Chapter Text
Waylon hasn’t known Eddie for very long. The two of them met during summer semester at a local community college, both of them running late and really fucking lost.
They aren’t looking where they’re going, too absorbed in the layout of the map in their hands to notice each other until they clash, backpacks and paperwork sprawled between them. In their haste to gather up their belongings, their apologies overlap.
Waylon picks up Eddie’s class schedule by mistake, recognizes the teachers name and classroom number. Waylon practically lives at this school, his mom works here after all, but sometimes it’s hard to remember where everything is when the district likes to use student loan money to add more on to a campus that is already massive and just to complicate matters, the administration decides to make a well-educated decision to move shit around last minute. Waylon supposes he can’t complain. Free tuition is pretty sweet.
Waylon offers the freshman in front of him directions to his first period class and Eddie similarly picks up Waylon’s schedule and they exchange papers, remembering to thank each other before speeding off in different directions. The both manage to make it to their seats on time.
The next day they pass each other on the sidewalk, headed down opposite pathways and Waylon calls out his name from across the concourse, waves.
The soles of Eddie’s leather oxfords screech to a halt. He can’t stand being addressed so casually, and in front of so many watchful eyes itching to capture a scandal on their smartphones.
His irritations subsides when he recognizes Waylon’s slouched, petite figure as the uncouth boy from yesterday. His name was Waylon, wasn’t it? Eddie isn’t so keen on superfluous details, not when he had to memorize a whole speech in one night and was expected to perform it in fluent french for an high priority event this very same evening.
Eddie assures himself that the boy is harmless, that he couldn’t possibly know who he is or who is family is or what they do for a living. The tall, sophisticated teen gives his edgier counterpart a customary wave back and continues on his way because he has somewhere he has to be.
Waylon stops mid-step to follow the well-dressed youth with his eyes. The computer nerd bites his lip, one hand stuffed inside his hoodie and the other tightening around the sling of his backpack. Deciding something, he jogs over the freshly mowed grass, slippery with frost, to fall into step beside the other male. It’s early morning and chilly and Waylon is panting lightly, trying to warm up.
Waylon asks Eddie how has his first day went, how he’s liking everything so far. Eddie blinks at the short student next to him, baffled and awestruck by his persistence for company, specifically his company. Aside from skim lines of text from their undergrad programs, they’re practically strangers, acquaintances at best, and Eddie wonders what motivates his advances. Eddie doesn’t know what exactly Waylon is after, friendship being the most favorable, but the more he combs through the possibilities the more he suspects a con of bribes, blackmail and foul play.
Waylon is shivering, his shoulder brushing against Eddie’s as they walk, unconsciously seeking warmth and leaning on him. Eddie recoils at the unfamiliar contact because years of boarding school and social etiquette have radically defined his personal space bubble and because he’s sorting Waylon into the same shady league as paparazzi and reporters.
Eddie can feel a rant collecting his throat, a nasty one involving the correlation between Waylon’s upbringing and his poor manners, but Eddie is a gentleman and gentlemen must exhibit restraint.
Eddie manages his anger before any profanities can slip through his established visage, but he doesn’t have to say word, Waylon takes the hint, perceptive of his companion dislocated body language.
The junior lowers his head in shame, rubs at his leaking nose and lets out a winded, “Sorry.”
Eddie instantly regrets making the boy distance himself. The injured sounds coming from Waylon’s chapped lips and the lonely track of his footsteps prick at Eddie’s big red heart. Despite his long list of connections, it’s rare that Eddie meets someone so openly affectionate, so honest and accepting as boy next to him and he should appreciate his solidarity for the marvel it is. He supposes the exhaustion, the short leash of obligation and the strain of responsibility were to blame for his impaired judgement.
Eddie smiles broadly and jokes that the desks could be a little bigger to fit his stature. It takes a moment for Waylon to process the long intermission between his question and Eddie’s reply, thinking their conversation had ended, but when he does, he laughs along with his classmate, happy to clear the air.
Waylon’s laugh is infectious, delightful, like a song in a dream. His pale cheeks are glowing with windburn and Eddie thinks it compliments his complexion nicely, that the choppy haircut and beanie add to his suburban charm.
They arrive at the entrance of the Humanities building early, if he had read his watch correctly and neither of them is willing to let the other go. They’ve attempted to say goodbye several times now without much luck. One boy attempts to step away while the other fills in the gap, sometimes they step together, but if Eddie doesn’t sprint, he’s going to be locked outside the classroom and he can’t tarnish his pristine attendance record.
Eddie suggests they meet up later in the afternoon and the loose invitation is enough for the two of them to finally part ways.
Waylon doesn’t see Eddie after that, not at the library, not at the commons, not at the quad, but he keeps trying, keeps hoping they’ll meet again, but Waylon isn’t powered by blind faith.
Waylon is a man driven by numbers, thinks predominately with the left half of his brain and he has a strategy, a method to his increase his odds of success. He marks key venues around the campus with an “x” on his collapsible map, schedules himself in blocks for each location according to foot traffic, time, and the day the of week and by his math, Eddie’s tailored ass is bound to be in the crowd, but the freshman is either invisible or has transferred to another college because there’s no sign of him anywhere.
Waylon can’t explain why he’s wasting his smarts looking for a guy he knows literally nothing about, has no clue what he’ll say when he finds him, maybe it would improve the search if he did, but there was just something about Eddie that stuck on him like gum under the table.
Waylon realizes Eddie probably doesn’t feel the same attraction, probably just told him what he wanted to hear to be polite so Waylon wouldn’t get his feelings hurt because Eddie seems like a stand-up guy and damn Waylon must’ve sunken pretty deep if he’s projecting assumptions about his crush after two brief encounters.
He knows he should just call this manhunt of his quits because he’s being ridiculous and obsessive, but he’s also not the type who can just let go of something so easily once he’s started and while he’d rather be at home in a controlled environment, these people watching sessions have become a routine he just can’t seem to shake. One way or another, for better or for worse, he will find Eddie.
Waylon’s considers himself comprehensive when it comes to the topographic design of the college, comes with the territory of being a junior, but playing detective has greatly enriched his travels and out of the many places he frequented, the table near the Union Center patio is the software engineer’s favorite. He’s got his homework spread out under his mini laptop, alternating between removing the mechanical pencil in his mouth to highlight key terms before putting it back between his teeth and typing. Normally he’d download the PDF to save on paper, but his professor is a stickler for workbooks.
He’s become accustomed to these long boring stakeouts as he likes to call them and is thoroughly equipped with cans of expresso and baggies of junk food. He’s low on vigilance today because he completely neglected his studies in favor of tracking down Eddie … Eddie … well the tech wizard doesn’t know his last name yet, but the moral of the story is Waylon got an earful from his Mom for falling behind and now he has to pick up the slack.
He really doesn’t like disappointing his Mom and she doesn’t like disciplining him so they try not to give each other a reason to transform into a wicked stepmother. Waylon isn’t bitter about cleaning up his own mess, it’s his fault he skipped out on his responsibilities, it’s just he’s been running himself ragged for the past twenty four hours and he’s not even halfway through his list of missed assignments. He’d lighten his workload and drop psychology all together if he didn’t need the science credit to graduate.
Waylon sighs, a headache rooting itself in-between his eyes. It’s been twenty minutes and he needs another break.
A soft wind rustles the trees above, animating the shadows on his textbook. He likes the cool shade the space provides him, likes how it’s a carved out niche that’s private and small, that balances nature and civilization. His mom is always pestering him about spending more time outside so here he is enjoying the smell of spring (more like fertilizer) and if his allergies act up he can always retreat inside the lab.
Another shadow appears, obscuring the times new roman font on the chalky white pages. This one is square, looms over him like an eclipse and doesn’t sway with the wind like the branches.
Waylon’s nearly jumps out of his flannel shirt, his overtaxed mind finally connecting the dots.
Eddie.
The unkempt boy yanks out his ear-buds because he can’t hear anything over the maxed-out volume of his music, he prefers to block out all other sounds in existence to improve his concentration, but because of that, he only manages to catch the tail-end of Eddie’s explanation.
If Waylon assembled the word fragments correctly, Eddie mentioned his absence being linked to an impromptu trip out of town.
Eddie removes an expensive pen from his shirt pocket, the kind that can write upside or in underwater and scrawls something on a slip of paper.
Waylon watches every flick of that polished wrist, the stress he applies to the ballpoint as it engraves paper, the clink of his custom-fitted watch against the wire mesh of the table. Waylon’s breathing becomes shallow, his heart beating faster because the object of his desire never meant to desert him, doesn’t think he’s too weird or pathetic to associate with.
Eddie clicks the pen closed, folds the note in half and passes it to the boy in front of him. Waylon realizes he’s expected to read what’s written on it so he opens the note carefully, peeling back the sharp corners like it will blow up in his face if he doesn’t. He reads it over, taking a curiously long turn because he wants to be certain he’s not imagining the words.
He nods back dumbly.
Eddie gives him a dazzling show of teeth, says he’s in a rush and has to go, but looks forward to seeing him.
Waylon leans back against the cement, at a loss for words. His whole body is tingling with sensation, uncomfortably so around the crotch of his jeans.
Eddie had been stunning, a model right out of a magazine with his midnight black hair slicked back, long eyelashes and smooth lips. It wouldn’t matter if it was cologne or a yacht, Waylon would buy anything he was selling. Jesus, what kind of shirt was he wearing anyway? It has to be ritzy shit with thermal resistant fibers because the temperature is set for ninety five degrees and while the top three buttons were undone, he didn’t see an drop of sweat on the perfect son of a bitch.
Waylon stares at the neat handwriting written in blue ink in his hands, “Dining Hall, tomorrow, 12:30.” He stashes the note in his pocket, packs up his materials and heads for the nearest bathroom because he doesn’t think he’ll be able to survive the bus ride home.
The door squeaks open and Waylon has the foresight to check if anyone else is inside and thank God, there isn’t. He picks the stall farthest away, puts the seat down, throws his backpack against the pipes to function as a cushion.
Waylon can’t unbuckle his belt fast enough. He’s dripping by the time he gets a fist around himself. He’s oversensitive, hissing out dicey cries because even his hand feels exquisite if he pretends it belongs to Eddie. He wants that rich bastard dominating him, wants that deep, purebred voice telling him what a disgusting urchin he is and he can’t hold in the desperate whine that follows. Everything sounds too loud. He’s too loud.
There’s no locks on public restrooms and he’s worried someone will come in so he pumps harder, faster, his whole body vibrating with pleasure. It doesn’t take long before he’s spilling out, stifles his moans the best he can into his shoulder. Fuck. FUCK.
He washes up at the sink, splashes some sobering water against his face and tries not to look at himself in the mirror. He braces himself against the sides of the porcelain, watches the spray spiral down the drain, tries to figure out what the fuck is happening to him. He’s usually so careful, so indifferent. He doesn’t do these sorts of … things.
He wants to punch his reflection, wants it broken, bleeding, changed, wants it anything other than what he sees. He grabs his backpack and storms out.
Hours pass. He’s laying on his bed, hands behind his head, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. He reaches in his freshly changed cargo pants and pulls out the torn piece of paper, reads it over and like a love letter.
Fast forward a few weeks later and they’re sharing cheap cafeteria lunches in-between classes and meeting up for some late-night study sessions at the student lounge. The two of them have become inseparable, interchangeable. It feels like they’ve been friends forever.
Eddie is always so accommodating, fussing over the older teen about his grades, his appearance, his eating habits; anything that is Waylon Park. At first, Waylon thinks he might die of embarrassment. The girly nicknames and excessive pandering are almost too much for him to swallow when they’re out in public. Waylon wants to write it off as the residual effects of hanging out with a Theatre Arts major, but the truth is, that’s just how Eddie is and Waylon realizes he in love with all of his classmate’s quirks and feels guilty for not doing something equally amazing for his friend in return.
Eddie has stopped talking, the academic office becoming silent and Waylon squeezes his hand reassuringly, the two of them sitting side by side as the younger teen open up to the school shrink about his abusive parents. Waylon was shocked to find out the truth about his friend’s family, their fame and fortune and the life Eddie suffered from their perversions which is why he insists on accompanying Eddie to his weekly therapy sessions. Waylon would do anything to help his boyfriend through his traumatic experience and that’s why after the appointment is over, he stops Dr. Berkley to discuss something big while Eddie waits at the elevator. Eddie doesn’t like Waylon having private conversations about him with his shrink, says as much, but Waylon smiles boyishly, says it’s nothing because he wants it to be a surprise.
It’s Friday and they have a three day weekend ahead of them. Waylon is sitting on the couch of Eddie’s single-bedroom apartment, sipping at the mouth of his empty energy drink. Eddie’s place is not part of the schools housing program, but it’s just as expensive. Eddie can afford it though so Waylon tries not to feel like a commoner every time he comes over. It’s near the campus too so they never have to walk very far to get there, preferring it’s wide quiet spaces to the cramped noisy study halls, but today it couldn’t have been far enough.
Eddie’s noticed Waylon’s nervous fidgeting all day, all week and puts dinner on hold to pluck the can out of Waylon’s busy mouth to set it on the coffee table. He holds Waylon’s hands in his own as if they were something precious, and he insists that they are, rubbing over the pale knuckles as he asks his one and only sweetheart what’s troubling him.
Waylon feels ashamed. It’s not what Eddie thinks.
The blond hesitantly let’s go of Eddie’s grip to tug at the zipper of his jacket. He slides it down, the pegs unhooking no more than an inch before he stops completely. The lines of concern surrounding Eddie’s face deepen at the perplexing gesture. Waylon tries to stammer out an explanation, but he can’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t come out sounding crazy.
Eddie digs his fingers into Waylon’s baggy clothes before he can leave, spins him around roughly so he’s pressed up against the doors cold metal frame, frantic pleading pouring from the taller teens lips, but Eddie hasn’t done anything wrong. Waylon is the fucked up one here for thinking this was a good idea. He’d been fighting with whether or not to follow through with his plan all week long, nearly lost his nerve. Maybe he should have.
Waylon won’t look at him, turns his head to the side so he won’t give into those sappy blue eyes. Eddie wants to know the secret hiding in the crevices of his darlings gritted teeth, wants to know why Waylon has been torturing himself with it for over a week.
Eddies incessant tugging and Waylon’s evasive jerks rumple the jacket out of place, the cotton stretching far beyond it’s original shape. There’s something violet and lacy being protected by the folds, Eddie’s favorite kind of delicacy.
The jacket is pulled away, exposing Waylon’s bare shoulders and the cute straps of a negligee.
Oh. Is that all.
Eddie’s hands trail down to the drawstrings of boyfriend’s sweatpants, measured but eager movements that strip his pretty little present from it’s ugly wrapping paper. He would much rather see Waylon in frilly chemise than tacky plaid shirts and baggy jackets.
Waylon braces himself. He can’t hide his intentions anymore, not with his half-hard dick straining against the sheer fabric of his panties.
Eddie’s usual diverse vocabulary has been reduced to shallow erratic breaths. The man himself seems to burn hot as his mouth descends on Waylon, opening him up and devouring the sweet taste inside.
Waylon can scarcely believe it’s happening. He was sure Eddie would be furious with him for not asking first, for dressing like a whore, but the brunette seems to be overjoyed at the prospect of using sex as a means of therapy.
Eddie ruts against his darling, arousal evident in his dress pants. He’s excited to spoil the provocative outfit Waylon has himself squeezed into, wants it bloodied and dirty and wet so he rakes blunt nails down the stockings darkening Waylon’s thighs until they rip.
He palms Waylon’s breast through the thin barrier of clothing, plucking and squeezing little cries of ecstasy from him. Eddie admires the delicate pink shade of his beloveds nipples, the roundness of his chest that cups to his hands.
Eddie bites down on his boyfriend’s neck and shoulder, alternates between hard and soft, gentle and rough. He wants to love Waylon like the priceless art that he is, like he deserves, but he can’t control himself. He needs to own the young man in his arms, possess him in every way imaginable.
Waylon can’t breathe, can’t think of anything but the pleasure coursing through him and it’s more than OK because he has never been more sure about what he wants to do for the rest of his life.