined up. Angel and I are going.” He looks away for a moment, and continues hesitantly, “Do you want to come with us?”
“Yes!” Hank is immediately embarrassed by how quickly and enthusiastically he had answered. “I mean, it’ll be fun. A nice change of pace from the usual.” The smile that Alex flashes him is bright and uninhibited - a first, Hank realizes, since Alex is usually so bottled up and flat. No, not flat; guarded. He wonders when Alex stopped smiling like that, if Hank can make it a habit again, now.
“Great,” Alex says through his teeth. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”
Hank wonders if Alex knows what he’s doing, if he realizes that this casual invitation is like Hank taking his first steps into a new city or country. He’s going to meet Alex’s friends, listen to Alex’s music, see Alex’s world. It’s exciting and new and terrifying and he wonders if maybe this is how Alex had felt, that first time he had appeared at Hank’s house. He wonders when he’ll have the balls to step out of his own car after driving Alex home and walk up the front steps and through the door of his home. He resolves to do so, the next time Alex asks. No more pussying out.
Saturday night can’t come quickly enough.
x
The gig turns out to be at this under-21 venue downtown that’s a bitch to find parking for. Alex finally pulls up into a spot that’s barely big enough for his car and may not actually be a designated parking spot, but before he’s turned off the engine Angel is already pushing forward on Hank’s seat, eager to get out and stretch her legs after being bumped into the back. Hank clambers out gracelessly, wincing when the door hits the car next to them and rolling his eyes at Angel’s, “Don’t look, pervs,” as she exits, boot-covered legs first. She’s wearing a mini-skirt and something that she had called a ‘sweater’ under a tough leather jacket. Hank thinks he must have missed the leather memo, because Alex is pulling his own around his shoulders, over a simple black v-neck and slim dark jeans. He would look good in a lot of things, Hank muses absentmindedly, but he seems to have gotten down his uniform outfit.
Hank looks down at his flannel and denim, feeling a bit too grunge for this party.
“We’re like a million miles away!” Angel complains, kicking the door shut.
Alex says, “Not our fault that you wanted to wear your hooker boots,” with a grin on his face, and it brings Hank up short, because this is Alex outside of school and Hank’s friends. “You comin’ or what?” he asks Hank with a worried glance, and Hank realizes that they had started walking without him. Alex has an easy arm slung over Angel’s shoulders.
“Yeah, yeah, just, thought I left my phone in there,” Hank mumbles, coming up with an excuse for zoning out.
Contrary to what Angel had said, the venue’s not a million miles away - just a few blocks. Hank isn’t sure what he had been expecting. It’s certainly not anything special. A woman with too many facial piercings for Hank to count sits on a stool just outside of a propped open door, smoking and chatting with some other smokers. She bumps fists with Alex when they reach her and she waves them all through, free of charge. The actual space is like a cave. Deep, dark, and strangely low-ceilinged, with a stage at the far end that’s lit by overhead lights. There isn’t much of a bar, since it’s under-21, but along one wall there’s a counter with a worker who’s willing to sell the teens soft drinks and such. Hank figures that no one’s checking at the door anyway, so whoever decides to smuggle in real alcohol will likely not get caught. Hank’s thoughts are confirmed when he sees a group of teens near the left of the stage huddled close together, sharing a few flasks. Rock music is playing over the speakers, loud enough so that they have to yell to be heard.
Alex and Angel make a beeline for a little alcove that Hank hadn’t noticed before, where there’s a lumpy couch and a group already clustered around it. It’s dark, the lights of the stage barely reaching the area, but Hank can make out four other teens on the cushions and arms of the couch, who all wave as Alex and Angel near. He’s surprised when a tall, lanky African-American teen pulls himself up to standing and wraps his arms around Angel, who happily unlatches herself from Alex to return to hug. Hank shifts his weight from foot to foot as Alex greets the others.
Exactly when his presence is starting to verge on awkward, Alex calls, “Hey, Hank!” over the music, even though he’s only a few steps away. Hank walks over, plastering a smile to his face, nodding to the people on the couch. “Warren, Cal, and Alison. Meet Hank.” They shake hands and Hank mumbles the names to himself, committing their faces to memory.
“I’m Armando,” says a voice to his right, and it’s the guy who’s still got his arms around Angel, like Alex had earlier, only he looks at Alex and he doesn’t seem to mind at all. He’s holding out his hand, and Hank shakes it, smiling genuinely.
“Hank,” he says, unnecessarily.
Armando laughs. “Yeah. Alex has told me a lot about you.” He gives Hank an appraising look, laughs again, and then plants a kiss at Angel’s temple. She giggles. Giggles.
Hank thinks, Who is that?
“Sorry to cut this short, but you guys got here right on time! We have to go up for sound.” Armando waves a beckoning hand at the other teens on the couch, who all stand, stretching. Angel protests but lets Armando give her another peck on her cheek before he joins his bandmates on stage.
Alison gives Alex the drink in her hand, winking. “I know I’m not supposed to drink before singing, but I didn’t drink all of it. So, you can have the rest.”
Alex’s face tightens. “Alison, you know I can’t - “
“So give it to him, then,” she throws over her shoulder, walking away.
Hank takes the cup out of Alex’s hand and downs the rest of it in one go, grimacing when he’s finished. “Ugh,” he says, with feeling. “Thanks. That was horrible. What was that?”
Alex raises an eyebrow, amused. “You drank it. You tell me.”
“Cheap bottom-shelf vodka. And really horrible fruit punch. And she’s going to sing after that?” They lower themselves on the couch - Alex, then Hank, then Angel - pressed close together but comfortable.
“Man, you haven’t heard her sing,” Alex says, bright-eyed, as Alison steps up to the microphone with an experimental, “Check, check.”
x
The music, when Armando’s band starts playing, becomes a sort of background to their conversation. Angel is too focused on the band, on Armando, to really pay the two any attention, as she bobs her head to the guitars and drums and Alison’s crooning, honey-smooth voice. Alex taps his feet to the drums without any real conscious thought, and Hank is suddenly reminded of that confusing time in the library, when Alex had exploded at him and stalked away. He wonders if Alex is on edge, even now.
First, they talk about the music. It’s good, really. Armando manages some truly amazing shredding on his guitar, and Cal is a beast on the drums, but Alison’s voice, Alex keeps saying. That’s where it’s at. No matter what happens to this high school band, he says, Alison’s going to make it in the future. Hank is inclined to agree, but that could be the vodka working. That group of teens with the flasks had come over and offered them their dredges, friendly, clearly drunk and wanting others to have a good time. Angel and Hank had topped off their flasks gladly while Alex sat back, arms crossed. He was designated driver, anyway, Hank had thought distractedly.
Then, they talk about school, but who wants to talk about school on the weekend? So that topic ends prematurely, especially when Angel stands on wobbling legs and begs Alex to take her outside to get a breath of fresh air. They all go, waiting for Angel to get her nerves under control, Alex rubbing circles onto her back, and when they enter the venue and find the couch again, Armando’s band is playing a slow, sweet ballad.
For reasons that Hank can’t fathom, he says, “You know, my mom would probably like this song.”
So Alex asks, “Yeah? What’s your mom like?”
Hank jokes, “What, you interested? No, she’s - well. She exercises.” He wracks his brain for something else to say. “She’s a nutritionist.”
“Huh,” Alex states.
“What’s Scott like?” Hank asks, reaching, knowing that it wasn’t the same but unable to bring himself to ask, ‘What were your parents like?’ The other boy seems to sense this, though, and smiles wryly.
“Scott’s an ass. He’s always on my case about everything. But he’s good. We’re good. He, uh, works really hard.”
“Oh.”
“It’s okay to ask,” Alex continues, causing Hank to blink at the shift. “You won’t offend me.”
“It’s not about that. Offending.”
The lull in conversation is filled by Alison’s voice, singing the last of their final song: You were right to leave me, but I can’t go home without you.
The rock music that had been playing before gradually takes over the sound system again as Armando and the others pack up their instruments, letting the next band prepare on stage.
Angel basically launches herself at the guitarist once he’s within launching distance, shrieking gleefully, “You were great! Amazing!” Armando seems to be able to lift her and shoulder his guitar without any strain, to Hank’s envy.
“You guys staying for the rest?” he asks Alex. Alex looks at Hank, who looks at Angel, who smirks and says: “I’ll stay. I know Alex has a curfew or something, though, so.” She looks at Armando for confirmation, or something. He smiles back at her.
Alex grimaces. “She’s right. I have to get going. Hank?”
“I’ll come with,” he agrees, like it’s even a choice. They leave with a chorus of goodbyes (and a kiss on the cheek each by Alison), stepping out into the brisk air and finding it emptier than before. The smoker’s group is no longer by the door, and they hardly run into anyone on their way to Alex’s car.
“Your friends are nice,” Hank finds himself saying, to fill the empty space.
Alex just says, “Yeah,” and leaves it at that. He has to pull the car out of the space before Hank can get in the passenger’s side, because somehow another car had parked even closer to the door, and when Hank climbs in Alex is rubbing his hands together to warm them, the steering wheel probably ice-cold. They can see their breaths. Hank turns the knob for the heater up.
The drive is pleasant, Hank realizes with a jolt, even though they aren’t speaking. The radio is on, quiet, and Alex drums his fingers occasionally against the wheel or hums when he recognizes a verse. At a red light, he glances at Hank and their eyes meet. He smiles, and the light turns green, Hank’s pulse accelerating with the car.
When they reach Hank’s house, Alex pulls the car against the curb, and then he fidgets. He opens and closes his mouth a few times abruptly. What comes out of his mouth is, “Thanks for coming tonight, Hank.”
And Hank is - disappointed? Upset? He furrows his brows, confused. He feels like he had wanted more, but isn’t sure what exactly that would be. Alex waits until Hank is inside his house before pulling away, like some old-fashioned gentleman would after a date, except this hadn’t been a date, right?
Hank feels like he would have known if it had been. He throws his keys into the bowl by the door and shrugs off his jacket, flicking the light of the kitchen on.
That’s when he finds, stuck harmlessly by a magnet to the refrigerator door, the note.
x
Hank isn’t sure how long he sat at the island in the kitchen, trying to decipher his mother’s flowery script on that sheet of paper - torn off from a memo pad, from the looks of it - but it’s like he’s blinked and his car has taken him miles away, to the curb outside of Alex’s house. He sits there, idling, for a few minutes, thinking irrationally that his car knows nothing and has no business driving him to Alex’s house. When he shuts the engine off, though, the silence is suffocating, and he desperately needs to talk, to rant, to scream.
This, however, being two o’clock in the morning, Hank stamps down on that particular urge so as not to be arrested for disturbing the peace. Instead, he numbly leaves his car and stares up at what he assumes is Alex’s window. It must be Alex’s window. He remembers the tree and the talk about an easy escape. Resolved, Hank stoops to the sidewalk, picking up a tiny rock and decides that he’s going to do something stupid but will probably be able to pay for the expenses, if necessary.
He takes a few steps closer to the house, rears his arm back, and throws. The rock barely makes a noise, pattering against the roof. “Damn it,” he says to himself. Needs to be bigger. Noisier. Then: “Fuck it.”
He launches what he has in his throwing arm - his keys - at the window. It clangs and drops to the shingles right below the glass.
Hank has a moment of hysteria. He’s fucked because those were his keys and now how is he going to get home unless he climbs the stupid tree like a cat burglar and then someone’s going to see and call the police and then, yeah, he’s fucked -
Alex’s voice rattles him out of his thoughts. “Did you just throw your keys at my window?”
Rather than actually answer that, Hank whisper-calls up to the boy at the roof, “I need to talk to you.”
“You couldn’t have called?” Alex’s short hair is sticking up, and his t-shirt has holes in its collar. He shivers at the open window, irritated at having been woken up. “It’s freezing.”
“I-“ Hank says, feeling caught out. “Um.”
Above him, Alex sighs. “Hold on. I’ll let you in.” He disappears back into his room and Hank exhales in relief, waiting. In the next moment Alex has opened the front door and waved him in. Hank enters, feeling secretive.
“Where’s Scott?” he asks quietly.
“Sleeping,” Alex grumbles. “Like a normal person.”
“I’m sorry,” Hank apologizes, pausing on the first step, but Alex just gives him a fond look and a casual, “Whatever,” so he follows him the rest of the way up the stairs and into his bedroom.
His bedroom is, in a word, bare. A bed is tucked into one corner, its sheets rumpled because Alex must have risen so quickly. There’s a dresser and bookshelf and desk and chair. Half of the ceiling slopes downward with the roof, except for where the window, still open, cuts. It’s military-neat and there’s only one picture that Hank can find in the room, on top of the dresser. It looks like Alex with his friends that Hank had just met.
“The roof?” Alex asks once they’re both inside with his door closed.
“Thought it was too cold.”
“Could use a cigarette,” he says at the same time that he pulls a hoodie off the back of his chair and pulls it onto his arms and then over his head. It’s Hank’s Yale sweater.
He must be staring, because Alex admits, sheepish, “Yeah, sorry about the sweater. I was going to give it back after I washed it…”
“No,” Hank interrupts. “It’s okay. It, uh, suits you,” he finishes lamely.
Alex swipes a carton of cigarettes and a lighter off the table, smiling. “Thanks.”
They climb out onto the roof, one at a time, feet propped against the gutter to keep from sliding clean off. Hank finds his keys next to the window and pockets them. The shingles are cold but warm quickly underneath them. Alex taps out a cigarette and expertly flicks the lighter, inhaling and lighting the end of the stick with practiced ease.
Hank says, “I thought you said no drugs? Medical reasons?”
Alex breathes out a steady stream of white smoke. “No alcohol,” he clarifies. “You want one?” He holds out the carton to Hank, who refuses it with a shake of his head. They sit in amiable silence until Hank feels like he’s about to go crazy, but Alex, somehow, gets to it first. “So, what are you here for?”
“I found this note,” Hank starts, unsure how to continue, how to spill the news. “My mom wrote it. Left it for me on the fridge. A note. Like, really?”
“What did the note say?”
“It said: Honey, your dad and I are getting a divorce. Let’s talk tomorrow. Love, Mom.”
Alex lets out a low whistle. “Divorce?”
“Apparently. But, she couldn’t have told me in person? She had to leave me a note?”
“So you came here right after? Not that I’m honored, man, but - why?”
Hank finds himself rambling: “I don’t know, really. I guess I thought you would be the best to tell. First, maybe. I thought, all my friends, everyone I know at school, they won’t understand. They’ll pretend to be sad for a day or so and then it will be the weekend and no one will care anymore. But they’re my parents so I’ll still care, you know? And I might not see them often but they’re still mom and dad, and I didn’t even know anything was wrong.”
And yeah, that’s probably the worst bit - that he didn’t suspect. All his popularity, his intelligence, and he couldn’t tell that the people who birthed him didn’t love each other anymore, even though it was obvious now, in hindsight. They barely ever spoke to one another.
Alex says, “Hey, it’s not so bad. Even if you did know, there wouldn’t have been anything you could have done. They’re, like, their own people and shit.” He means for it to be comforting, Hank knows, but he can’t admit it.
He grumbles, bitter, “So astute.”
Alex coughs out smoke. “So why’re you telling me?” he asks when he’s recovered, eyes smarting.
“I thought you’d understand, or something. Because-“
“Because my parents are dead? There’s a difference between dead and divorced, you know.” There’s no sharpness behind his words.
“Yeah, I know that. I just. It was the closest thing.” Hank sighs, puts his head in his hands, feeling pathetic and tired.
It’s a while before Alex returns, “That’s, like, really sad.”
Hank feels like tearing out his hair at that. “Okay, I get it. Bad idea, confiding in you. About as good as confiding in a brick wall,” he all but snarls, unable to curb the anger that had flared up within him. He’s cowed a moment later when he sees Alex’s face, his mouth set in a grim line, cigarette burning between his fingers. “Sorry. That was out of line.”
Alex turns his head away from Hank, silent.
“Sorry! Say something, please. Come on.”
Alex says, “I have nothing to say. So you say something. Tell me about your parents, no bullshit.”
And Hank…can’t. At least, he doesn’t think he can, but then Alex turns back to him, his eyes so cloudy and real, and he digs deeper, finds the words he wants to start with, and then it flows. “My mom’s been unhappy since I entered middle school, I think. That was when my dad first started getting really big in the technology world. He stopped coming home for dinner and stuff. Then it was the weekends. Then whole weeks. I guess I should have reached out to her, then. But she started avoiding the house, too. She was always out running errands, or just running, I guess. I got used to it. I liked having that big house to myself. I thought it was cool; I could do pretty much whatever I wanted.” It’s easy, telling Alex his story like this. He’s not afraid of repercussions or judgment or saying the wrong thing. “What’s it like,” he continues, bold, “without parents?”
Alex narrows his eyes just barely, his mouth tight. He looks away again. “Lonely,” he says, finally.
Hank thinks of his house full of empty guest rooms and the dusty living room and barely-used dining room, his dad’s locked office and the half-furnished basement. “Yeah, I guess I know what you mean,” he replies. They sit on the roof in silence until Alex’s cigarette goes out.
“Why do you see Mrs. MacTaggert on Monday mornings?” Alex’s whole body tenses up at that. Hank has the brief, irrational thought that Alex is going to throw him off the roof.
“After I got expelled from South Hills,” he says instead, making no move to kill Hank and lighting up another cigarette, “North Hills looked into my records and found out I had been psychiatrically tested once before, in elementary school. They told me and my brother that the meds probably weren’t enough, that I could probably use counseling, too.”
“What are the meds for?”
“PTSD. Don’t look at me like that,” he warns immediately, before Hank can cement the look of sympathy on his face. Alex fidgets with the cigarette between his fingers before sighing resolutely. “Moira’s always telling me to open up. Um, so I was conscious, you know, the entire time when the plane went down, and I was strapped in right next to my mom, and I watched her die. Scott had been unconscious. Then, after that, some of the foster homes I was in hadn’t been so nice. Scott finally got me when he turned 18 and I was 12, and I’ve been living with him since. I’ve been diagnosed since I was eight.”
“Wow,” Hank breathes, unable to say anything else.
“Yeah. MacTaggert’s pretty useful. She’s really down-to-earth and stuff.”
“Remember when you told me that I had ‘rich people problems’? Now I know what you mean.”
Alex stubs the cigarette out on the shingles of the roof, suddenly angry. “Don’t pity me, okay-“
“No, that’s not - I’m glad you told me. I feel - better. It’s like, you’re not pretending to be okay, like everyone else is,” Hank explains frantically.
After a long minute, Alex accepts this.
They climb back in to Alex’s room and realize with a shared glance that Hank’s not leaving, not going back to his bare home, so without a word Alex pushes Hank firmly onto his bed, glaring until he’s under the covers, and then climbs onto the mattress after him, the springs creaking. He stays on top of the covers, though. Their bodies are curled towards one another, faces too close. “You tell no one of this,” he says roughly.
Hank says, “Who would I tell?” and feels a moment, almost palpable, so fleeting, when their breaths sync up. He could close the gap, but then he wouldn’t know what to do after that.
Then he blinks and it’s gone; Alex turns over onto his other side, his back to Hank. “Good night, Hank,” he whispers.
Hank swallows, heart in his throat. “Good night, Alex.”
x
The best thing and worst thing about the divorce, Hank thinks, is that nothing really changes. His dad will let his mom keep the house, and his mom will keep avoiding spending time in it. A week after the announcement, his dad phoned from Abu Dhabi, Hank guesses to see about his son’s emotional well-being, but he hasn’t spoken to his dad over the phone - hasn’t had a conversation with this dad lasting over two minutes - for over three years and after the initial hello’s and how-are-you’s (“Fine, dad. Senior year’s flying by.”), they had both breathed into the line, waiting for the other to speak. His dad had finally said, awkwardly, “You know that you’re mother and I still love you,” and it was too little, much too late, and it might have comforted Hank had he been five but he is seventeen and can’t even remember if his dad has facial hair or not. So Hank said, “I’ll tell her you called,” and hung up, hard.
“Asshat,” Raven says when she hears the story, dipping a fry viciously into the ketchup. Sean mumbles agreement but it gets lost as he bites into his slice of overly greasy school pizza. They serve pizza every Friday. Angel delicately scrapes off all the cheese on hers and piles it onto John’s plate.
“That pretty much accurately describes him.” Hank pushes his own slice away from him; he hasn’t had much of an appetite, lately.
“You sad? That’s sad,” Angel says, frowning at the tomato sauce on her pizza bread.
“Of course he’s sad.” Bobby, sitting next to him, places a heavy hand on his shoulder and sighs for Hank. “Divorce is, like, major. You know that like half of all marriages end in divorce?”
From his other side, Alex says seriously, “That’s not actually an accurate statistic. You have to account for age and whether or not it’s from a first, second, or third marriage and stuff.”
John laughs out loud. Raven narrows her eyes at both of the offending boys. “We’re trying to make Hank feel better, guys. Idiots.”
“You know what’ll make you feel better, buddy?” John starts, still chuckling. “A party! You should just throw a wild party. Fuck your parents, man.”
“Actually.” And all eyes turn to Raven. “I was thinking about having one this weekend. Charles will be out at Mr. Lensherr’s, since the whole school knows about them, anyway. So I’ve got the house to myself.” Hank always forgets that Raven pretty much lives alone, too, when Mr. Xavier isn’t around. Now the difference, though, is that Raven’s parents live together somewhere in Italy, and Hank’s parents would like to keep an area about equal to the area of Italy between them at all times. Somehow that launches the conversation away from Hank. His friends start talking about the party, then about Mr. Xavier and Mr. Lensherr, then about Kitty’s new haircut. And then Hank loses the thread, suddenly very aware of how close Alex’s arm is to his on the table, Alex’s heat making his hairs prickle.
Alex whispers, too close and strangely intimate, “You’re not sad; you’re confused.”
Hank bumps his shoulder with his own, creating space between them. “I’m not.”
“You think the divorce changes you. Maybe it will, maybe it won’t.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Alex shrugs, and it’s so familiar, how he can just brush off anger and agitation coming from the people around him. “You can talk to Moira,” he suggests.
Yeah, Hank thinks, like that’s going to happen.
x
So he has no idea why he’s standing outside of the school social worker’s office after school that day.
Mrs. MacTaggert’s office is small. A space heater in the corner on top of a bookcase makes it warm to the point of being stuffy, and when Hank walks in, it’s to see Mrs. MacTaggert hunched over some papers at her desk, which sits front and center in the tiny office, in a thin, neutral camisole. She glances up when he sits down in the only chair across from her desk. He’s never actually been here before, and he takes a moment to look around, taking it all in. The curtains are thin and blue and closed over the huge window behind the desk; Hank can make out one of the parking lots outside. The small bookcase with the heater is lined with thick texts with titles like Child and Adolescent Psychotherapy and Talking to Families in Need. Other than the books, there’s a suspicious lack of materials and objects that Hank had imagined a counselor’s office would hold - no motivational posters or five-step problem solving techniques. There’s a bright yellow stress ball on her desk, though, just within Hank’s reach. He takes it, and she smiles, waiting. “Mr. McCoy,” she states like an invitation.
Fuck it. “My parents are getting a divorce. I told my friends about it,” he says quickly, like ripping off a bandaid.
“You don’t seem upset by this,” she returns gracefully, putting her pen down and leaning forward onto her elbows. It makes the camisole dip dangerously low.
“I’m not, I guess. At least, my friends aren’t. They were for a second - upset for me - but then they didn’t want to talk about it. It’s awkward, talking about things like that.”
“But you want to talk about it,” she says evenly.
“What makes you think that?” He squeezes the ball in his palm until his fingernails press into his skin. If Moira notices, she does a good job hiding it.
“You’re here now.” And then she picks up her pen and goes back to her paperwork, which Hank does not appreciate at all.
“Aren’t you supposed to be the counselor, here? You can’t just ignore a student in need!”
She says, “You’re not on my caseload. Are you in distress?” Meanwhile, her pen goes chk, chk, chk on the paper before her.
“My parents are getting a divorce,” Hank says again, feeling like a broken record.
“But you’re not upset.”
“I’m a little upset?” he ventures.
“You’re a little upset,” she confirms. Hank thinks he’s recognized a pattern.
“You just keep repeating back what I say!” he says, indignant and almost rising out of his seat. He does the next best thing and slams the little stress ball back onto her table. Moira finally replaces her pen and sits back, comfortable in her chair.
“Is that right?” She smiles, but it borders on a smirk.
“Alex told me you’d be helpful, but I guess he was wrong.”
“Ah.” She holds up her finger like someone who’s just had a novel idea. “Alex told you to come when your friends were not upset for you. What did you expect of them?”
“I don’t know. For them to sympathize. To listen?”
“And what do they expect of you?”
And Hank almost answers, he really does. He thinks, to be popular and to be nice and to help out the teachers and go to parties and get good grades and run cross-country and play lacrosse in the spring and to graduate and to go to a good college and double major and to get a job and have a family and to get money. Lots and lots of money. It’s too much to say and the space heater is running on high. He swipes a hand across his forehead. Mrs. MacTaggert lets the silence sit in the office for a few long seconds, and then she nods to herself. She says, “I tell almost everyone this, so I’m going to tell you, too. Shit happens. You deal with it.”
“How is that supposed to help me?”
“You’re a smart boy, Hank. You’ll figure it out. You have adequate coping mechanisms, or you would have come to see me sooner.”
“Is that what you and Alex are figuring out?”
This time, when Moira smiles, it’s tight and doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s confidential,” she says, her voice low.
Hank leaves, feeling like all he’s accomplished is he’s learned that his entire future life plan had been planned for someone else.
x
part three
Rating ...R, for language and drugs and some sex
Summary from prompt: Alex is the outcast and Hank is the jock. There's a new kid in town and Hank is curious.
Disclaimer Will never own, boo.
part one
Everyone’s given up on the pool since the night turned chilly, and now they’re all sitting in the adjacent Jacuzzi, happily buzzed, the music of Hank’s iPod pleasant in the background. Bobby had managed to wrangle Kitty and Jubilee from their protective parents’ respective grasps, promising to get them both home before midnight, and really, who could say no to that face? No one. Plus, they added a happy balance to the group - Raven and Angel could only say so much to one another.
It’s only a little while later, when they’re all laughing over something that Raven shared that Mr. Xavier had done behind Dr. Frost’s back, that Hank’s phone starts buzzing behind him on the pool’s stone deck. He pulls himself out of the warm water, on his belly, shivering when the night air hits him, and answers, “Yeah?”
“Hey.” It’s Alex. Hank stands completely, reaching for a towel that’s draped over the back of a pool chair nearby, throwing it over his shoulders.
“Hey, man.”
“Uh, I’ve been ringing your doorbell for, like, the past five minutes.”
Hank slaps his forehead. “Oh, man, hey,” he starts, smiling despite himself. “Sorry about that. We’re all just in the backyard by the pool. Just come around the house.”
“Cool. See you.” The line clicks. Hank feels something like excitement bubbling in his stomach. It’s nice, but he climbs back into the hot tub before he can dwell on it.
“Alex is here,” he announces to the group. Across from him, Angel scowls, but she looks ridiculous as she does so, nearly completely submerged in the water.
“You didn’t tell us he was coming,” she bites out.
“Oh, my god,” Raven chides. “Chill out, Angel.” They’re both wearing dark bikinis that Hank is pretty sure they had picked out together.
“Who’s Alex?” comes Kitty’s voice. Her eyes are bright with curiosity. She probably thinks he’s Angel’s new love interest. Bobby loops an arm over Kitty’s shoulders, and then he loops his other arm over Jubilee’s shoulders.
“He might be Hank’s new pet project,” Bobby explains amicably.
Sean puffs on the joint he had rolled. “You’ve seen him; he’s that new blonde kid.”
John adds, “And he was expelled from his last school for fucking a kid up.” He makes little grabbing motions at Sean, who passes him his joint.
“Ooh,” Jubille coos. “Dangerous. I like it.” Everyone turns to stare at her, surprised by the change - she’s usually so soft-spoken and sweet. The beer probably brought that out. John looks at her with new appreciation.
“Oh, my god, guys, shut up,” Raven says again, because that’s when Alex appears from around the house, dressed simply in slim sweatpants and a tee, a towel and plastic bag slung over his shoulder. Hank waves at him; the others follow, except for Angel, who just rolls her eyes and blow bubbles in the water.
“Hey, Alex,” and that’s Bobby, extending the first olive branch. Alex’s eyes flicker to him and he smiles, briefly, nodding hello.
“You found the house okay?” Hank asks, noticing and dreading the lull in conversation.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Alex says, corner of his mouth quirking up, and then everyone laughs and everything’s okay. Raven tells him to join them in the pool, and Jubilee extricates herself from Bobby’s arm, climbing out to grab a beer from the cooler.
“Drink?” she asks, coy. Water drips down from her long black ponytail, over her shoulders and into the small of her back. She puts the beer in her hand forward, toward Alex.
“Uh.” He pauses while taking off his sweatpants, revealing swim trunks underneath. “I don’t drink.” The look of confusion that passes Jubilee’s face is amusing, to Hank at least. Alex throws his sweatpants to the side, hands swiftly pulling his shirt over his head, and then he throws the shirt and his towel and bag over to the side, too. Hank gulps, reaching for his beer, suddenly thirsty.
Alex is, well, fit. He’s all smooth lines and trim muscle, the cut of his biceps and abs something that other guys would be jealous of. It’s not like Hank and his friends are flabby, anyway. Hank’s long and lean, though, from all the running, hardly able to build bulky muscle; Bobby’s a swimmer at heart and has the body to show for it. And John and Sean may not be sports people but they have wicked metabolisms and enjoy the occasional run in the park or on the track to blow off steam, so they’re not bad to look at, either.
But, Alex’s arms. Hank chugs his beer. Behind him, Angel makes a noise of interest.
“Your body is a temple and all that?” she asks, sultry, and god, Hank thinks. She can be so shallow. If he had known that all she needed to be nice to Alex was to see him without a shirt on - well, Hank’s not sure he would have gone that route, honestly.
“Not at all.” Alex climbs in next to Hank, sinking into the steaming water. “Medical reasons.” He leaves it at that. Angel smiles at him. Alex smiles back. Hank wants to throw his beer at someone’s face, preferably Angel’s.
“Sounds mysterious,” she practically purrs, eyes smoky. Jubilee climbs back in next to Bobby, drink in hand, effectively feeling like she’s been rebutted and refused. Then Sean and Raven drag Hank into a conversation about the latest movie they’ve all seen together, and which ones look like they’ll be good next, and when he looks again, Alex and Angel have moved next to each other, sitting close in the water, heads bent together and speaking in low voices. They laugh over something, quiet and surprisingly intimate.
Hank paddles over, says, “What’s so funny?” a little too bright, a little too sharp. They pull away from each other quickly, like they’ve been caught. He forces a smile on his face.
Angel recovers first. “Alex was telling me about this one time he ran away in L.A. You know he’s lived like, everywhere? The cops found him, though, what, in an In-N-Out, with like twenty burgers in his bag.” She laughs again, doubly delighted by the story and by the fact that someone else actually knows what an In-N-Out burger tastes like. She leans against Alex, easy, her elbow resting on the deck right behind his shoulder. It’s only taken her a little over an hour to become this close, this comfortable, with Alex, and Hank wonders what he’s doing wrong. Why he feels like he’s never really got anything to say to him or about him or with him.
“How old were you?” he asks, settling in on Alex’s other side. A jet presses into his back but he tries to ignore it.
“Must’ve been about eight, I think.” Then something happens. Alex’s face changes like he’s shuttered off, eyes blank.
Angel sighs, placing a warm hand on Alex’s shoulder. “You don’t have to…” she begins, drifting off. She takes a deep breath, resolute. “You’re cool, Alex. I’m going to get changed, and then we can go to that thing with your friend?” Water drips from her sloping shoulders and curves and legs when she pulls herself out of the water. She gives a playful wave to the boys before turning and grabbing her towel and change of clothes, bringing them inside with her.
Hank wants to say, What friend? What thing? Can I come? but only manages, “Oh?”
Alex, apparently back to himself now, admits, “Turns out she knows my buddy Armando. I promised him I’d show for a gig. She wants to say hi.” He looks directly at Hank and tilts his head, considering. “I’ll invite you next time, if you want.”
“Yeah, that’d be nice. We could all go.” At that, Alex narrows his eyes, and Hank quickly retracts his words. “Or not. Whatever. Sounds fun.”
“No, it’s just-“ Alex breaks off, smiling to himself. “Everyone’s welcome. But it’d be nice to hang out, just us, you know?” Then Alex gives him a look that Hank can only describe as hopeful and it makes his throat drop into his stomach, and god there is something wrong with him.
Angel comes back, then, dressed in tight jeans and a low-cut tee. She puts a dark purple hoodie on over it. “You didn’t change yet?” she asks at the same time Hank says, “Yeah, that’d be nice.” And Alex looks between the two of them, slowly. He settles on Hank.
He says very deliberately, “Can I borrow a sweater or something from you?”
“Of course,” Hank says, catching onto whatever it is he hopes he’s supposed to be catching on to. “I’ll have to get one. From my room. You wanna come to my room?”
There seem to be too many knees and elbows in the way to climb out of the hot tub gracefully, but they manage it. Angel just says, “I’ll wait for you by the car, okay?” and then she’s saying goodbye to Raven with a wet hug and waving and winking to Bobby and Sean and the rest of them. Meanwhile Alex is dripping onto the deck and shivering and Hank wraps his towel over the blonde’s shoulders, and no one notices. But Alex’s teeth chatter just a bit when he says, “Thanks,” and then Hank is shivering and he just needs to get into the house so this horrible and embarrassing experience can be over and so they can just go to his room and-
Do what? Hank pauses on his rapid dash to the door that leads into his house through the kitchen. Alex stills behind him. Do nothing. Get him a sweater. Go back to the party. See him on Monday. That’s normal. That’s expected.
So that’s what he does. They stomp up the stairs to Hank’s bedroom and spend far too long trying to find something warm that isn’t a cardigan - Alex finally pulls an old Yale hoodie that Hank had thought he had lost out of somewhere. Alex towels off right there, his hair dark from the water and spiking and messy. He pulls the hoodie on, sans shirt, and then Hank has to think about all that skin next to the fleece fabric of his sweater. He says, “That work for you?”
It’s a little baggy on him, truthfully, but Alex shrugs and smiles and says, “Perfect.”
x
After that, it’s not like Angel and Alex are buddy-buddy, joined-at-the-hip, or anything, but sometimes he’ll sit next to her rather than next to Hank at lunch, and it’s ridiculous because Hank knows it’s a not a competition, except it might be because Hank understands competitions and definitely can’t think of any other reason he feels like someone has beaten him to the finish line by half a step when Alex and Angel turn to each other and effectively close out anyone else. At least, Hank thinks, it’s only Angel. Bobby may be nice but he’s always at a loss when it comes to actually conversing with the blond boy. And Sean and John could care less. Hank figures that Raven is the only person who might understand how he feels - she’s Angel’s best friend, after all.
So, he corners her one day at her locker, as they’re gathering books for Physics class.
“Do you think there’s something going on between Alex and Angel?” he asks in a rush without preamble. She gives him a funny look, simultaneously shifting her books to one arm and flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder.
“No,” she says plainly. “Why? Do you?” Her tone is faintly accusatory.
“You don’t think it’s, like, weird?” Hank hedges. Disappointment creeps into his stomach. Turns out Raven might not understand, after all. He holds his books tighter.
“I think it’s nice that Angel finally has a guy friend who isn’t constantly staring at her tits.”
“I don’t constantly stare at her tits,” he defends instantly.
“What shirt was she wearing yesterday?”
“That purple one that has the big butterfly right here.” Hank makes a broad sweeping motion across his chest. Raven smirks. “Oh.”
And that had been the end of that conversation. So Hank may be the only one who is crazy and vaguely threatened by the burgeoning friendship between the two most unlikely friends in the world.
They had taken their usual seats - Shaw lording in the front - and Hank and Alex had completed some ritualistic male handshake that had somehow become theirs in the weeks they had known each other, and Hank had felt a small victory as they did so, because no way would Angel be in on this weak display of maleness.
The weeks pass by quickly. Before Hank knows it, snow has fallen on the track and field, and the cross country season has come to an end. Lensherr threatens them all with suicidal practice sessions if they don’t take up a sport in the spring or otherwise keep in top running form. Hank figures his position on the lacrosse team is pretty much guaranteed, and doesn’t worry about it. Sometimes, he drives Alex home, usually on Fridays. He sees his older brother once when he’s dropping him off, having lingered in the car for longer than usual, chatting about nothing and everything, and finds he’s not surprised by the stern set of his lips, his dark sunglasses, how he’s toweling the grease off a large wrench. It’s kind of…how he had always pictured Scott. He’s like an older, tanner, brunette version of Alex. Hank had waved and Scott had nodded back at him as Alex climbed out of the car, smiling. Hank promised that, next time, he would go inside and meet him officially. He goes home. Sometimes his mother is there, and they exchange pleasantries and share a quick meal. Most of the time, though, she’s not.
The parties that had included most of the senior class in the beginning of the year taper down until it’s just Hank and his core group of friends most weekends, and Alex comes more often than not, and Hank focuses way too much on how, when he doesn’t come, Angel isn’t there, either.
“We’re all thinking about catching a movie and then grabbing pizza afterwards on Saturday. Wanna come?” Hank asks him the next time they see each other in Physics. Alex smiles, his mouth opening to respond, and he’s going to say yes, and Hank is going to offer to drive, and it will be a fantastic weekend. Except then Alex shakes his shake and shrugs.
“Sorry, man,” he says, frowning. “Sounds fun but I’ve got other plans.”
“Oh, yeah?” Hank doesn’t mean for it to come out as a challenge. “What are you up to?”
“Armando’s got another gig lined up. Angel and I are going.” He looks away for a moment, and continues hesitantly, “Do you want to come with us?”
“Yes!” Hank is immediately embarrassed by how quickly and enthusiastically he had answered. “I mean, it’ll be fun. A nice change of pace from the usual.” The smile that Alex flashes him is bright and uninhibited - a first, Hank realizes, since Alex is usually so bottled up and flat. No, not flat; guarded. He wonders when Alex stopped smiling like that, if Hank can make it a habit again, now.
“Great,” Alex says through his teeth. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”
Hank wonders if Alex knows what he’s doing, if he realizes that this casual invitation is like Hank taking his first steps into a new city or country. He’s going to meet Alex’s friends, listen to Alex’s music, see Alex’s world. It’s exciting and new and terrifying and he wonders if maybe this is how Alex had felt, that first time he had appeared at Hank’s house. He wonders when he’ll have the balls to step out of his own car after driving Alex home and walk up the front steps and through the door of his home. He resolves to do so, the next time Alex asks. No more pussying out.
Saturday night can’t come quickly enough.
x
The gig turns out to be at this under-21 venue downtown that’s a bitch to find parking for. Alex finally pulls up into a spot that’s barely big enough for his car and may not actually be a designated parking spot, but before he’s turned off the engine Angel is already pushing forward on Hank’s seat, eager to get out and stretch her legs after being bumped into the back. Hank clambers out gracelessly, wincing when the door hits the car next to them and rolling his eyes at Angel’s, “Don’t look, pervs,” as she exits, boot-covered legs first. She’s wearing a mini-skirt and something that she had called a ‘sweater’ under a tough leather jacket. Hank thinks he must have missed the leather memo, because Alex is pulling his own around his shoulders, over a simple black v-neck and slim dark jeans. He would look good in a lot of things, Hank muses absentmindedly, but he seems to have gotten down his uniform outfit.
Hank looks down at his flannel and denim, feeling a bit too grunge for this party.
“We’re like a million miles away!” Angel complains, kicking the door shut.
Alex says, “Not our fault that you wanted to wear your hooker boots,” with a grin on his face, and it brings Hank up short, because this is Alex outside of school and Hank’s friends. “You comin’ or what?” he asks Hank with a worried glance, and Hank realizes that they had started walking without him. Alex has an easy arm slung over Angel’s shoulders.
“Yeah, yeah, just, thought I left my phone in there,” Hank mumbles, coming up with an excuse for zoning out.
Contrary to what Angel had said, the venue’s not a million miles away - just a few blocks. Hank isn’t sure what he had been expecting. It’s certainly not anything special. A woman with too many facial piercings for Hank to count sits on a stool just outside of a propped open door, smoking and chatting with some other smokers. She bumps fists with Alex when they reach her and she waves them all through, free of charge. The actual space is like a cave. Deep, dark, and strangely low-ceilinged, with a stage at the far end that’s lit by overhead lights. There isn’t much of a bar, since it’s under-21, but along one wall there’s a counter with a worker who’s willing to sell the teens soft drinks and such. Hank figures that no one’s checking at the door anyway, so whoever decides to smuggle in real alcohol will likely not get caught. Hank’s thoughts are confirmed when he sees a group of teens near the left of the stage huddled close together, sharing a few flasks. Rock music is playing over the speakers, loud enough so that they have to yell to be heard.
Alex and Angel make a beeline for a little alcove that Hank hadn’t noticed before, where there’s a lumpy couch and a group already clustered around it. It’s dark, the lights of the stage barely reaching the area, but Hank can make out four other teens on the cushions and arms of the couch, who all wave as Alex and Angel near. He’s surprised when a tall, lanky African-American teen pulls himself up to standing and wraps his arms around Angel, who happily unlatches herself from Alex to return to hug. Hank shifts his weight from foot to foot as Alex greets the others.
Exactly when his presence is starting to verge on awkward, Alex calls, “Hey, Hank!” over the music, even though he’s only a few steps away. Hank walks over, plastering a smile to his face, nodding to the people on the couch. “Warren, Cal, and Alison. Meet Hank.” They shake hands and Hank mumbles the names to himself, committing their faces to memory.
“I’m Armando,” says a voice to his right, and it’s the guy who’s still got his arms around Angel, like Alex had earlier, only he looks at Alex and he doesn’t seem to mind at all. He’s holding out his hand, and Hank shakes it, smiling genuinely.
“Hank,” he says, unnecessarily.
Armando laughs. “Yeah. Alex has told me a lot about you.” He gives Hank an appraising look, laughs again, and then plants a kiss at Angel’s temple. She giggles. Giggles.
Hank thinks, Who is that?
“Sorry to cut this short, but you guys got here right on time! We have to go up for sound.” Armando waves a beckoning hand at the other teens on the couch, who all stand, stretching. Angel protests but lets Armando give her another peck on her cheek before he joins his bandmates on stage.
Alison gives Alex the drink in her hand, winking. “I know I’m not supposed to drink before singing, but I didn’t drink all of it. So, you can have the rest.”
Alex’s face tightens. “Alison, you know I can’t - “
“So give it to him, then,” she throws over her shoulder, walking away.
Hank takes the cup out of Alex’s hand and downs the rest of it in one go, grimacing when he’s finished. “Ugh,” he says, with feeling. “Thanks. That was horrible. What was that?”
Alex raises an eyebrow, amused. “You drank it. You tell me.”
“Cheap bottom-shelf vodka. And really horrible fruit punch. And she’s going to sing after that?” They lower themselves on the couch - Alex, then Hank, then Angel - pressed close together but comfortable.
“Man, you haven’t heard her sing,” Alex says, bright-eyed, as Alison steps up to the microphone with an experimental, “Check, check.”
x
The music, when Armando’s band starts playing, becomes a sort of background to their conversation. Angel is too focused on the band, on Armando, to really pay the two any attention, as she bobs her head to the guitars and drums and Alison’s crooning, honey-smooth voice. Alex taps his feet to the drums without any real conscious thought, and Hank is suddenly reminded of that confusing time in the library, when Alex had exploded at him and stalked away. He wonders if Alex is on edge, even now.
First, they talk about the music. It’s good, really. Armando manages some truly amazing shredding on his guitar, and Cal is a beast on the drums, but Alison’s voice, Alex keeps saying. That’s where it’s at. No matter what happens to this high school band, he says, Alison’s going to make it in the future. Hank is inclined to agree, but that could be the vodka working. That group of teens with the flasks had come over and offered them their dredges, friendly, clearly drunk and wanting others to have a good time. Angel and Hank had topped off their flasks gladly while Alex sat back, arms crossed. He was designated driver, anyway, Hank had thought distractedly.
Then, they talk about school, but who wants to talk about school on the weekend? So that topic ends prematurely, especially when Angel stands on wobbling legs and begs Alex to take her outside to get a breath of fresh air. They all go, waiting for Angel to get her nerves under control, Alex rubbing circles onto her back, and when they enter the venue and find the couch again, Armando’s band is playing a slow, sweet ballad.
For reasons that Hank can’t fathom, he says, “You know, my mom would probably like this song.”
So Alex asks, “Yeah? What’s your mom like?”
Hank jokes, “What, you interested? No, she’s - well. She exercises.” He wracks his brain for something else to say. “She’s a nutritionist.”
“Huh,” Alex states.
“What’s Scott like?” Hank asks, reaching, knowing that it wasn’t the same but unable to bring himself to ask, ‘What were your parents like?’ The other boy seems to sense this, though, and smiles wryly.
“Scott’s an ass. He’s always on my case about everything. But he’s good. We’re good. He, uh, works really hard.”
“Oh.”
“It’s okay to ask,” Alex continues, causing Hank to blink at the shift. “You won’t offend me.”
“It’s not about that. Offending.”
The lull in conversation is filled by Alison’s voice, singing the last of their final song: You were right to leave me, but I can’t go home without you.
The rock music that had been playing before gradually takes over the sound system again as Armando and the others pack up their instruments, letting the next band prepare on stage.
Angel basically launches herself at the guitarist once he’s within launching distance, shrieking gleefully, “You were great! Amazing!” Armando seems to be able to lift her and shoulder his guitar without any strain, to Hank’s envy.
“You guys staying for the rest?” he asks Alex. Alex looks at Hank, who looks at Angel, who smirks and says: “I’ll stay. I know Alex has a curfew or something, though, so.” She looks at Armando for confirmation, or something. He smiles back at her.
Alex grimaces. “She’s right. I have to get going. Hank?”
“I’ll come with,” he agrees, like it’s even a choice. They leave with a chorus of goodbyes (and a kiss on the cheek each by Alison), stepping out into the brisk air and finding it emptier than before. The smoker’s group is no longer by the door, and they hardly run into anyone on their way to Alex’s car.
“Your friends are nice,” Hank finds himself saying, to fill the empty space.
Alex just says, “Yeah,” and leaves it at that. He has to pull the car out of the space before Hank can get in the passenger’s side, because somehow another car had parked even closer to the door, and when Hank climbs in Alex is rubbing his hands together to warm them, the steering wheel probably ice-cold. They can see their breaths. Hank turns the knob for the heater up.
The drive is pleasant, Hank realizes with a jolt, even though they aren’t speaking. The radio is on, quiet, and Alex drums his fingers occasionally against the wheel or hums when he recognizes a verse. At a red light, he glances at Hank and their eyes meet. He smiles, and the light turns green, Hank’s pulse accelerating with the car.
When they reach Hank’s house, Alex pulls the car against the curb, and then he fidgets. He opens and closes his mouth a few times abruptly. What comes out of his mouth is, “Thanks for coming tonight, Hank.”
And Hank is - disappointed? Upset? He furrows his brows, confused. He feels like he had wanted more, but isn’t sure what exactly that would be. Alex waits until Hank is inside his house before pulling away, like some old-fashioned gentleman would after a date, except this hadn’t been a date, right?
Hank feels like he would have known if it had been. He throws his keys into the bowl by the door and shrugs off his jacket, flicking the light of the kitchen on.
That’s when he finds, stuck harmlessly by a magnet to the refrigerator door, the note.
x
Hank isn’t sure how long he sat at the island in the kitchen, trying to decipher his mother’s flowery script on that sheet of paper - torn off from a memo pad, from the looks of it - but it’s like he’s blinked and his car has taken him miles away, to the curb outside of Alex’s house. He sits there, idling, for a few minutes, thinking irrationally that his car knows nothing and has no business driving him to Alex’s house. When he shuts the engine off, though, the silence is suffocating, and he desperately needs to talk, to rant, to scream.
This, however, being two o’clock in the morning, Hank stamps down on that particular urge so as not to be arrested for disturbing the peace. Instead, he numbly leaves his car and stares up at what he assumes is Alex’s window. It must be Alex’s window. He remembers the tree and the talk about an easy escape. Resolved, Hank stoops to the sidewalk, picking up a tiny rock and decides that he’s going to do something stupid but will probably be able to pay for the expenses, if necessary.
He takes a few steps closer to the house, rears his arm back, and throws. The rock barely makes a noise, pattering against the roof. “Damn it,” he says to himself. Needs to be bigger. Noisier. Then: “Fuck it.”
He launches what he has in his throwing arm - his keys - at the window. It clangs and drops to the shingles right below the glass.
Hank has a moment of hysteria. He’s fucked because those were his keys and now how is he going to get home unless he climbs the stupid tree like a cat burglar and then someone’s going to see and call the police and then, yeah, he’s fucked -
Alex’s voice rattles him out of his thoughts. “Did you just throw your keys at my window?”
Rather than actually answer that, Hank whisper-calls up to the boy at the roof, “I need to talk to you.”
“You couldn’t have called?” Alex’s short hair is sticking up, and his t-shirt has holes in its collar. He shivers at the open window, irritated at having been woken up. “It’s freezing.”
“I-“ Hank says, feeling caught out. “Um.”
Above him, Alex sighs. “Hold on. I’ll let you in.” He disappears back into his room and Hank exhales in relief, waiting. In the next moment Alex has opened the front door and waved him in. Hank enters, feeling secretive.
“Where’s Scott?” he asks quietly.
“Sleeping,” Alex grumbles. “Like a normal person.”
“I’m sorry,” Hank apologizes, pausing on the first step, but Alex just gives him a fond look and a casual, “Whatever,” so he follows him the rest of the way up the stairs and into his bedroom.
His bedroom is, in a word, bare. A bed is tucked into one corner, its sheets rumpled because Alex must have risen so quickly. There’s a dresser and bookshelf and desk and chair. Half of the ceiling slopes downward with the roof, except for where the window, still open, cuts. It’s military-neat and there’s only one picture that Hank can find in the room, on top of the dresser. It looks like Alex with his friends that Hank had just met.
“The roof?” Alex asks once they’re both inside with his door closed.
“Thought it was too cold.”
“Could use a cigarette,” he says at the same time that he pulls a hoodie off the back of his chair and pulls it onto his arms and then over his head. It’s Hank’s Yale sweater.
He must be staring, because Alex admits, sheepish, “Yeah, sorry about the sweater. I was going to give it back after I washed it…”
“No,” Hank interrupts. “It’s okay. It, uh, suits you,” he finishes lamely.
Alex swipes a carton of cigarettes and a lighter off the table, smiling. “Thanks.”
They climb out onto the roof, one at a time, feet propped against the gutter to keep from sliding clean off. Hank finds his keys next to the window and pockets them. The shingles are cold but warm quickly underneath them. Alex taps out a cigarette and expertly flicks the lighter, inhaling and lighting the end of the stick with practiced ease.
Hank says, “I thought you said no drugs? Medical reasons?”
Alex breathes out a steady stream of white smoke. “No alcohol,” he clarifies. “You want one?” He holds out the carton to Hank, who refuses it with a shake of his head. They sit in amiable silence until Hank feels like he’s about to go crazy, but Alex, somehow, gets to it first. “So, what are you here for?”
“I found this note,” Hank starts, unsure how to continue, how to spill the news. “My mom wrote it. Left it for me on the fridge. A note. Like, really?”
“What did the note say?”
“It said: Honey, your dad and I are getting a divorce. Let’s talk tomorrow. Love, Mom.”
Alex lets out a low whistle. “Divorce?”
“Apparently. But, she couldn’t have told me in person? She had to leave me a note?”
“So you came here right after? Not that I’m honored, man, but - why?”
Hank finds himself rambling: “I don’t know, really. I guess I thought you would be the best to tell. First, maybe. I thought, all my friends, everyone I know at school, they won’t understand. They’ll pretend to be sad for a day or so and then it will be the weekend and no one will care anymore. But they’re my parents so I’ll still care, you know? And I might not see them often but they’re still mom and dad, and I didn’t even know anything was wrong.”
And yeah, that’s probably the worst bit - that he didn’t suspect. All his popularity, his intelligence, and he couldn’t tell that the people who birthed him didn’t love each other anymore, even though it was obvious now, in hindsight. They barely ever spoke to one another.
Alex says, “Hey, it’s not so bad. Even if you did know, there wouldn’t have been anything you could have done. They’re, like, their own people and shit.” He means for it to be comforting, Hank knows, but he can’t admit it.
He grumbles, bitter, “So astute.”
Alex coughs out smoke. “So why’re you telling me?” he asks when he’s recovered, eyes smarting.
“I thought you’d understand, or something. Because-“
“Because my parents are dead? There’s a difference between dead and divorced, you know.” There’s no sharpness behind his words.
“Yeah, I know that. I just. It was the closest thing.” Hank sighs, puts his head in his hands, feeling pathetic and tired.
It’s a while before Alex returns, “That’s, like, really sad.”
Hank feels like tearing out his hair at that. “Okay, I get it. Bad idea, confiding in you. About as good as confiding in a brick wall,” he all but snarls, unable to curb the anger that had flared up within him. He’s cowed a moment later when he sees Alex’s face, his mouth set in a grim line, cigarette burning between his fingers. “Sorry. That was out of line.”
Alex turns his head away from Hank, silent.
“Sorry! Say something, please. Come on.”
Alex says, “I have nothing to say. So you say something. Tell me about your parents, no bullshit.”
And Hank…can’t. At least, he doesn’t think he can, but then Alex turns back to him, his eyes so cloudy and real, and he digs deeper, finds the words he wants to start with, and then it flows. “My mom’s been unhappy since I entered middle school, I think. That was when my dad first started getting really big in the technology world. He stopped coming home for dinner and stuff. Then it was the weekends. Then whole weeks. I guess I should have reached out to her, then. But she started avoiding the house, too. She was always out running errands, or just running, I guess. I got used to it. I liked having that big house to myself. I thought it was cool; I could do pretty much whatever I wanted.” It’s easy, telling Alex his story like this. He’s not afraid of repercussions or judgment or saying the wrong thing. “What’s it like,” he continues, bold, “without parents?”
Alex narrows his eyes just barely, his mouth tight. He looks away again. “Lonely,” he says, finally.
Hank thinks of his house full of empty guest rooms and the dusty living room and barely-used dining room, his dad’s locked office and the half-furnished basement. “Yeah, I guess I know what you mean,” he replies. They sit on the roof in silence until Alex’s cigarette goes out.
“Why do you see Mrs. MacTaggert on Monday mornings?” Alex’s whole body tenses up at that. Hank has the brief, irrational thought that Alex is going to throw him off the roof.
“After I got expelled from South Hills,” he says instead, making no move to kill Hank and lighting up another cigarette, “North Hills looked into my records and found out I had been psychiatrically tested once before, in elementary school. They told me and my brother that the meds probably weren’t enough, that I could probably use counseling, too.”
“What are the meds for?”
“PTSD. Don’t look at me like that,” he warns immediately, before Hank can cement the look of sympathy on his face. Alex fidgets with the cigarette between his fingers before sighing resolutely. “Moira’s always telling me to open up. Um, so I was conscious, you know, the entire time when the plane went down, and I was strapped in right next to my mom, and I watched her die. Scott had been unconscious. Then, after that, some of the foster homes I was in hadn’t been so nice. Scott finally got me when he turned 18 and I was 12, and I’ve been living with him since. I’ve been diagnosed since I was eight.”
“Wow,” Hank breathes, unable to say anything else.
“Yeah. MacTaggert’s pretty useful. She’s really down-to-earth and stuff.”
“Remember when you told me that I had ‘rich people problems’? Now I know what you mean.”
Alex stubs the cigarette out on the shingles of the roof, suddenly angry. “Don’t pity me, okay-“
“No, that’s not - I’m glad you told me. I feel - better. It’s like, you’re not pretending to be okay, like everyone else is,” Hank explains frantically.
After a long minute, Alex accepts this.
They climb back in to Alex’s room and realize with a shared glance that Hank’s not leaving, not going back to his bare home, so without a word Alex pushes Hank firmly onto his bed, glaring until he’s under the covers, and then climbs onto the mattress after him, the springs creaking. He stays on top of the covers, though. Their bodies are curled towards one another, faces too close. “You tell no one of this,” he says roughly.
Hank says, “Who would I tell?” and feels a moment, almost palpable, so fleeting, when their breaths sync up. He could close the gap, but then he wouldn’t know what to do after that.
Then he blinks and it’s gone; Alex turns over onto his other side, his back to Hank. “Good night, Hank,” he whispers.
Hank swallows, heart in his throat. “Good night, Alex.”
x
The best thing and worst thing about the divorce, Hank thinks, is that nothing really changes. His dad will let his mom keep the house, and his mom will keep avoiding spending time in it. A week after the announcement, his dad phoned from Abu Dhabi, Hank guesses to see about his son’s emotional well-being, but he hasn’t spoken to his dad over the phone - hasn’t had a conversation with this dad lasting over two minutes - for over three years and after the initial hello’s and how-are-you’s (“Fine, dad. Senior year’s flying by.”), they had both breathed into the line, waiting for the other to speak. His dad had finally said, awkwardly, “You know that you’re mother and I still love you,” and it was too little, much too late, and it might have comforted Hank had he been five but he is seventeen and can’t even remember if his dad has facial hair or not. So Hank said, “I’ll tell her you called,” and hung up, hard.
“Asshat,” Raven says when she hears the story, dipping a fry viciously into the ketchup. Sean mumbles agreement but it gets lost as he bites into his slice of overly greasy school pizza. They serve pizza every Friday. Angel delicately scrapes off all the cheese on hers and piles it onto John’s plate.
“That pretty much accurately describes him.” Hank pushes his own slice away from him; he hasn’t had much of an appetite, lately.
“You sad? That’s sad,” Angel says, frowning at the tomato sauce on her pizza bread.
“Of course he’s sad.” Bobby, sitting next to him, places a heavy hand on his shoulder and sighs for Hank. “Divorce is, like, major. You know that like half of all marriages end in divorce?”
From his other side, Alex says seriously, “That’s not actually an accurate statistic. You have to account for age and whether or not it’s from a first, second, or third marriage and stuff.”
John laughs out loud. Raven narrows her eyes at both of the offending boys. “We’re trying to make Hank feel better, guys. Idiots.”
“You know what’ll make you feel better, buddy?” John starts, still chuckling. “A party! You should just throw a wild party. Fuck your parents, man.”
“Actually.” And all eyes turn to Raven. “I was thinking about having one this weekend. Charles will be out at Mr. Lensherr’s, since the whole school knows about them, anyway. So I’ve got the house to myself.” Hank always forgets that Raven pretty much lives alone, too, when Mr. Xavier isn’t around. Now the difference, though, is that Raven’s parents live together somewhere in Italy, and Hank’s parents would like to keep an area about equal to the area of Italy between them at all times. Somehow that launches the conversation away from Hank. His friends start talking about the party, then about Mr. Xavier and Mr. Lensherr, then about Kitty’s new haircut. And then Hank loses the thread, suddenly very aware of how close Alex’s arm is to his on the table, Alex’s heat making his hairs prickle.
Alex whispers, too close and strangely intimate, “You’re not sad; you’re confused.”
Hank bumps his shoulder with his own, creating space between them. “I’m not.”
“You think the divorce changes you. Maybe it will, maybe it won’t.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Alex shrugs, and it’s so familiar, how he can just brush off anger and agitation coming from the people around him. “You can talk to Moira,” he suggests.
Yeah, Hank thinks, like that’s going to happen.
x
So he has no idea why he’s standing outside of the school social worker’s office after school that day.
Mrs. MacTaggert’s office is small. A space heater in the corner on top of a bookcase makes it warm to the point of being stuffy, and when Hank walks in, it’s to see Mrs. MacTaggert hunched over some papers at her desk, which sits front and center in the tiny office, in a thin, neutral camisole. She glances up when he sits down in the only chair across from her desk. He’s never actually been here before, and he takes a moment to look around, taking it all in. The curtains are thin and blue and closed over the huge window behind the desk; Hank can make out one of the parking lots outside. The small bookcase with the heater is lined with thick texts with titles like Child and Adolescent Psychotherapy and Talking to Families in Need. Other than the books, there’s a suspicious lack of materials and objects that Hank had imagined a counselor’s office would hold - no motivational posters or five-step problem solving techniques. There’s a bright yellow stress ball on her desk, though, just within Hank’s reach. He takes it, and she smiles, waiting. “Mr. McCoy,” she states like an invitation.
Fuck it. “My parents are getting a divorce. I told my friends about it,” he says quickly, like ripping off a bandaid.
“You don’t seem upset by this,” she returns gracefully, putting her pen down and leaning forward onto her elbows. It makes the camisole dip dangerously low.
“I’m not, I guess. At least, my friends aren’t. They were for a second - upset for me - but then they didn’t want to talk about it. It’s awkward, talking about things like that.”
“But you want to talk about it,” she says evenly.
“What makes you think that?” He squeezes the ball in his palm until his fingernails press into his skin. If Moira notices, she does a good job hiding it.
“You’re here now.” And then she picks up her pen and goes back to her paperwork, which Hank does not appreciate at all.
“Aren’t you supposed to be the counselor, here? You can’t just ignore a student in need!”
She says, “You’re not on my caseload. Are you in distress?” Meanwhile, her pen goes chk, chk, chk on the paper before her.
“My parents are getting a divorce,” Hank says again, feeling like a broken record.
“But you’re not upset.”
“I’m a little upset?” he ventures.
“You’re a little upset,” she confirms. Hank thinks he’s recognized a pattern.
“You just keep repeating back what I say!” he says, indignant and almost rising out of his seat. He does the next best thing and slams the little stress ball back onto her table. Moira finally replaces her pen and sits back, comfortable in her chair.
“Is that right?” She smiles, but it borders on a smirk.
“Alex told me you’d be helpful, but I guess he was wrong.”
“Ah.” She holds up her finger like someone who’s just had a novel idea. “Alex told you to come when your friends were not upset for you. What did you expect of them?”
“I don’t know. For them to sympathize. To listen?”
“And what do they expect of you?”
And Hank almost answers, he really does. He thinks, to be popular and to be nice and to help out the teachers and go to parties and get good grades and run cross-country and play lacrosse in the spring and to graduate and to go to a good college and double major and to get a job and have a family and to get money. Lots and lots of money. It’s too much to say and the space heater is running on high. He swipes a hand across his forehead. Mrs. MacTaggert lets the silence sit in the office for a few long seconds, and then she nods to herself. She says, “I tell almost everyone this, so I’m going to tell you, too. Shit happens. You deal with it.”
“How is that supposed to help me?”
“You’re a smart boy, Hank. You’ll figure it out. You have adequate coping mechanisms, or you would have come to see me sooner.”
“Is that what you and Alex are figuring out?”
This time, when Moira smiles, it’s tight and doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s confidential,” she says, her voice low.
Hank leaves, feeling like all he’s accomplished is he’s learned that his entire future life plan had been planned for someone else.
x
part three