Chapter Text
"...one painfully awkward rejection per lifetime is more than enough, thank you very much."
~ You So Impolitely Walked Into My Dreams
Trevor Scofield is the kind of bad-boy mothers warn their daughters about. It’s a shame they never think to warn their sons, too, because during Arthur’s junior year of high school he learns three important things about himself.
First, he is definitely gay. Or rather, definitely not straight since he still has fond thoughts of that time he and Amy Pruitt felt each other up two years ago. But lately his eyes linger on a couple of soccer players in trig class, and not because he’s developed a sudden interest in team sports.
Realizing and accepting are two different matters, of course. He doesn’t tell his parents, or anyone really. There’s no one in his life that needs to know. And that, in a way, gives him a little elbow room to come to terms with this new understanding of himself. Existential crises don’t require audiences, after all.
The second thing Arthur learns about himself—he’s a thrill-seeker. That one is less obvious considering his perfect attendance record and honor roll status. But just because he wants a little excitement in his life doesn’t mean he wants a reputation for trouble. He likes flying under the radar, thank you. He just also likes that punch of adrenaline when he drives too fast on the backroads, and that smug satisfaction he feels when he sneaks out his bedroom window at night.
Arthur’s newfound life choices translate into the people he’s attracted to. Which makes sense considering Amy Pruitt did get suspended back in seventh grade for breaking into the nurse’s office. The rebels, the edgy trendsetters, the troublemakers ... they’re all magnets to Arthur’s surging hormones and teenaged fantasies. But none so much as Trevor Scofield.
Trevor is the reigning king of the school’s pierced and tattooed crowd. He’s the go-to guy for anyone looking for fake IDs, a dime bag, or someone’s tires slashed. He is definite bad news and makes no effort to pretend otherwise.
Arthur has it bad for Trevor. Very bad. He’s the first boy Arthur has ever felt this way about—movie stars and Calvin Klein models don’t count. Not even Travis Fimmel has ever made him feel like this … elated and nervous and achy all at once. To say nothing of the masturbation fodder Trevor provides.
Arthur has been aware of Trevor since he first transferred in during freshman year, an exotic creature with metal-studded belts and spiked hair, but their worlds never overlapped for the very obvious reason that Trevor is cool and Arthur has the social standing of office furniture—present but hardly memorable. But this year, Trevor is in Arthur’s economics class. Trevor sits next to him, on the days he actually comes to school. This year, Trevor talks to him.
It turns out, Trevor has brilliant blue eyes behind a thick layer of guyliner. Trevor goes to metal concerts and has been to Tijuana twice. Arthur is a little bit in love with Trevor, and in a whole bunch of lust.
Arthur is excited the first time Trevor invites him to hang out after school with him and his friends. He’s smitten when Trevor laughs at his jokes. He’s downright infatuated when Trevor starts teasing him about his floppy hair, tugging on that one curl in front of his face maybe once too often. Nothing is ever said or done outright, but Arthur thinks Trevor just might feel the same way. Or maybe he just wants Arthur to write his Econ paper for him. Possibly both. Arthur can definitely live with both.
Things are looking up when Trevor coerces Arthur into ditching last period with him. Just the two of them. They tool around town a bit in Trevor’s Tercel before parking on the top level of a mostly empty parking garage. They get baked on Trevor’s last stash of weed, and Trevor lets Arthur jerk him off in the backseat. They don’t kiss, but Arthur comes in his pants anyway. Afterwards, they sit on the hood of the car and share a cigarette.
“You going to Andy’s party tomorrow night?”
Arthur blinks, entranced by the way Trevor holds his mouth while blowing out smoke. “I—maybe. Are you?”
Trevor shrugs. “Yeah, I figured I would. Not much better to do in this shit town, right?” He flicks the cigarette butt aside and jingles his car keys. “See ya there, huh?”
With that, he drives off, stereo blasting. Arthur walks home, too stoned and dazed from his second-ever sexual encounter to care about the come stains on his jeans.
The next night, Arthur is nervous but hopeful. He knows it’s not exactly a date, but it kind of feels like one. Not that he’s ever been on a real date. But he wears his favorite red shirt and gels his hair. Just in case it turns out to be a date.
The party is in full-swing by the time he gets there; he had to wait until his parents fell asleep before his could sneak out, and they both like to eat ice cream with the eleven o’clock news. Andy Bergman’s house is more like a baby-mansion—both his parents are lawyers—and the place is packed with people Arthur has never seen before. He’s there for almost an hour before he finds Trevor in the back yard, having an awkward looking threesome on a lawn chair.
He doesn’t know how long he stands there with a small crowd of leering spectators, watching Trevor finger Arthur’s chemistry lab partner while another girl bounces on his lap. It’s long enough for Trevor to get his rocks off, giving Bouncy Blonde a conciliatory pat on the rump as he climbs off the lawn chair and drains a bottle of pineapple-flavored vodka. He looks up eventually and sees Arthur standing there, waiting for a moment that’s never going to happen.
“Hey, man,” Trevor grins, doing up his jeans. “Hey! You wanna go? These chicks are still wet ‘n’ willing, ain’t ya, babes?”
Bouncy Blonde gives him the finger, but Trevor doesn’t notice because he’s focusing bleary eyes on Arthur. Arthur doesn’t know what expression Trevor sees on his face—he’s feeling rather numb at the moment—but whatever it is brings on a derisive sneer.
“Aw, shit man, you look like you’re gonna cry. You didn’t think we’re, like, dating or some shit?” Arthur flinches, causing Trevor to giggle uncontrollably. “Did you? Did you think you were my little boyfriend?”
Arthur clenches his jaw, feeling dozens of eyes on him, hearing the murmurs as more people join them on the patio. High schoolers are like sharks, that way. “N-no. I don’t—”
“Fuck, that’s adorable, man.” Trevor gets louder with each word, all but yelling to be heard throughout the yard. “Like I’d ever date some skinny li’l virgin queer like you.” Some people laugh. The girls on the lawn chair watch with pity in their eyes.
“I’m not—” Arthur feels his breath hitch, grinds his molars together until it hurts. He knows it’s pointless to say anything, to protest. He’s alone amid a circle of predators, and they’re scenting blood. He feels cold all over, hypersensitive to the night air on his face. Surrounding him, the faces of the crowd are in sharp focus, seared into his vision. He can feel a tremor work through his body, starting in his feet and coursing up, and he clenches his hands into tight fists at his sides.
Trevor saunters closer, basking in the spotlight. “C’mon, dude, be serious. Look at me , and look at you.” An imperious wave encompasses Arthur from his converse shoes to his button-down shirt. It really is his favorite shirt. “If I wanted a taste of vanilla cherry, it wouldn’t be from some dimple-faced homo that comes in his pants the first time he touches a di—”
Trevor doesn’t get to finish that thought because he’s lying on the hard concrete, bleeding from the nose. Arthur’s fist burns from slamming it into Trevor’s face. It feels so good that he decides to do it again. And again. More. By the time three other boys manage to pull Arthur away, Trevor has a swollen eye, three loose teeth, a dislocated wrist, and a jaw broken in two places.
And that’s the third thing Arthur learns about himself that year—he likes to solve his problems violently. Preferably with extreme prejudice. Because it’s great to be liked, nice to have friends. But what’s really important is this—he is not someone you fuck with.