lonely bottles - infamous
infamous 2289 words third person limited pov present tense content warnings under cut
It’s what he sees before he closes his eyes to sleep at night, and that moment of twilight before he drifts off is his favorite time of day - he loves that sleepy feeling, and knowing that his worries can wait until tomorrow.
content warnings: mentions of physical parental abuse, trans male issues
author’s notes: this is, like, pre-whump. the whump is upcoming. whumpcoming. um, i’m still creating with these ocs on the fly so you’re definitely witnessing something chaotic here. i make stuff up as i go along which is really unlike my usual style, so i’m going to screw up, it’s an inevitability, but i do have a page of notes to refer back to so hopefully it’ll be few and far between. anyway, this is pretty tame but i’m expecting these two to get pretty unhealthy later on so if that’ll bother you, steer clear!
ETA- my formatting isn’t transferring over correctly. i’ll. have to fix that.
The reason this particular meetcute is so important to Schuylar is because they usually happen when he’s wasted, late on a Thursday night, in a stranger’s home. He’s always sort of been the type to read his horoscope, hoping it’ll give him some hint as to when he’ll find his soulmate. He knows 20 is young technically, but these days it’s not all it’s cracked up to be and he’s starting to worry it’ll never happen. He’s worried he won’t find the love of his life while he’s sweaty and moving his hips erratically, as is his form of “dancing.” He won’t be making vows on his wedding day to the person who found him hunched over a toilet or letting his head sway while seated on a couch. He’ll never sweep anyone away - or be swept away himself - knowing they introduced themselves to each other twice, once at eleven p.m., and once at eleven a.m. the next morning because they couldn’t remember doing it the night before.
Yeah. This is not that.
This is a Starbucks, on campus, while he’s doing homework. He’s wearing a hoodie and sweatpants, worrying the straw of his iced coffee and staring at a notebook page full of notes he can’t make anything of. He wrote these. They should make sense to him. But there’s something about Etruscan architecture that evades him. He can’t wrap his head around the concepts he’s supposed to have absorbed. The exam isn’t for another two weeks but that’s why he’s making flash cards now, not that he’s actually crafted one yet. His stack of index cards are sitting next to him and he’s about to start swiping through the photos on his phone that he took of the slides his 68-year-old professor showed to the class. She doesn’t allow computers during lecture so he can’t search for these images while actually taking notes. He has to sneak his phone out every few minutes to take a picture and then match them to his notes.
It’s an absolutely ludicrous system. But he hates feeling overwhelmed right before a test. And flashcards are helping him in the other classes - though they’re easier to make, given that he can just copy an image of fucking Starry Night and paste it right into his notes when his professors let him type them - so he’s determined to make them for this class, too.
Anyway. That’s when he meets Thomas.
Thomas is large. Pretty tall and very muscular, like he goes to the gym regularly, which is something that would do Schuylar some good. Xavier and Henry have an open invitation for him when they go but he’s too lazy and that’s all there is to it. But Thomas clearly enjoys himself to some protein shakes. He’s very tan-skinned and wearing a bright blue Polo when he approaches, which is a good thing because if he’d been covering up just how big his arms are, Schuylar might’ve brushed him off. Then again, the first thing he does is smile, and anyone who wasn’t already done in by those arms definitely would have folded from that smile.
He’s that kind of cis guy that makes Schuylar madly envious; he wishes so badly sometimes he’d been born with that body. Not because Thomas is sexy - which he is - but because he’s Schuylar’s definition of man. So Schuylar was doomed from the beginning. Not only does he want Thomas’s body, but he wants Thomas’s body, and that’s a dangerous combination.
He gives Schuylar a simple, “Hi,” and Schuylar doesn’t really move. His lips open up, dropping his straw back into its cup, but he’s sort of blinded by the handsomeness and sits there like a lump, staring. Thomas doesn’t seem to realize Schuylar is so enraptured.
“Sorry to bother you,” he says. “I just noticed you were struggling with your homework.”
Schuylar, weirdly, hasn’t referred to his studying as “homework” for two years now. He feels like he’s back in high school, though that isn’t really a good thing.
“No,” he says finally, sitting up straight and pulling his hoodie down. He was sort of slouching, nearly drooling over his laptop and didn’t notice. “I mean - I’m doing fine.”
“I didn’t mean to be a weirdo,” he says. “I’m Thomas.” So that’s when he actually learns his name. “I’m a tutor. So I’m sort of trained to spot these things and just wanted to offer to help. But if you don’t need it, I’ll leave you alone.”
By this point, Schuylar has realized exactly how hot Thomas is and scrambles desperately to get him to stick around.
“Actually,” he says, putting his hand on the table awkwardly, “I know what I’m doing but I am having some trouble. Just scatterbrained right now.”
That’s when Schuylar has to remind himself that Thomas probably isn’t gay, and if he’s straight, he’s reading him as female. Neither of which are ideal, but there’s really no in between. Most of the time he passes, but every now and then -
But Thomas takes a seat next to him and cuts off that train of thought.
“What have you got?”
So that’s how Schuylar meets Thomas. That’s how Schuylar’s most infamous meetcute goes down. In the record books, it’ll say, “Location: Starbucks, Time: Tuesday evening, Wearing: stained hoodie and baggy sweatpants.” He wasn’t expecting it; he really thought he’d meet his soulmate at a college party and it would be magical when their eyes met, celestial when they brushed each other’s bands. But no, it was at a four-by-four table in a major coffee shop chain - that’s how he meets him.
That’s how Schuylar meets the man who ruins his life.
xxx
He’s incredibly helpful. He doesn’t know art history specifically but he’s great at streamlining the flashcard making process and has amazing handwriting, too. Schuylar tells him to write them all because it’s far more legible than his own and Thomas pulls a calligraphy pen out of his bag and writes Schuylar’s name on an index card, sliding it over to him with a childlike grin. Schuylar hands it back.
“That’s spelled wrong.”
“No way!” Thomas exclaims. “I was so excited.”
“It’s okay,” Schuylar tells him. “My family is old money. They spell it weird.”
“Alright,” he says, crumpling up the failed index card and grabbing another. “How do you spell it.”
“S-C-H-U-Y-L-A-R.”
Thomas looks down at the index card, then up at Schuylar.
“And it’s pronounced Sky-ler?”
“It’s old money,” he repeats with a smile. “Dutch. Like, first settlers. The pilgrims who killed Native Americans. For some reason my family is confused why I’m not very proud of that.”
“You a rich boy?”
Schuylar’s heart skips a beat. He reads him as male, so that’s good, but unless he’s bisexual, this still won’t work out. Not that Thomas wants anything but to help him out with schoolwork. Schuylar pretty much thinks about three things: studying, sex, and alcohol.
“Yep,” he nods. “And that,” he says, pointing at the discarded card, “is spelled wrong.”
Thomas grabs a normal pen and uncrumples the index card.
“Spell it again.”
Schuylar does, and this time Thomas writes it down in regular ink first. Then he studies it for a moment and Schuylar sits in silence as he tries again. When he presents it to him, Schuylar smiles demurely.
“So where’d you learn calligraphy?”
“I know a lot of things,” he says. “I was one of those kids who were so smart I got bored in school and had to start teaching myself other things.”
“And you chose calligraphy?”
“Well, I’d already learned three languages,” he says. “I was getting bored of linguistics.”
“So you chose art.”
“Looks like you’re into art yourself,” he says, pointing at the laptop screen. Schuylar looks at it for a moment and then sighs.
“Yeah, I’m an art major,” he says. “Not very good, though. I just pass classes because I work hard and they feel bad for me but I don’t have the… capacity to be a tortured artist. Some of these kids… they never do the homework but then they make these amazing paintings in forty minutes and explain them and it’s like, how are humans capable of this?”
“And you’re not like that?”
“Nah,” Schuylar says. “I’m just trying to graduate. I need something to do before my trust fund kicks in.”
“Oh,” Thomas says slyly, “never gonna work a day in your life, huh?”
“No, I am,” he frowns. “I just don’t know what I wanna do yet.”
“So art is just your stalling tactic?”
“I’d like to be good at art,” he shrugs. “I’m hoping I can just be a docent or something.”
“Let me see something.”
“What?”
“Let me see your art.”
“I don’t have any. My portfolio’s at home.”
“You don’t have any photos?”
“Ugh, fine,” Schuylar says, drawing a grin from Thomas. He goes to his desktop then to a folder buried deep within the confines of his hard drive. He’s been really into textiles lately but he doesn’t have much to show for it, so he just searches for his best work. A painting from sophomore year. “Here.”
Thomas leans in.
“Oh, shit,” he says. He studies it for a few moments. It’s just a still life. A corner of his room he sees from his bed, when he’s laying in the middle of it, clutching his back, crying. The blurriness just seems stylistic to everyone else - even his professor. But Xavier understood on a visceral level and it only took Henry a few moments to gather what it was, too. And when it clicked for him, he winced as if he belt had struck his back instead.
“It’s just a still life.”
That’s what Schuylar tells people. It’s just a still life. And people believe him because what else are they supposed to think? In his afterword, he wrote that it’s what he sees before he closes his eyes to sleep at night, and that moment of twilight before he drifts off is his favorite time of day - he loves that sleepy feeling, and knowing that his worries can wait until tomorrow. “Very relatable,” his professor had said. He’d beamed at the praise until he remembered it was a lie.
“It’s good though,” Thomas says. “Stylistically, but also in terms of… space. You probably do really good realism.”
“I mostly focus on color,” Schuylar shrugs. “I took a test once that said I see color better than ninety percent of the population.”
“How do they measure that?”
“They give you four squares and you have to pick the color that’s not like the other. Then they give you six squares and the colors are a little bit more similar and you do the same thing. You do it until you can’t tell the different color anymore.”
“How many boxes did you get to?”
“A hundred and forty.”
“What?!” Thomas exclaims. “And I was gonna brag about being one level away from Mensa.”
“What?” you say. “Isn’t Mensa like, the top two percent of the population?”
“Yeah, I’m in the top ten of people who have taken the test.”
“Jesus, that’s way more impressive than fucking knowing the difference between lavender and lilac.”
“Well, I’m color blind,” Thomas says. “I think I’d prefer to see color than be a genius.”
Schuylar doesn’t say anything but when he thinks about it, he does too.
Thomas helps him finish his flashcards and then writes his number down on one. Schuylar takes it shyly and stares at it for a few moments. Most straight guys get weirded out when he tells them he identifies as male. A lot of gay guys are disappointed when he says he has a pussy. So there’s really no good way to do this, and Schuylar has never been one for tact.
“Are you giving me your number to call for tutoring?” he asks. “Or is this a social index card?”
“Social,” he says. Which is nice, but now comes the hard part. “You can even think of it as a flirting index card if you want. But if you don’t, that’s okay, too.”
Schuylar smiles. God, this always sucks so much.
“Are you gay?”
“Yeah,” Thomas says. “You’re straight?”
“I’m bi,” he tells him, “but… I’m trans.”
Thomas doesn’t respond, but he certainly seems put out. .
“So… I mean, we can still hang out. But if you want, you know… dick.”
“Oh, wait,” Thomas says. “You’re a trans… guy.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, okay,” he nods. “Sorry. I thought you meant you were a chick.”
“I’m - I am a chick. Under my clothes.”
“I know, I mean… you’re a dude though, yeah?”
“I identify as one.”
“Then you’re a dude,” Thomas smiles. It’s so warm and Schuylar’s face heats up. “I’m pretty exclusively into guys.”
“So it’s okay that I have a pussy?”
Thomas laughs.
“It’s not my place to say your body isn’t okay.”
“But you’re still interested?”
“Yeah.”
“So this is still a flirting index card?”
“Yeah,” he smiles. “It’s the last flash card in your deck. Here.”
He takes it back. He uncaps his pen and writes something on the other side, then slides it over to you once more. It says, “The phone number of the most handsome guy I’ve ever met,” and Schuylar rolls his eyes, but his big, doofy grin betrays him.
“Study it,” he says. “If you don’t want to text me, you don’t have to. But I’ll be disappointed.”
Schuylar puts it with the rest of his flashcards before wrapping a rubber band around them.
“I’ll text you.”
When Thomas smiles, it’s like looking into the sun - it makes Schuylar feel warm now, but man, is it gonna hurt later.