Your Tired Eyes
Chapter One: Mutual Interests

Jeremy P.O.V.

It started over a month ago. We were both angry. At least, I know I was. Angry at the world. Angry because Vicki was with Tyler fucking Lockwood, of all people. But we would've never done what we had done if it wasn't for the rather dodgy combinations of drugs and alcohol that were flowing through our veins that night. I was at one of those stupid high school parties, the kind that kids only go to get high, stoned, and laid.

I was just about ready to pass out on some anonymous bed and wake up several hours later to a hangover. I stumbled into what I believed to be an empty room, and flicked the light on, to see Tyler Lockwood, sitting in the corner of the room, rather obviously high, with his head buried in his arms; he looked up, his eyes bloodshot, "Gilbert? What the fuck are you doing here?"

Those are pretty much the only words I remember from the whole night. I can pretty much guess the rest. I come up with some clever retort, Tyler tells me to fuck off, I tell him to make me.

Then he stands up, looking rather unsteady on his feet, and advances towards me, his fists closing around the collar of my shirt, slamming me against the wall. He holds his position, glaring at me. As I brace myself for a punch in the face, I get something completely different.

Tyler kisses me. And at first I just stare at him. Stare him because this is insane, and even in my drugged up state I can hear a little voice in the back of my head telling me so. But this doesn't stop me – or him, from continuing this insanity. Ripping each others clothes off haphazardly and ending up having sex.

It doesn't end here, either.

We wake up in the morning, next to each other, and we don't say anything, we get dressed and we walk away because I can't stop seeing flashes of last night in my head, and goddammit it's driving me crazy. What we didn't realize then was that we couldn't just walk away.

Approximately two days later I get a text from Lockwood – god only knows where he got my number, probably filched it from Vick's cell – the text has few words in it 'Meet me Secret Keeper, Room 265, 6:00, Ty."

The Secret Keeper is a rather sketchy motel off towards the trashier side of town. But this doesn't make me any less willing to run there, in the rain.

The woman at the front desk doesn't even notice me. She's flipping through the pages of the latest Vogue, and sipping Starbucks Coffee. I run up two flights of stairs, and then find Room 265 at the end of the hall. Knocking unsteadily, my heart beats uncontrollably fast.

Tyler answers within a matter of seconds, opening the door, and pulling me in. Locking the door behind me, he pushed my back against it and catches my lips in his. We say nothing.

It doesn't end here, either.

Four Weeks Later

Vicki was gone. My parents were dead. Elena was too caught up in her own drama to even chastise me anymore. Not that I needed it. I had actually gotten increasingly better over the past weeks, and had even signed up for an elective once second marking term came around.

Art class was that elective. Elective; e-leck-tiv; synonymous to voluntary. This is why I wondered what in the world Tyler Lockwood would be doing in such a class. Art was something I saw as classy, elegant, and Lockwood was anything but. This was an assumption, and though I was completely and thoroughly against assumptions, and prejudgments I would always find a way to let that slip my mind while I was mentally bashing him. The way I saw it, there wasn't one redeeming quality in his body.

Well, other than his actual body, but that's not the point.

And yet here he was. In art class, of all places. Glaring at me, his eyes hadn't moved away from my face for even a second since he noticed me. But I wasn't here for a staring contest; I focused on a charcoal drawing of a gazelle that was a few feet towards the left of his head. As the last few kids filed in, I noticed the girl who sat directly next to me, fiddling with her pencil. Short, blond, almost white hair hung over her face, as she stared downcast.

"Well, it's lovely to see so many new faces in here," Ms. Jasper, the middle-aged art teacher said, as she smoothed the creases of her flowered dress. "And we actually have boys this year, go figure."

I suddenly realized that males were scarce in the room and looked around in search of others. There were four, including Lockwood and I. I recognized the scrawny pale-auburn haired boy from my world history class, and the other one, a strikingly pale, almost albino boy, most possibly a freshmen who got thrown into art class by accident.

Ms. Jasper's voice was delicate and soft, yet booming, I noticed, as she continued talking, "So, our first assignment will be portraits. Not of ourselves, that's far too cliché. No, you will be drawing one another -," this was met with many groans and 'I can't draw's, which Ms. Jasper ignored, "We'll finish the rough draft two days from now, and then start on the masterpiece. And don't forget to add a personal touch. Any questions?"

There were a few along the lines of 'is-this-a-test?' and 'how-much-of-our-final-grade-is-this?' After answering these she said, "And I'll be picking your subjects." This announcement was also met with an outcry of dissatisfied groans, which I joined in on as the names were ticked off. "Karalynn and Joseph, Samantha and Britney, Cheyenne and Maria, Tyler and Jeremy -."

"What?" Tyler asked the incredulity high in his voice.

"Tyler and Jeremy," Ms. Jasper repeated, enunciating each syllable, "Is there a problem?"

"No. Sorry," Tyler replied, shooting a glare in my direction.

As everyone broken into groups to go sit next to whoever they had been assigned Tyler sat, stoic. With a sigh, I grabbed my sketchbook and bag and walked over to his table, taking the seat opposite to him. "Kind of hard to draw you from there," I said, trying to lighten the mood.

"I was managing just fine."

I rolled my eyes, "Why are you even here?"

He shrugged, "What's it to you?"

"Just curious."

"And what's up with that?"

"What?"

"The whole nice guy act you've had on for the last two weeks." Then in an undertone, "So we've messing around. Doesn't change anything. Doesn't change how we feel about each other." I'm slightly taken aback because I was beginning to wonder when Tyler would actually acknowledge what we'd been doing.

"You'd rather I hate you?"

"It's a lot more fun, isn't it?"

"Fine. Douchebag."

Tyler smirked.

We went on in silence for several minutes before I muttered something under my breath. Tyler looked up, "You got something to say?"

"Cheekbones."

He scoffed, and raised an eyebrow, "Why…?"

"They're…difficult, to draw."

"You're complaining? Your hair looks likes overgrown grass."

"Thanks. That's nice."

Tyler rolled his eyes, "I reserve the right to be a douchebag, Gilbert."

"Likewise, Lockwood."

He smirked, and then went back to sketching.

This was going to be one hell of a term.

Tyler P.O.V.

I guess you could say I was upset. Only 'upset' is a pansy word according to good old dad, so I guess I was pissed off. And honestly, I probably wouldn't have cared less about Jeremy's finished rough sketch of me if it wasn't for my dad. It was impossible to leave the house without being criticized.

It was early that morning when the criticism began, just as I was finishing off my usual three minute breakfast before bolting to school. My father looked down at me, disdainfully, "How are you going to keep your spot on the football team if you insist on eating like a fourteen year old anorexic girl?"

"I manage."

He snorted, "You are Tyler Lockwood. You are the mayor's son. You're not supposed to 'manage', you're supposed to excel. Got it?"

"Yeah. Sure thing."

"'Yeah, sure thing,'' Dad mimicked, "Then please explain this to me," he said shoving my three-week-old report card at me for the sixth time that week. "A 2.7. A 2.7 grade point average. The mayor's son."

"I can still get into a state college. My extracurricular -."

"I don't give a damn how many extracurriculars you have. I did football in high school, and I graduated with a 3.7."

"Well, we can't all be perfect, Dad," I said downing the rest of my orange juice.

"Don't you talk to me in that tone, Tyler. I did not raise you that way."

Yeah, because you didn't bother raising me at all." I have to get to school," I said, getting up.

Dad grabbed me, both hands gripping my arms, he slammed against the wall, "Damn right you do. And you better get yourself together, Ty. I'm not dealing with this behavior of yours anymore. Got it?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.

"Got it," I replied, avoiding his eyes.

"Get the hell out of here," he said, giving me a push in the direction of the door.

If my dad gets this hung up over a B- average I wonder what he would think if he found out I was fucking Jeremy Gilbert. I assume it would start with disinheritance.

Later

Which is why, by the time fourth period Art Education came around I was about ready to rip someone's arms off, and it just so happened that Jeremy was conveniently located opposite to me, his sketch pad faced down, he stared off into the distance, "Shouldn't you be doing something?" I asked, the flicker of annoyance in my voice obvious.

He shrugged, "I finished last night."

"How?"

"Your facebook page. You're a bit of a camwhore."

"A little obsessed with me, aren't you?" I asked. He scoffed, "Let's see it then," I said.

Jeremy looked uneasy, "Go ahead," he said finally.

I flipped over a few pages of mystical creatures, until I reached the sketch of me. There was nothing particularly wrong with it; it was a black and white sketch, very precisely done, right down to the smug grin I often had on my face. What I presumed to be crown was above my head, with the words 'King Jock' engraved in it.

It would be a lie to say that I didn't know why I reacted to this the way I did. Maybe I was tired of being King Jock or maybe because I was tired of people assuming things or maybe it was because my father had hit a nerve this morning or maybe it was just the smirk that was pasted on Jeremy's face as I stared at it, wondering if it would be best to punch him in the face or just walk away.

I chose the latter, ignoring Ms. Jasper's lecturing, as I continued to stalk off.

Author's Note

Hope you liked this! Please review if you want me to update ;)