Chapter Text
Xeno Wingfield has had a terrible, awful, pulled from the darkest pits of hell week. Actually, fuck that. A month, for that matter, and a whole semester if he was being honest; which, unfortunately for him, he usually was.
The cusp of his problems started with taking the stupid decision of waking up late to manage his class schedule. It wasn’t his fault. Stanley and he had been busy during the exchange trip they had taken to Japan, a trip that proved to be useful but also fucked up his sense of time so much he had started to crave greasy cheeseburgers at three a.m. It was a fucking nightmare, even if the food and the traditions had been great, and seeing Stanley in a yukata had made it worth it. That boyish smile of the blond while he struggled to walk in sandals made Xeno incredibly happy. The whole experience was saved in his brain alongside the things that produced him instant dopamine. It had been worth it. At least at the time, or so he had convinced himself. But then he had missed his chance to get the classes he wanted and instead had to stick with an elective class of mechanical engineering. Xeno was many things, but a mechanical engineer was not one of those, and he was willing to legally defend that statement if necessary.
Back to now, with Xeno cursing at his fucking plane for not doing the only thing that was going to save him from not failing, but barely passing a class. Which, frankly, felt worse. And Xeno had loved planes since he and Stanley dirtied their hands searching for the missing parts of the planes he had built since he was young, but this one was pushing his limits, specifically his limits of wanting the violent demise of inanimate objects. Painfully, preferably, and with witnesses. The images in his head had started with him throwing the useless device to the wall and dismembering it part by part with his bare hands, macabrely.
And I know what you’re thinking: perhaps Xeno is exaggerating? Well, not really, and if anything he might be underselling it. The mechanical engineering teacher is a complete menace. He has had the infamous reputation of making his students work on miraculous projects for classes that lasted an hour, only one per week, for the continuity of the four months of the semester. If anyone cared to count, those are only sixteen classes in total. Sixteen. And the stupid teacher, unlike the students, seems to only have his subject to think about. Which in Xeno’s case, who is doing a triple degree like the overachiever he is, is far from the truth. The teacher could have asked them to build a drone, a car, even a fucking rocket would have been better, more dignified. But he asked them to build a plane, and Xeno was ecstatic when he heard it because he loves planes, until the engineering teacher said the plane had to follow a line with a light sensor.
Then Xeno was dumbstruck, completely and utterly, because what actual purpose could that possibly have aside from being mediocrity at its finest, a monument to wasted potential. He was ready to finish the project in a single afternoon when the director of math and engineering, a woman who clearly hates her life and makes it everybody’s problem, arrived and said that they had to use the sensor the school provided to ensure no one cheated with the code. That sensor was shit, and the code was straight up garbage, an offense to programming as a concept. It was unsalvageable. But with Xeno’s tough luck, most of his peers could solve the problem, apparently blessed with the atrocious but useful capacity of having an actually functional sensor.
In Xeno’s case, his sensor was a bitch, archaic as shit and with one of the three sensor lights barely working, flickering like it was about to pass away at any given moment. He tried talking with the teacher, but the moron answered with a: “weren’t you supposed to be a genius?”
And fuck him, because Xeno was a genius, but not God himself, not yet at least. So he had to spend days wasting his time, not even seeing Stanley, stuck with the freaking plane that couldn’t follow the line of the circuit that was traced because his sensor simply didn’t detect it, as if it had decided his only job was optional. It was hell.
Xeno continued struggling with his plane while he cursed under his breath, inventing new combinations of insults as he went. He was going to murder someone, eventually, that much felt inevitable. That close to hysteria he was, hanging by a very thin, very fragile thread. He didn’t notice Stanley getting closer and closer to him, which was impressive considering Stanley was not being subtle.
“Hi, Xeno. Still having problems with that plane?” Stanley asked as he dropped into the chair beside Xeno like he belonged there, which, to be fair, he kind of did.
The table where they were seated was full of robot parts and a bunch of energy drinks piled up one after the other, forming what could only be described as a mausoleum to poor decisions and academic suffering. Xeno was tempted to tamper with the sensor against his teacher’s best wishes, very tempted in fact, but then stopped himself because he didn’t need another call for interrupting the safety measures of the college. Bullshit. The last time hadn’t even been that big of a deal. Stanley and he had just tried to shoot a very deserving of pain, homophobic jerk with, mind you, fake bullets. How were they supposed to know fake guns were prohibited in school? It was like banning cigarette lollipops, just for the principal of it.
Finally, he turned to Stan. “I’m starting to think the devil is real, because that could be the only explanation why this fucking piece of metal doesn’t work, and I refuse to believe I’m losing to an object with no consciousness. It must be Beelzebub himself.”
Stanley laughed a little and dropped his head to the table, clearly entertained. He loved watching Xeno in full concentration, especially when it came with a side of barely contained rage. “Do you need me to ask my mom for help? You know she used to be a pilot.”
Xeno blushed, immediately. Now even Stanley thought he wasn’t up to the task, which was unacceptable on multiple levels. “No, I got it. Something eventually will make sense, it has to, statistically speaking. Shouldn’t you be in class?”
“Yup, but I wanted to see you and my economics teacher doesn’t put absences. I don’t think he likes teaching very much,” Stanley said, fully committed to the statement.
Xeno clicked his tongue. “You’d think that for being the most prestigious and expensive college they would at least hire proper personnel, or at the very least people who didn’t hate their jobs”
“You know we got the worst of the worst after falling asleep on the day we were supposed to manage our schedule. The other teachers are not so bad,” Stanley explained with a silly smile playing at his lips, very clearly not regretting it. He loved to be more important to Xeno than his subjects, and he wasn’t even trying to hide it.
“I have no regrets,” Xeno said proudly, because he didn’t, not even a little bit. Okay. That was a lie. Just a little.
Something in Stanley’s gaze shifted, subtle but noticeable if you knew him well enough. “You know… there is going to be a Valentine’s party. They are going to have some dynamics—”
“What absolute garbage. I can’t believe our student committee can’t wait to keep incorporating activities to encourage horny young adults to keep their tongues down each other’s throats,” Xeno cussed as he reached a dead end with his fucking plane, again. This was the tenth time he had built the plane from scratch, which felt excessive even for him. This was going to be the death of him.
Stanley’s gaze fell. “Oh, of course! Horny teenagers… hate those.”
“Well, what about it?” Xeno asked, distracted but curious enough.
Stanley started twitching with his hands, fidgeting constantly “Nothing! Absolutely nothing! I just… I was going to complain about it too. You know what? Maybe they should ban couples from school. Yup. That’s what I was going to say. Completely reasonable policy.”
Xeno raised an eyebrow. He felt like he was missing something, something important, but he couldn’t quite place it. “I didn’t know you hated couples so much.”
“I don’t hate them! Do you… do you hate them?” Stanley whispered, like this was suddenly a life-or-death question.
“Couples?” Xeno asked, confused.
“Yes, I mean. Do you not like romantic shit and stuff. If you don’t, I totally get it. It’s totally lame. Valentine’s is just an excuse to buy things and chocolate is overrated,” Stanley continued speaking, words spilling out faster the more nervous he got. He could feel sweat dropping down his forehead. How was he going to explain to Xeno that he had bought him one of those cheesy Valentine’s gifts, teddy bear and all, currently hidden in his locker?
Xeno hummed. “Well, I don’t hate couples per se. I’m just too busy to care about them,” he said, still trying to see what was wrong with his plane, because clearly that was the bigger issue in his mind.
“Yup, agree with you,” Stanley said quickly, as if that solved everything. Then he got up. “Well, I’ll take my leave. See you,” he added, already halfway out, as he hurried to get rid of the evidence lying in Xeno’s locker before it could be discovered and ruin his life.
Xeno couldn’t find what was wrong with his plane, and it didn’t work properly no matter what he did, which at this point felt like the world throwing him the middle finger. As soon as he started following the circuit line, the plane refused to turn where it was supposed to, like it had developed free will. If Xeno didn’t believe in demon possessions, he believed in them now. His mechanical engineering teacher was about to let him pass with an eighty. But Xeno had a scholarship; he was the golden student of this school. Passing was not allowed for him. Not if he wanted to continue with his scholarship that practically paid for everything in his personal lab. His parents weren’t millionaires; they couldn’t afford polonium. His grandparents maybe, but he detested those homophobic wastes of air. The college usually covered those expenses, thankfully. So, he never had to ask his grandparents for money. He supposed he could use his trust fund, but he was still unure how the legal system to claim it worked. Xeno hated legal formalities.
“Sorry, Wingfield. But I can’t give you a ten unless you earn it. Look at Charlotte’s plane, she did it just fine,” the mechanical engineering teacher said as he signaled to a hot pink plane lying on his desk like it wasn’t an active safety hazard.
Charlotte’s plane didn’t even work without overburning the engines. The teacher just passed her for being a cute girl, which was creepy in its own special way. Still, Xeno cursed himself for not being a cute girl. At least that way, he would be passing right now and not negotiating with his sanity. Xeno seriously thought about crossdressing and sending an email to the professor. Perhaps, Stanley could help him with the makeup. Yup. Xeno would like that. If only the cologne of the professor didn’t make him practically gag, even at a radius of one hundred kilometers away. Also, that idea was wrong in many levels to begin with. Fight the system and all that jazz.
“Teacher, I did all I could. Could you at least give me another assignment or let me use a proper sensor?” Xeno pleaded, clinging to what little dignity he had left.
“Yeah, no, can’t do. But…” the teacher continued, clearly enjoying this. “I heard the student committee has been having some problems managing things as of late since the vice president got sick. Perhaps if you help them, the school could ignore this little inconvenience.”
Xeno almost felt a vein snap. Physically. Audibly. He didn’t like the student committee. They were all about popular kids organizing parties to get drunk and rub their bodies together like some poorly coordinated excuse of dolphins. He hated them. That’s why he never bothered with those types of scholarships. He preferred the academic ones, or even Stanley’s sports scholarship, which at least required actual effort and not… whatever the committee did.
Nevertheless, Xeno didn’t push. He valued his future, unfortunately. “Of course, I would be delighted to,” he said, smiling like a functioning member of society. At the same time, he considered how many years in jail he would get if he beat his professor to death with his plane, and whether it would be worth it.
The student committee was nice enough to not ask Xeno to do any heavy labor or manage financial problems, probably because they knew he would rather perish. Instead, the student council president told Xeno to handle the simplest of tasks.
“We have been too busy with the Valentine’s party to answer our correspondence. Since it’s that time of year, a lot of students have been sending us more letters than usual. Could you help us answer them for us, boy genius?” The president asked with a bright smile on her face and bubblegum popping in her mouth.
Their college had a sort of correspondence system for students who wanted to ask for help and keep it anonymous. It usually involved them putting a letter in a mailbox just outside the school for privacy reasons. Xeno had thought until now that no one in the student council cared enough to answer them. Apparently, he was wrong, which was unsettling in its own way.
“Consider it done,” Xeno answered, because how bad could it be, really.
They gave Xeno the mailbox, and even if he expected to find more than fifty letters, he did not expect a hundred. Gladly for him, forty were already answered, and with quite the enthusiasm too. At least the student committee wasn’t completely useless, which felt like a generous conclusion.
Xeno opened the first letter, and then the second, and then the tenth. He recognized a pattern. Even if most of them had to do with silly situations like: “my ex-girlfriend is dating my best friend.” There were some more dramatic ones like: “my boyfriend cheated on me with my mom and then started a polycule with my biology teacher, what should I do?” Those made Xeno laugh a little because he genuinely couldn’t tell if they were real or if someone was just bored and creative. Then came the ones Xeno empathized with the most, talking about domestic problems, parents divorcing, or suffering from toxic relationships. Xeno answered those with care. He shared compassion for all unfortunate souls who hadn’t found peace yet, even if he wasn’t exactly an expert himself.
At last, he was about to finish his job when he saw a letter sticking out from the rest. It was slightly crumpled, like the owner had debated whether they should deliver it or not, which already made it more interesting than the others. Xeno opened it. He found the handwriting strangely familiar, in a way that immediately put him on edge.
It read, “I know nobody is probably going to read this. Or I will receive an answer by my graduation day, with how long these things usually take. At least know that my problem is so boring you could choose not to read it. Don’t worry; I know you probably don’t care about stupid teenage problems—”
Xeno laughed at that. This person had a strong sense of humor, or at least a decent sense of self-awareness.
The letter continued, “The truth is I write because I have a problem, for I found myself irrevocably in love with the school’s most intelligent student. He’s so smart he won a trip to NASA on his own to work alongside scientists who helped humans go to Mars. How amazing is that? I became so dependent on him that I even decided to follow him to this college even if I know shit about the only career similar to what I wanted to do, Business Management, which is stupid when you want to work in the military. My mom didn’t care—”
At least at that point, Xeno knew the guy this person was talking about was him. He remembered winning that trip to NASA, and being the first person from this college to do so, beating Harvard and Oxford in the process, which he liked to pretend didn’t matter but absolutely did. He felt he shouldn’t continue reading about himself. It seemed improper. Invasive. Morally questionable, even. Still, his curiosity won.
The next words made his heart get stuck in his throat.
“The truth is I’m his best friend. We’ve been friends since we were eight. I helped him with a gun prototype and pretended to be cool just to impress him. Surprisingly, he still finds me cool enough to keep spending time with me. I don’t know what to do. Each day that passes, my affections grow. I want him so much it burns. Should I tell him how I feel even if that might ruin our relationship? No; don’t answer that. I know I shouldn’t.”
Xeno was sure of it now. This person, this anonymous person, was Stanley Snyder, his best friend. And Xeno, for the first time in a very long while, regretted being a genius and figuring it out.