So I did a big ol' stupid.

The last part was meant to be a prologue and this the first chapter, but my dumb ass forgot to change the title when I uploaded. It's not that important, but the POV changes to first person, so I feel like it's more appropriate to have the distinction. This is the technical first chapter of Two Birds, One Stone.

Also, sorry this update took like four years. It's been a motherfucking journey. I went through a major block with this story for a while, but story recommendations from a friend and my tendency to stalk my commenters' reading lists got me all inspired again (this time it was @zeeadaj -- sis has good taste). My timing was shit though, and I didn't get back into it until school was about to start, and now I'm drowning in homework. This story has been going through some major plastic surgery, so I need a lot of editing time, and now I can't even edit on the go because editing on my phone gives me a headache.

So yeah, I'm a mess. But we still here. Anyways, story time.

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I didn't get a wink of sleep that night. I didn't even try.

The next morning, I was out of bed far before my alarm went off. I started getting ready extra early but moved as slowly as I could, as if the combination would somehow make the school day take longer to arrive.

I ate breakfast in slow motion. I stretched out brushing my teeth, shaving, and showering for as long as I could. I went through three different clothing combinations before deciding on one, which was absolutely pointless, because my school enforced a uniform policy; each "outfit" was virtually the same. Still, I was desperate to take as much time as possible; and besides, if I was about to walk into my destruction, I needed at least a shred of confidence.

As I looked at myself in the mirror, though, I knew that that shred would never come. I looked like week-old horse shit. My normally tanned skin was pale an sickly. An attempt to force a smile just turned into me grimacing back at myself, only the dimples in my cheeks standing to prove that the muscles in my face were working right at all. I even seemed smaller somehow, as if a day of nonstop stress had taken from my height and my build.

I turned on the faucet and cupped water in my hands, bending down to splash my face several times. "Get a grip," I muttered to himself. "It'll all be okay."

But that was more of a weak question than a statement. For all I knew, everything wouldn't be okay. Maybe I would be pushed face-first out of the closet before I even got to school.

When I arrived on campus, however, I quickly realized that nothing had changed. My friends greeted me the same as they always had. Though I knew they weren't homophobic -- or at least, the one that mattered wasn't -- I also knew there would have been some form of reaction if the news had leaked that I'd hooked up with one of three openly gay kids at school. I was safe. For now.

And, it seemed, for the rest of the day. I felt the balloon of stress that had been growing in my chest since Sunday morning slowly deflate as more and more time passed.

In my sixth period, my calculus class, I involuntarily shuddered at the sight of Jamie sitting at the back of the room, looking as unimpressed with the world as usual. He stood, and for a moment I tensed, fearing the boy was approaching my desk. But Jamie continued past me to the side of the room to sharpen his pencil, not sparing me as much as a glance, looking much more relaxed than I felt. Either he wasn't bothered, or he refused to acknowledge that he was. He simply continued back to his seat, where he promptly folded his arms over his desk and leaned into them to sleep.

The class went on as it always did, with Mr. Peters calling on me far too often because I was good at the subject -- surprisingly so, for someone who most assumed to be just another dimwitted jock who liked to party and act stupid. To be fair, the assumption wasn't far off -- I could be a dimwit sometimes, and I was a jock who liked to party and act stupid; I was just one that was also good at math.

The problem with being decent at a subject that a lot of people sucked at was that it drew lots of unnecessary attention from teachers. I didn't like looking like the prat that was put up on a pedestal, but Mr. Peters treated me like a godsend. When a student struggled with a problem, he more often than not asked me to help. A group of girls at the front of the class had caught onto this early on in the semester, and ever since, I found himself at the center of their group of desks quite often, trying to explain math to them while they stared dreamily at me.

Mr. Peters had been treating me like an assistant teacher more and more lately, and today was no different. But today, the familiar look on his face was directed to the back corner of the classroom, and I felt my stomach lurch as I realized what was about to happen.

"James!" the teacher called sharply. Jamie raised his head, his eyebrows raised and an extremely bored expression on his face. "Did you complete the problem on the board?"

"Does it look like I completed it?" Jamie said dryly, stifling a yawn into his fist.

Mr. Peters turned to me looking rather affronted, and said, "Mr. Bane, could you please?"

It was the first time he'd ever sent me after Jamie. Great fucking timing.

I stammered for a response, but Jamie beat me to it. "I can do it myself, thanks."

With a huff, Mr. Peters looked away from Jamie as if he couldn't even bother. To be fair, he'd put up with the kid a lot that year -- and we weren't even that far into the year -- which was something that never got easier. Jamie wasn't someone you could learn to deal with.

I didn't understand him, and I would never try to. He just didn't make sense.

Certainly, James Alexander was somewhat of an anomaly. He wasn't what one would expect when they pictured the brooding type. He wasn't tall or muscular. He wasn't dark-featured -- though perhaps he would be if he didn't dye his hair. He didn't pick fights, or vandalize buildings, or bully freshmen.

But he did mouth off to teachers, and skip classes, and disregard his grades, and smoke cigarettes in the parking lot with his sketchy friends after school. He refused to abide by the strict uniform policy by keeping his shirt un-tucked, his tie loose, and opting to not wear the required blazer so often that teachers gave up on telling him off for it. Everything about him, from his gaze to his sharp tongue, warned others to stay away. He wasn't someone you'd imagine to be scary at first glance, but the way he held himself sure made him intimidating.

It was crazy, because as more memories from Saturday came to me -- slowly but surely -- I found it hard to believe that this was the same sweet, flirty boy who'd kept me laughing and smiling all night.

What was even crazier, those of us who had been going to school with him long enough remembered the Jamie that lived before. At some point, that Jamie had died. Nobody knew what killed him, but nobody dared to ask, either. Now, the students of Richard Hanson High School walked alongside his ghost.

A few minutes of pencils scratching on paper later, Mr. Peters strode over to Jamie's desk to see his work. He must not have liked what he saw, because his shoulders stiffened and, turning from the desk as if he couldn't look at it, he said, "Liam, over here please," as if it was my fucking job.

I rose nevertheless and took Mr. Peters' place. Jamie paid me no mind as I glanced over his paper, finding not a single number but a series of doodles.

"So," I said awkwardly, leaning down, wishing the floor would just do me a handy little favor and swallow me whole, "What you've got to do is --"

"I know how to do it," Jamie snapped. I had never before been on the receiving end of his rudeness, unless Sunday morning counted, and I didn't like how it felt. As if Jamie was some invincible high and mighty being, too good for mortal math.

"Well it's not my fault you're drawing flowers instead of doing your work," I bit back quietly.

"And it's not my fault Mr. Pain-in-my-ass is making you do his job for him. Take your frustrations out on him, not me, big guy," Jamie said, and promptly began adding thorns to his rose. And to think, I had actually had sex with this guy. This obnoxious, condescending --

"Are you still here for a reason?" Jamie's voice was impatient.

I crossed my arms over my chest; maybe he was stubborn, but so was I. "Yeah. Waiting for you to do the problem, since you insist you don't need my help."

"That's unfortunate," was Jamie's sole reply.

But I kept standing there as he doodled, and to my (hopefully concealed) surprise, he got fed up with my presence and gave in. With speed that was alarming to even me, he completed a difficult math problem like it was nothing.

I was momentarily reminded of the boy Jamie had been before. But then he opened his mouth, and the image was gone.

"Done. Can you go now?"

I didn't do much more than see Jamie in my peripherals for the rest of the week. It seemed like nothing had changed at all, like Saturday night had never happened. Jamie didn't so much as look at me. Just as before, we were part of two different worlds.

It shouldn't have bothered me. I'd never wanted anything to do with him before, and I sure as hell didn't think any better of him now. But I couldn't forget that he'd given me one of the best nights of my life, even if the details of that night were blurry. In a way, he'd been my first. That didn't mean I wanted to hold his hands and cuddle up to him under the stars, but still.

I felt like there should have been something more. Some tense eye contact, or awkward nodding, or nervous energy. Any acknowledgement that something had happened between us.

Or maybe, a repeat of Saturday. I couldn't pretend the thought hadn't crossed my mind.

Jamie was an asshole, yeah. But he was hot, and I was a horny closeted teenager with very limited options. Now that I'd had the experience once, I wanted it again, and Jamie was so close, it seemed achievable. Fucking sue me.

What was I supposed to do, though? Ask Jamie straight-up, risking the (very high) chance that he'd laugh in my face? Slide into his DMs like oh, hey man, didn't see ya there, wanna fuccity fucc? bc i do. Yeah, no. The thought made me laugh, though. I'm hilarious.

As absolutely butt-fucking-awful as the prospect of rejection was, I couldn't stop considering the possibility. Sex. With a guy. That I would actually remember. A guy that I would never have to worry about feelings and commitment and coming out with, because I was pretty sure he'd rather shove a flamethrower up his ass and turn it on than so much as smile at me. How great would that be?

So much was my distraction that when Friday afternoon came, my best friend Bryan nudged me at the lunch table and said, "Dude, where are you right now?"

Blinking stupidly, I said, "Huh?"

Bryan gave his usual toothy, lopsided grin. "Where's your mind at?"

I cleared my throat. "Oh, just math," I lied swiftly. "Peters is really starting to stress me out. Honestly, you'd think he could at least pay me, given I'm practically the fucking teacher."

Bryan nodded, patting my shoulder sympathetically -- which made me feel a bit like a fly being smacked with a swatter, because Bryan was a gentle giant who didn't know his own herculean strength. "I hear ya, man. This is why I don't fuck with calc," he said. "If you're bad at it, it's stressful. If you're good at it, it's stressful."

"Ain't that the truth," I grumbled.

"Anywho," Bryan whistled, "you ready for tonight? Because I'm shitting myself a bit."

I furrowed my eyebrows, because that had to be the first time I'd ever heard him say that, or anything like it. Bryan was never nervous before games. He was the star quarterback, the best player on the field, and he was usually the one to keep everyone else's head in place. "Who are you, and what the anal fuck have you done with my best friend?"

In retrospect, that wasn't my smartest word choice.

"Dude, Vanessa is gonna be at this game," Bryan said, lowering his voice. "I can't fuck up."

Vanessa Martinez was Bryan's long-time crush. 'Long-time' as in since the elementary school days. Yeah. It was serious. I always told him to just go for it; Bryan was super hot -- he was African American, with short-cropped hair, a killer jaw-line, and enough muscle to make me feel small in comparison -- and a really nice guy. Issue was, he was too scared to approach her -- thought she was too smart for him.

And though Bryan was popular and attractive and could catch a date with half of the girls at school, his dating record didn't stretch very far, because he had his sights set on her.

There was some irony to our habits. Bryan and I were pretty similar in status (though Bryan sat in the highest thrown, being quarterback and the junior-prom-king winner). So one would think, if picturing the stereotype that first came to mind, that we both would be serial-dating douchebags. And yet Bryan managed to avoid that title, thanks to his unshakable affections for one girl. I, on the other hand, had gone through a sort of rough-spot-tumblr-angst-sexuality-crisis last year where I gathered a bit of a bad rap for getting around. So I, a boy who was very much gay, had been with a considerable number of girls, while Bryan, who was very much straight, had pretty limited experience.

I wasn't proud of what I'd done. And I'd finally stopped, just at the end of my junior year, when I'd decided that I couldn't deny the truth any longer, at least not to myself. Still, a reputation took more than a few months of stagnation to dissolve. So, while Bryan was seen as the sweetheart he was, I was labeled a player. Oh woe-is-fucking-me and my first-world-problems.

"Well then," I said, "Let's not fuck up."

Thankfully, we didn't. The game went just about as well as the team could've hoped -- big turnout, strong lead throughout, victory finish. Bryan was even more impressive than usual, but I doubted that would stir Vanessa. She didn't seem like she cared much for sports.

In the locker room after the game, as we were all bumping fists, talking about highlights and strategy, and already planning the defeat of the next team we would play, thunder sharp as a gunshot split the air. Instant silence fell, save for a few yelps and one kid falling noisily off a bench in surprise.

"I think that's God telling us not to get too cocky," I joked, and several boys around me laughed.

"Well, no offense, God," Bryan said, lifting his eyes to the ceiling, "But I think that's a load of bullshit." Grinning, he added, "My mom would kill me if she heard me talking like that."

My response died as the room lit up with a startling flash of lightning, followed almost immediately by a shock of thunder even more violent than the first.

"I should probably get going," Bryan frowned. "Not tryna die tonight, you know?"

The locker rooms began clearing out much faster than normal as boys hurried to escape what promised to be a heavy downpour.

I didn't go anywhere, though. I waited, pretending to be taking my time to get my things together, as boy after boy left. Really, I was just waiting for the rain to start. Maybe it was weird, but I'd always loved storms. Since I was a boy, I'd found something exciting in the way lightning streaked threateningly through the air, and something fun in guessing where it had struck, if it had hit anything. Thunder, though admittedly startling, was equally invigorating to me. I liked the initial heart-racing feeling when the sound pounded against the sky, then the quick progressive fade from a violent bang, to a soft grumble, to nothing.

Then there was the rain. Cold droplets of water -- big, small, soft, sharp -- that sometimes fell against my skin in a gentle glide, other times seemed to pierce like a hundred needles. There was something calming in the way it soaked through my clothes until they clung to my body, in the way it plastered my hair to my forehead. It was such a powerful thing, the rain; so natural and necessary, yet so underappreciated. We humans loved rain for growing our crops and giving us water, perhaps for soothing us to sleep with its consistent drumming as we lay warm and cozy inside. There was more to it, though.

To me, rain was the best kind of friend, because it listened unconditionally without me having to utter a word. There was no better time to sit and think than when in the middle of a long field, drenched by nature's best gift and listening to the distant sounds of a storm, seeing red every time lightning flashed bright beyond my closed eyelids.

It was in the rain that I'd first decided what I wanted to do with my life. It was in the rain that I'd realized who my real friends were. It was in the rain that I'd discovered myself. Most importantly, it was in the rain that I'd finally decided that I liked myself.

So I waited, urging the familiar sound of liquid meeting solid to reach my ears. It was only when Coach told me to leave the locker room so she could lock up that I ventured outside. I was met with a mere drizzle, and instead of following the crowd away from the field to the parking lot, I slid around to the side of the locker room and sat against the wall, tilting my head up so that the rain would bounce pleasantly off of my nose and my cheeks.

I listened to Coach's footsteps grow further away. I heard the noise from the field dwindling, little by little, anticipating with excitement the moment when it would be gone and I would be alone with the storm. As the droplets grew faster and more numerous, the sounds of voices grew quieter and quieter and the sounds of footsteps grew louder; parents and students were running now, probably holding up umbrellas or using jackets to cover their heads. Then it was pouring, hard, and unless the rain was merely drowning all else out, the voices were gone and everyone had left.

I stood, a small smile on my lips as I gazed at the dark, cloudy sky above me. It suddenly became even darker; the lights around the field had turned off. I was alone, or else very close to it.

I walked back around the locker room, stopping only to toss my bag underneath the bleachers, and continued all the way down to the field, not stopping again until I was at the dead center. And I let the rain consume me, let myself get lost in a million splendid thoughts, hardly paying attention to what I was doing, whether it was spinning or raising my arms to the sky or laughing at my own mind's whereabouts.

I found it insane that rain was so often associated with gloom, because as I stood there, drifting into limbo, I was overcome with an overwhelming rush of happiness.

After all, I had a lot to be happy about. I had decent grades, I was good at football. I had a best friend who I could count on and a family that, though it had its issues, still cared about me. I wasn't rich but I wasn't poor; I lived comfortably, I had my own car, I never had to worry about an empty stomach. People at school liked me, students and staff alike -- thought I was friendly and attractive and funny. I had just recently had an awesome night, even if it was with a less-than-awesome guy, that deleted any lingering doubts I'd had about my sexuality. That less-than-awesome guy hadn't told anyone. So there was nothing to worry about.

And I was gay. That was newer, but it was alright. I couldn't change it, and I didn't want to fight it. How could I want to fight anything, when the water dripping down my face was so calming?

So long as it remained a secret, I could stay just as happy as I was in that moment.

Then something disrupted my dreamy thinking. A drop that seemed a bit too big and a bit too hard. I ignored the first, but forced my eyes to open after the fourth. After the twelfth, I realized they were growing larger and harder, and that they left a short, searing pain on my skin wherever they struck. Hail.

So much as I loved the rain, I wasn't stupid enough to stay out in a hailstorm. If I didn't take cover, I'd soon be sore all over -- each pellet seemed more painful than the last. I was so far from my car, I knew it would be smarter to just wait it out here. So I broke into a fast jog toward the easiest cover I could find, the bleachers.

Of course, waiting under a metallic structure wasn't ideal during a thunderstorm, but at the moment it was my only option if I wanted to avoid the icy assault on my skin.

The rain was so thick and the field so dark, I could hardly see ahead of me, and I was pelted with hail as I ran. But I knew the layout of the field in my head, and, ignoring the pain, made my way to the nearest bleachers. I was met with instant relief when I climbed under, and it was only when I noticed a soft light coming from my left that I realized I wasn't alone.

On the cement floor, a figure that was unmistakably Jamie -- the hair was a dead giveaway -- sat cross-legged, leaning against my duffel bag. He was soaked from the storm and holding his phone with one hand and a book, slightly damp and small enough to fit in a jeans pocket, with the other. I realized the source of the light was the phone, which he was using as a flashlight as his eyes scanned the pages in front of him.

Jamie didn't stir upon my arrival, though I knew he'd noticed. Before I could really consider what I was doing or why, my mouth opened and sent forth the words, "What are you doing here?"

He didn't look up. "Caught in the rain," he said simply, sounding annoyed that we couldn't just ignore each other's presence as he'd been trying to.

"I mean, why were you at the game?" I asked, sounding stupid even to myself as I sat down on the cold floor, keeping a few feet between myself and him. "You don't care about football."

I didn't meant it in a rude way, and I was pretty sure it didn't come off as so. I only wanted to fill the awkward silence, and it was the first thing to come to my head. Still, Jamie seemed to find it necessary to be mean in response.

"That's funny," he said. "You think the people that come to your games care about football."

There it was. That cold, condescending tone of his that he used to sound a lot bigger than he was. "Silly me," I grumbled. "I didn't realize it was just a hot-spot for stoner kids to meet up."

"Do you realize you just described your precious football team, or do I need to break it to you?" Jamie remarked icily.

"No, the guys on my team actually have ambition and want to go somewhere in life," I snapped. I wasn't usually one to have a quick temper, but something about Jamie made my blood boil. He was just so rude, for no damn reason. "Unlike -- "

"So," Jamie interrupted, "Are you going to, like, keep talking to me? Should I move?"

"I don't get it," I said exasperatedly. "Why are you such a dick all the time?" I was pretty sure it wouldn't kill the kid to try his hand at being nice.

Jamie didn't respond, instead turning the page in his book, though I hadn't really expected him to. Clearly, the short -- unpleasant -- conversation, if you could even call it that, was over. I distracted myself by following the journey of an ant carrying a crumb across the floor. But it soon disappeared into a crack in the cement, and I looked for something else to focus on. My eyes landed on Jamie, and I let them linger there, not caring if he noticed or not. I wouldn't be embarrassed to get caught staring -- we'd had sex for fuck's sake.

The light from his phone against the darkness gave his face a pale, ghostly glow. At first, I saw what I'd seen on Saturday night, when my brain had been blurred by alcohol; I saw the cool eyes, the sharp jaw, the pink lips, the dark lashes. Now that I was really looking at him, though, I found that there were other things to notice as well. Like the tired circles framing his eyes and the paleness of his skin. There was a slight gauntness to his cheeks that didn't make him less attractive, but certainly less healthy-looking. With his clothes sticking to his body, I could see that he wasn't just thin but perhaps a little bit skinnier than he should've been.

Not for the first time, I wracked my brain for images from Saturday night, trying to recall if Jamie had really been as small as he seemed now. I came up with nothing, though -- all I could remember of his body was that tattoo.

A wilting daisy. What did that mean?

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fun fact I can't stand the rain