enrolling in a new school at fourteen, just starting high school where most of the miserable life stories come out of, where you depend in your friends to get you through, the get you to where you’re going to be later on in life, fucking sucks.
the navy pants fit him just fine, but the shirt and sweater ( even with the correct size ) hang off of him; because, of course he hasn’t grown into anything. nikolaj prokopenko is all limbs and collar bones with nothing else but a good head of hair. despite not wanting to be here he made sure his tie was done up, his shirt was ironed and his shoes were shined - even though he would rather be out smoking cigarettes and sucking dick, he was good in school and that wasn’t going to change here. the day before he had waltzed in with hid father, got a private tour of the school, got his classes, was told about school activities, so he’s slightly familiar with his home for, what he hopes is, the next year.
the courtyard is filled with students talking and laughing with each other, some on their way to class, others sitting on benches and others sitting in the grass. there’s two boys together one with bright blonde hair and the other with curly brown hair, standing together the brunettes arm over the blondes shoulders, whispering something in his ear while the boys around them talk. he sees some other boy that looks about just as lost as he does, with tanned skin and very nice hands. nicolaj chooses to ignore them both and head in the direction of the water fountain in the middle of the courtyard, his classes are in that direction anyway - that’s when he sees him. handsome as the devil, his school uniform looks out of place on him but he makes it look designer, he manages to fill out the entire thing at fourteen, the hollowness of his eyes makes his skin crawl in the most delicious way possible - he’s seen him before, was that? he doesn’t care either way, and promptly turns his attention away to head toward the direction of the fountain.
whispers have always followed behind him in hallways and after him in streets and about him in dark corners behind the glow of neon lights — as much an extension of him as his shadow and just as accurate. everyone blurs the edges ; blunts the colours ; exaggerates the shape ; smudges the actual details into smeared guess work. this morning those whispers are white noise, more a memory of his previous classmates than those of his new and current ones. faces pass by with knowing looks, curious gazes. some of them even look familiar though it’s hard to remember each flame lit feature of ever fire side face that’s made an appearance at one of his substance parties. it’s hard to remember much of anything that happens after a substance party. dante kavinsky, even as a freshman, is a living legend and if that isn’t enough to draw attention than his father, a recently dead legend, is — especially when the hush hush word on the street is that dante is the one that did it. though, if neither of those things are enough to make his name known than his face does a good job of it. deadly as the devil and twice as pretty applies quite literally.
there are is a pack of cigarettes in his pocket that beckon loudly and a very strict policy against smoking on school grounds that does nothing to prevent him from tapping one out and lighting up on the quad. he has enough money to pay off every staff member and the number of his dead dad’s lawyer on speed dial if morals get in the way. they usually don’t. as if summoned by the thought of his father — dead dad’s lawyer has a devil son, too — nikolaj prokopenko wanders into his line of sight. it’s a coincidence, surely but that does little to keep the smirk off his face. it probably says more about him than he’d like it to that the expression is just over the edge of snarky school boy. dante hasn’t quite lost all his innocence yet ; there’s still some light behind those hollow eyes, a childhood gleam to the lack of bruised circles under them. he has not lost sleep over the death of his father, regardless of if it was or wasn’t him who did it.
he is not lonely — at least not in a way that he would ever admit to anyone, or even himself (there are a lot of things he doesn’t admit to him) — but there is something about the way nikolaj prokopenko doesn’t remember him that strikes a chord, a nerve, a match. kavinsky doesn’t much like to be burned unless it’s his own doing. he watches the long limbs of a still growing body continue on the path toward the fountain until they almost reach their destination and then he slices the silence of his morning in a voice that suggests he’s far friendlier with prokopenko than their acquaintanceship should allow, “proko!” it is a sound that demands attention just as much, if not more, than everything else about dante kavinsky does. a sound that says come here despite the fact that kavinsky is the one moving in his direction. he flicks what’s left of his cigarette into the fountain upon approach, tucking his nearly freed hands into his pockets with casual ease. he waits for him to remember who he is. he doesn’t doubt that he will. it’s narcissism, maybe, but he’s made eye contact with this boy before through a cracked study door in his own home and any kavinsky’s face is not the kind one forgets easily for one reason or another.
