Chapter Text
Warren had never been the type for big, flashy social events, or large, crowded parties. He’d never liked the bass-heavy music, or the dancing, or the drinking and smoking. He was more of a stay-at-home-and-listen-to-music-type, and yet, there were always going to be times where he’d be dragged into things he’d never wanted.
And that could include his worst nightmare: Parties.
Well—he would never call them his worst nightmare , that would probably be failing and falling into obscurity—but, the vortex club parties were definitely up there on his list of things he’d feared.
There were always going to be the people who drank too much or smoked too much or danced too much or threw up too much, and he never really cared to blend in with those. He could stiffly stand in the corner with a half-full red solo cup of old beer and pray for somebody to approach him, and yet, it’d never happen.
So, when Max dragged him to that night’s party (for reference, she had friends going. People like Chloe who partied like a fucking animal, unlike herself), he was more than terrified. Maybe even mortified. But, Warren would never want to disappoint somebody like Max, so, despite his thoughts on the whole ordeal, he’d have to man up, anyways.
And when he enters, the stench of alcohol and smoke hits him like a semi-truck carrying weights. He squeezes his eyes closed in despair as he takes a hefty gasp of air before fully entering with Max by his side.
Over the blaring music, she explains her plans to ditch him for Chloe, or, at least, that’s how he hears it. He tries to listen, God, he really does, but they’re squeezing between girl’s dancing and boy’s drinking and crushing their cups into nothing but red plastic and tossing them into the pool, and he can’t find it in himself to focus.
Max whirls around to face him fully, her pale, freckled face a mixture of violet and dark red in the flashy lighting. She opens her mouth, hesitant, but rolls her shoulders and rubs her eyes.
“Warren, I swear, I’ll be back later,” she yells over the music.
Warren must be fucking deaf. He can only muster up a forced smile and nod and pretend he understood her. She watches him expectantly, but he just smiles with teeth and waves her off.
“Warren!” She shouts again.
“Huh?” He yells back. He finds a cup. It’s half-empty, just as he’d expected. Warren inspects in willingly. “Did you say something?”
“Yeah, I did!” She yells. “Did you hear me?”
“What?!” He takes a shallow sip. It’s fine. Tastes like beer… just as he’d expected. He winces. It tastes more sour than he’d like to admit.
“I said, I’ll be back for you later!” Max screams. “Did you hear that part, Warren?”
“Uhhh,” he hesitates. “No. No? Yeah, no!”
Max rolls her eyes and storms off, her fists clenched by her sides as she continues her search for Chloe. Warren stands there, his knees only slightly itchy as she leaves him. And he waits for a while, just swaying along awkwardly to whatever shit music they’re playing and taking small sips of the discarded cup he found.
But it’s awkward. And boring. And, he thinks, this is exactly why he doesn’t come to these kind of things.
He isn’t quite sure what he owes the people here—he doesn’t like any of them, really, to be fair. He doesn’t know any of the club members very well, including the ones he happens to share a class with—and, God, what an experience that can be.
When he first got to Blackwell, he had a class with Nathan Prescott—the stereotypical rich kid, with too much gel in his hair and his family’s money, of all things—and, to be honest, he’d always felt bad for the boy. Yes, he’d always have Prescott in him, but, deep down, he could’ve been different.
Warren never liked to chalk people up to what others thought of them. He’d heard all of the dirt on poor Nathan Prescott, and, to be fair, it sort of hurt to see him talked about in such a way. Nathan wasn’t always an asshole, especially to him, but he’d seen it all happen to other people. He’d never noted Nathan as kind, nor evil. Just somewhere in between. Probably stuck in his own head and hurting in ways he could never express.
Warren saw Nathan’s arms once , a few months ago in gym class. He’d caught a glimpse as he was pulling his jacket back on (it was one of the only days Nathan had decided not to wear two layers, sort of like Warren always did), but he’d never said anything. Only, he’d completely changed his thoughts on the boy, considering how shy and closed off he’d been when Warren first got to Blackwell. People change. For better or worse.
But he’d never hated him. No matter how hard he tried or how hard Max and Chloe had wanted him to, he could never bring himself to despise someone he knew was in pain. If anything, he’d wanted to help Nathan more than anything else.
And there always was that part of him that’d sort of crush on him every now and then. He’d sometimes pass through the boy’s hallway with ease, and Warren would stare as he’d walk by without noticing. Or he’d be washing his face in the sink of the bathroom, or he’d bite his nails by his locker, or he’d crouch over people’s slates and write some shit about them and laugh afterwards. It was always little things that made Warren sort of want him—maybe it was messed up, but he could never really control the way he felt about people.
Take Max as an example. She’s cute, sweet, and well-mannered, yet, when he’d been crushing on her, it had never occurred to him that maybe he’d wanted something different. Maybe he’d sort of wanted to cross paths with Nathan—maybe he’d want Nathan to just sucker punch him over and over till he’s pleading for him to stop, or maybe he wants him to strangle him or beat him or bite him or whatever fucked up shit comes to mind when he thinks too hard about him.
But he takes time to shut himself down. The thoughts don’t happen very often—of course, only when Nathan comes close, which, again, isn’t very common—and when they do, he can close his eyes and think about something else, and he’ll be fine.
And just as Warren’s standing-along-the-wall gets amusing, somebody obnoxiously crashes into his side and sends him stumbling along the other side of the pool. He catches himself, barely, before wobbling to his feet and glancing around at all of the people he, too, had crashed into.
And when he sees the culprit, he can’t help but scoff. It feels much too good to be true.
Nathan’s splayed out on the floor, his hair messy and undone in his eyes, and his voice a bit too uncontrolled for comfort. He chokes out, “Do not fucking touch me, bitch!” as some girl hesitantly backs away and rolls her eyes at him.
Warren’s jaw hardens. He watches as Nathan scrambles up, not quite on his feet, but not really graceful. He barely looks up at Warren as he stands there, his face stoic, yet, purple in the glowing lights. He could just be a simple, spinning image to Nathan, but he’s not. Unlike some of the others.
He finally manages to stand, with the help of Warren and his extended, trembling hand. Warren says nothing, but Nathan looks him up and down and narrows his eyes.
“You alright?” Warren shouts over the music—still, it’s insufferable.
Nathan looks puzzled. And drunk. But more confused, or, stuck somewhere in between.
“Nathan?” Warren tries again. It’s never been very easy to reach Nathan, anyways. But he can only stare blankly at Warren and maybe wait for some coherent response to form in his head.
“ Huh ?” Is somehow the only thing he can think of. He hasn’t blinked yet, and Warren makes an incredible note of this as he’s already reeling himself.
“I asked if you were okay !” Warren shouts. Nathan’s squinting and staring with his mouth slightly hung open and his hand still tucked between Warren’s. He doesn’t seem to notice. “ Nathan, are you okay ?”
It’s such a simple question, but he just looks off. Warren scrunches up his face, but Nathan remains stoic and somewhat stony, even with the lights flashing in his eyes. He raises his eyebrows, then pauses, then squints again.
“ Am I okay ?” He replies with a dry laugh. “Oh, fuck off. You have no fucking idea.”
Warren stands conflicted. He’s confused—he’s never really understood Nathan and whatever he’s going through, but there it is again. The side of him that wants to understand him. That wants to, sort of, be there or know him in ways that nobody else does. And as he stands here, staring at him in the dark, all of those things can’t help but come to light.
“I mean… you fell. Not… not overall,” Warren explains. “or anything.”
Nathan tilts his head in confusion. Warren only shakes his head.
“Nevermind. Nevermind. Scratch that,” he says. “Are you okay now ?”
“Now?” He’s staring at him harder than he’d like to admit. Warren can only pray that the lights hide how red his face is, or that Nathan’s dizziness will hide how shaky his hands are. “I don’t… I don’t fuckin’ know! How should. How should I even… know that , bro?”
Warren rubs his tired eyes with a free hand. He tries to speak, but Nathan is pushing himself against him and trying to speak or express whatever drunk feelings he has without being weird. Warren tries to catch his breath, but Nathan squeezes tighter onto his hand and just stares at him with shadowed eyes.
“What? What… what is that, Nathan?” Warren asks, still straining his voice when compared to the music. “Nathan? Hello? Why’re you…”
“You wanna get out of here?” He asks, his mouth awfully close to Warren’s ear. He draws back to look at him, even with the lights flashing in their eyes, and he’s too flustered to form any kind of coherent thought. “Ya’know… just… I think I. Need to. Sober up.”
Warren takes a moment to think. He’s never been so close to Nathan before, let alone anyone, and to see him up close is like seeing the Mona Lisa. But only better. And as he stares absent-mindedly, he just now notices all of the specks and freckles and small scars on his face that he’d never had the chance to see before.
He can only admire him for so long. He catches himself, nodding and holding his breath to the best of his ability.
“What, like…” Warren pauses. “do you need to puke, or something?”
Warren tends to be quite clueless at times, and Nathan seems to notice. But there isn’t much more he can make obvious without feeling off about it.
“ Yeah. Oh, man, I’m about to fucking retch alllll fuckin’ over you, asshole,” he says. It’s sarcastic, but Warren panics.
“Oh, God, okay,” Warren chokes out. As he’s frantically nodding towards the bathroom and tightening his hand around Nathan’s to the beating of his heart, Nathan is trying not to laugh under his breath. “Bathroom. Bathroom. Go, go, go. And don’t retch on me, dude! ”
He shoves Nathan forward and, somewhat, towards the general direction of the bathroom. By now he’s at least let go of his hand, which is a start, but Nathan hurries ahead and past the crowd while Warren lags behind.
And to think, this is all just to understand some snob. Warren has never once seen Nathan show kindness to any of his friends, let alone, anybody at all, and still.
Maybe Warren thinks he needs to prove something. Maybe, he thinks, Nathan isn’t all that bad and is actually quite sexy and he’s letting the hormones get to him, but then again, he thought he’d already established that.
It’s Nathan Prescott , anyways—he puts way too much product in his hair, he takes an hour and a half in the shower, he bites his nails way too much for comfort, he always smells like smoke and dried blood, and he never pushes in his chair after class—he’s never been perfect, and though Warren’s never thought he was, he persists.
Nathan stumbles into the bathroom head first. Warren stays close behind, despite getting lost in the chaos for a moment or two. But he only stands there by the wall—not puking, not running to a stall, nothing.
Warren freezes as he enters the doorway. “Why aren’t you going?”
“Letting it sit,” he says.
Warren only stares. He feels much too awkward to be alone in a cramped bathroom with Nathan Prescott.
“Uh, o-kay ,” Warren laughs wryly. It's followed by an amount of tense silence. It irks Warren. “What about now?”
Nathan grows frustrated. “ Je-sus , Gayram, I thought you were supposed to be smart!”
“What?” Warren raises his eyebrows.
“Can’t you take a hint?” He asks sternly. When Warren doesn’t reply, he shouts, “I’m drunk. I want a good fuck. Can you do that?”
Warren would hate to admit how excited he is. He would hate to admit how badly he’s indirectly wanted this, or how needy he feels when Nathan snaps at him, or how much he desperately wants Nathan to kiss him.
He can’t help but smile. It’s embarrassing, and Nathan notices, but Warren doesn’t care.
“You’re messing with me,” Warren laughs. “You’re funny. That’s funny , Nathan. Gosh.”
Though he’s sure Nathan isn’t joking (since when does Nathan Prescott joke about anything ?), Warren casually plays it off in hopes that Nathan will, in response, do whatever he wants to him.
But he doesn’t look very amused. Maybe he thinks Warren is very blunt. Maybe not.
Nathan leans closer to the wall and just stares with those same shadowed eyes. Warren clicks his tongue and kind of laughs, but Nathan doesn’t find it funny.
Warren laughs again. Maybe just to fill the unbearable silence, and Nathan says nothing.
“You’re kidding, right?” Warren says again. He doesn’t realize how warm he is.
“No?” Nathan scoffs. “Are you?”
Warren holds his breath. He feels almost like he’s trapped in an oven, and Nathan is just standing there against the wall with a straight face. It makes him sick.
“I don’t think so,” Warren says.
The bathroom is darker than he expected, and, somehow, cleaner. It’s vacant, he hopes, only littered with stray squares of unused toilet paper and crumpled up trash on the floor. Otherwise, it looks exactly how it almost always looks.
Other than the fact that he’s standing inches away from the apparently-drunk-and-horny-Nathan-Prescott. It’s an interesting sight, Warren admits.
A million different scenarios go through Warren’s head—he could be kissing Nathan Prescott in the bathroom, pressed against the wall and squirming below him. Or, he could happen to get the upper hand, and do whatever he wants to him , and not the other way around.
Warren laughs again. By now, Nathan must be growing grey hairs.
“Fuck’re you laughing at, huh ?” Nathan squints, but Warren can’t bring himself to stop laughing.
“I’m not laughing at anything,” Warren says. “Just felt like laughing.”
Nathan lowers his head to give Warren yet another judgmental, drunk glance. Warren only smiles back. Nathan doesn’t seem to know what to do with this.
“ Soooo ,” Warren hums as he waits. Nathan doesn’t flinch. “You want me to kiss you, or what?”
“Neverfuckingmind that!” Nathan shouts. “I really did think you were smarter than this. Now you’re just’a fuckin’ waste of my time.”
Warren expected more from him. His heart isn’t quite affected by his words, neither is the rest of his body, but Nathan is redder than a fucking ripe tomato and slipping out from under Warren to go towards the door.
And with every ounce of courage Warren has remaining, he grabs Nathan by the collar of his jacket and shoves him against the opposite wall. Nathan stares at him with wide, suddenly sobered eyes, and Warren kisses him.
Once he’s realized what he’s done, it’s too late. Warren is kissing Nathan a lot harder than he’d expected himself to, and, for once, Nathan seems to be enjoying himself.
Warren tightens his fingers around the collar as they loosen, only pulling and shoving Nathan forward, then backwards again against the wall. When Nathan’s head hits the concrete wall, he lets out a small moan that sends Warren’s head reeling.
They break apart for air, where Warren’s eyes gloss over Nathan’s flustered face and suddenly shaky and unwound appearance. Warren catches his breath—Nathan looks up at him with lidded eyes, and Warren just forces down a smile.
In all of the years he’s seen Nathan slouched over a book or a camera, he’s never seen him so undone. He’s never seen him so red despite his anger, nor has he ever seen him look so desperate for something. And, God, Warren feels powerful.
He doesn’t hesitate to lean back in and catch Nathan’s lips in his own, tilting his head backwards against the wall to kiss him deeper. He pulls his hair at the roots, resulting in another shy moan from him.
Warren hadn’t expected his hair to be so greasy—he didn’t know what he expected from Nathan in the first place, but it was never this. It was never the greasy, somewhat-somehow crunchy hair, or the moaning or the kissing or the sex or anything. He never even expected Nathan to even lay eyes on him that night—and yet, here they are.
Nathan pulls Warren in by the sides of his head, and Warren makes note of how sweaty his palms are. He tries to bite Nathan’s bottom lip, but he slips back with closed eyes.
Warren says nothing. Only, Nathan looks more lost in thought than anything. He licks his lips, then, Warren notices, his shoulders twitch momentarily. Still, he’d rather be silent than piss him off again.
Warren returns his hands to Nathan’s neck. He doesn’t dare to look away from Nathan or start humming or pick his nails or stop touching him, because he knows Nathan will hate that. It’s just the kind of person he is, and Warren finds it important not to anger somebody like him. Even if they weren’t making out.
Warren traces his thumb back and forth along the warm skin on Nathan’s exposed neck. He keeps his tongue forked between his teeth so as not to upset the other, and simply just because he has no idea what to say.
But Nathan must be over it by then. He lifts Warren’s chin and returns to kissing him. Warren continues to absentmindedly drag his thumb along Nathan’s neck and down, which makes Nathan choke.
Warren makes the next move—he tilts Nathan’s head back further, then carefully dips his tongue into his mouth. Nathan’s twists along his, and Warren’s knees buckle.
Nathan opens his mouth a bit further. Warren appreciates that, in the moment at least, then returns to slotting his tongue between Nathan’s idle one. He tightens his hands around his neck, still absentminded and unaware he’s choking him.
But Nathan’s enjoying himself a lot more than Warren would’ve ever expected. He presses his sweaty palms on Warren’s tightening fists, which anchors him back to reality.
He pauses. Nathan notices, and grabs him by his jaw and molds his skin like he’s clay and the boy will leave some sort of imprint. He kisses him harder, then harder, than deeper, then scrapes Warren’s jaw with his bitten fingernails and only gasps when Warren whines.
Warren closes his eyes. He can only feel his hands tightening around Nathan’s neck. He can only feel Nathan’s lips on his, or his tongue in his mouth, or his teeth nicking whatever he can. He can only smell the smoke and beer on him, or whatever expensive cologne he drowned himself in before coming here.
And, again, he can only feel how warm his face is or how shaky his hands are or how fast his heart is beating. He leans in closer, then closer, kissing Nathan harder and deeper, pressing one sweaty forehead to another as Nathan struggles for air.
He stirs, attempting to pry Warren’s hands off of him in an act of desperation, but he persists. He tries to choke out Warren’s name, and when he finally gets that gasp of air he’d been begging for, he whines.
It doesn’t take very long for Nathan to shove himself onto Warren. He sends him flying towards the nearest stall, where Warren awkwardly breaks apart to crack open the door, then sends Nathan in first.
And, again, it doesn’t take very long for them to return to kissing. Warren grabs a fistful of Nathan’s hair, and Nathan pulls at his layered t-shirt in hopes to get some kind of sound out of him. It works, Warren whimpers, and Nathan feels very rewarded.
He slips his hands beneath Warren’s shirts and feels around his stomach for a time. He makes a point of kissing down his neck with ease, sinking in his teeth deeper into Warren’s soft, burning skin.
Warren opens his mouth to moan, which Nathan takes quick advantage of. He slides his tongue along the roof of Warren’s mouth, then along his own tongue, then back.
His hands wander under Warren’s chest until he draws Nathan’s scarred wrists back and trails kisses from his jawline down to his neck. He bites, then licks, then presses rough kisses to the sensitive spots and tugs at Nathan's scalp as he whines.
Warren holds his breath. He can’t help but wish he could freeze time, just to see Nathan so desperate and unkept and hot. When he closes his eyes, he’s always going to be there, pinned to the stall door with a red face and shaking legs. And he’ll always look beautiful, to Warren, at least.
As Warren breathes down his neck, he shivers, and ju for a second, his shoulders twitch for no real reason. His hands rush down Warren’s chest until they’re undoing the button on Warren’s jeans and he’s kneeling before him.
Not a lot of time passes between them slobbering all over each other and giving blowjobs in a crowded bathroom stall. Nathan is tired, but he doesn’t like to limit himself. Warren’s noticed that about him over the years. He’s oddly stubborn. Maybe that sort of turns him on.
But he looks so good on his knees—Warren wishes he could at least take a picture. He’s clawing at Warren’s thighs with his bitten nails and his dick in his mouth— God , Warren is a lot more excited than he should be.
He’s only slightly concerned about the fact Nathan hasn’t said a single word since they’d started kissing in the first place. The only reason Warren hadn’t brought it up is because—he knows Nathan is unpredictable. He’s seen him around Max and Chloe. He’s heard all the stories. Everybody’s heard the stories.
Everybody at Blackwell knows about Nathan and all the little things he does. They all know about his trouble with anger, they all know about his drug use, they’ve all seen the half-empty pill bottles and the cuts on his arms and the bloody razors. They’ve all seen him twitch and lash out and hallucinate and panic when nothing is there. Everybody knows about Nathan Prescott.
And somehow, it turns them all away. Warren isn’t sure how Nathan reacts to the stories, especially knowing that his secret life has been aired out to the entire school, but he hopes to reach him. Warren wants to know Nathan for more than the rumors and the tales and everything bad they all say about him.
He doesn’t want to know about the asshole, snobby rich kid, nor does he want to get involved in his whole drug cycle, but he wants to be there. He’d like to know whatever sickened, troubled boy hides behind the big bad wolf, or whoever flushes their pills down the toilet past midnight, or who lays in bed all day and listens to whale sounds—Warren heard it once, actually, the same day he saw his cuts, and he’s thought of him differently ever since then.
But now isn’t really the time. Nathan has Warren’s dick down his throat, and Warren is closer than he’d like to be. He tangles his trembling fingers in Nathan’s hair, digging and digging into his scalp, praying that he doesn’t bleed or snap at him or whatever Nathan would ever do to him. He just wants it to last.
“Nathan,” Warren chokes out. He whines, which was unexpected, but Nathan looks up at him. “Close.”
That’s all it takes. Warren finishes after a minute or two, then followed by Nathan pulling himself off and wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket.
And for a time, Warren just stares. He doesn’t realize, but he can’t help it. He only admires him, noting every aspect of his beauty that he can before Nathan decides to open his mouth.
He says, “You gonna do me now?”
Warren freezes. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, then drops to his knees.
Surprisingly, it doesn’t last very long—Nathan seems embarrassed, but he tends to hide that aspect of himself. But Warren stands up and wipes his mouth and smiles, which Nathan somehow returns.
They stand by the door for a moment, just staring. Warren makes note of his eyes—blue, incredibly so, and a lot different when compared to his photos from early Blackwell years. He used to have a spark, and now he doesn’t.
Nathan studies Warren’s face. He smells, and tastes, like peppermint gum, apparently, and when he smiles, it’s a bit too lopsided not to notice. His eyes are like coffee, or chocolate, he can’t really decide, and his hair is apparently softer than cotton.
Of course, he’ll never express these things to people. And Warren will never tell Max or Chloe about how Nathan smelt like smoke and old beer, or how he was the best kisser in the world, or how when
he whined, he sounded like a dog. Max nor Chloe would ever know about how he tasted like alcohol, or how his hair felt more unpleasant than he’d like.
But Warren pulls his pants back up and waits for Nathan to say something. He looks Warren up and down, up and down, then freezes at his dick, then moves back to his face.
And much to Warren’s surprise, he takes him by the neck, his arm wrapped over his shoulders, and analyzes every part of his face—his freckles, his chapped lips, his button nose, his coffee and/or chocolate eyes, everything. Then, after an unbearable second, he kisses him on the lips.
It’s much softer than the kisses before. And, to be honest, very pleasant. Warren smiles, and Nathan barely steps back.
“I’ll talk to you later, ‘okay?” Nathan says.
And Warren’s heart almost stops.
He gives him one final glance before slipping out of the stall. Warren holds his breath as he hears him exit the bathroom, then finally catches air once he’s gone.
Nathan made it a point to “talk to him later”. Warren thinks, there’ll be a later. And that thought sends him reeling. You know, butterflies in his stomach, his heart racing, his head in a whirl.
He exits the stall and splashes his reddened face with water from one of the sinks—he stares at himself for a time and wonders how Nathan of all people could possibly be attracted to him—none of it adds up. None of it makes sense.
Warren prays it isn’t a dream. He takes his phone from his pocket and checks his messages, only to see an array from Max, telling him to meet her out front.
He takes a few final moments to look at himself in the mirror, his hair messy and undone, his neck sticky and some sort of blotchy red, and his eyes exhausted and half-lidded, before leaving to find Max out front.
God, this better not be a dream.