yo, I know the summary is taken from Lana's song 'brooklyn baby' and the title is from 'shades of cool', that was intentional c:

enjoy~

Warnings: profanity, mentions of self harm, brief mentions of alcohol, and lots of Grahamscott but that's not really a warning ;)


Nathan

I close my eyes to the sound of gunshots.

bang bang

And all the people were screaming… true fear, it's palpable, creates a thickness in the air.

"Nathan?"

My eyes flick open to Warren's voice. He's looking over his shoulder at me, eyebrows crinkled.

"Are you sure you don't wanna play? Maybe it's weird, but I always feel better after getting my video game rage on. Y'know, vehicular manslaughter and all that." His smile is soothing and very contradictory to the words he has just spoken.

"I'm good." I clench my fist around Warren's sheets. "I like watching you play."

I'm curled up on Warren's bed, shoes still on, but my feet dangle off the edge so as not to get the sheets dirty. I like to be here as frequently as possible, even when he's doing homework, headphones on, and too busy to talk. It's always been much safer than my dorm across the hall. Because when I shut the door, it's the loneliness that threatens to fucking devour me. Grinding my teeth, wiping snot and tears onto the sleeves of my letter jacket, snorting so much blow that the blood drips from my nostrils onto my mouth, the taste of blood - it's these memories, it's these things I can't stop thinking about when I'm in my dorm.

So I feel safe in here.

"'Kay." Warren pauses the game, and then grabs my hand. Swiftly, he kisses my knuckles. "Tell me if you want to take a nap or something – I'll turn off the game for you."

I've been hardwired to pull my hand away, to crawl into the deepest and blackest hole – away from any human touch. But this is Warren, and I'm trying to teach my body to relax.

"No, really." I pull my mouth into what's hopefully a smile, but it feels awkward. "It's sexy when you gun down the cops and scream, 'I'll piss on all your mothers, you dirty cocksuckers'. Didn't realize you had that kind of mouth."

"Hey – it's only when I'm playing Grand Theft Auto," he defends sheepishly. "I'm usually a perfect gentleman."

"Don't make me laugh." I glance at the TV screen. He's currently barreling down the street in a bulky ice cream truck. "Nice wheels, hot shot. All the ladies will be lining up."

"I'll have to politely turn them down," he says, his truck ungracefully splashing into a river bank. "Because I already have a boyfriend, and he's totally obsessed with me."

I wince. I know it's a joke – Jesus Christ, people are allowed to be funny – but? It still makes my stomach twist around. "You wish, Graham."

I almost wish he would crank up the volume. This way I can drown in the explosions – the sounds of metal colliding into metal, of guns blazing. I'd rather blow out my ear drums than be trapped inside my own head and get eaten alive by the piranhas that swim there.

Warren whoops with pleasure at something on screen. All I know is that if laughter is contagious, I want to catch his fucking disease. I want to be filthy with this sickness. Instead, I bite my fingernails. Try breathing through my nose. Stare at the TV screen so intently my eyes start to water. Because maybe if I lose myself in the violent world of Grand Theft Auto, I'll forget about my own. Maybe I never have to go home.

Warren was aware of my shitty mood as soon as I walked through the door – that much was clear. I ignored his texts (12, and two selfies) all day, ditched him at lunch to have a panic attack in the bathroom, and then – after a day of silence, burst into his dorm without knocking, eyes bloodshot. The sun had already said its goodbyes, so Warren was sitting at his desk in near darkness, face illuminated in harsh computer light. Chewing on his pen thoughtfully, his chemistry homework scattered in front of him.

He stood immediately, eyes flashing with worry and arms outstretched, coming to pull me in. But I just shook my head, because right then I didn't want to be touched – couldn't be. And then I crawled into his bed, nestled in the sheets like nothing was wrong. The air was hazy and quiet while he finished up his homework – so fucking quiet, I wanted to scream to shatter the silence. I lay there biting my tongue until he finally stood from his desk.

"You wanna play a video game?" He had asked. But he was looking at me like, Are you okay? Do you want me to hold you?

I mumbled a "no", which managed to kill three goddamn birds with one stone. And that hurt, I could see it in his eyes, but he didn't say anything, just sat on the floor and played Grand Theft Auto.

"Hey um. Nate?" Warren beats a tattooed man until he's unconscious, and then jacks his Ferrari. "Not to be your mom or whatever, but have you done any homework today?"

Laughter bubbles up inside me – the kind without joy, the kind that means "fucking wow, I can't believe you just said that, how ridiculous". I hold it down.

"Is that a joke?" I ask sourly. "No. I haven't."

"Okay… It's just—" He crashes the sports car into a light pole. "You should… you know, try to start some of it. I mean you're almost failing chem, and I – I just don't want you to get in trouble with your dad, ya know? I'll help you with it, if you want."

This time, I can't suppress the laughter. It's ugly and bitter. "Warren. I'm not doing my fucking chemistry homework right now. It's just not happening."

He sucks in a deep breath. (I'm difficult to handle – I know this, I know this, stop rubbing it in my face) "You have to at least try, babe. I know you're not in a good mood, but maybe if you try and take your mind off it—"

"Stop." I growl, my face growing hot now. "I can't do it, okay?" My voice breaks. So does everything else inside me.

He pauses the game, sets down the controller and climbs onto the bed. "Can't you tell me what's wrong?" His breath is warm on my cheek.

I shrink away from him, because I know the second he touches me – I'm going to lose it. "I don't – I don't know. I don't know what's wrong with me, okay, I'm just so fucking—"

Warren wraps his arms around me. All my fucking strings have been severed.

My chest heaves again now, but not with bitter laughter – no, the fucking flood gates are up now. The sobs grate my throat, and I try to cover my face with my hands, but he gently pries them away. "I'm sorry—" I choke out. "I don't know why I'm like this – why the fuck am I like this?"

"Like what?" He grabs my hand, squeezes it. "Like what, Nate?"

can't stop shaking – please, I don't want to crack – I want to stay whole – please let me pretend I'm whole

"Like this." Another ugly sound pours out of my mouth. "Fucked up, okay, I can't... I can't do it—" I press my face into his shoulder to muffle the cries.

you're a stupid fucking coward you fucking pussy why are you CRYING

"Shh. Hey – you're okay. You're okay." He rubs my back, but this only makes the crying, the shaking, much worse. My body isn't used to these touches; the softness, it's killing me. "I've got you."

"No—" I hiccup. My chest is screaming. "Everyone fucking hates me—I don't want to be like this anymore, why do I have to be like this?"

"Hey." He takes my face in his hands, his fingers cool against my skin (hot and angry). "That's nottrue, you hear me? I don't hate you – I would never hate you."

I clench my teeth so tightly it feels like they'll shatter to pieces in my mouth. My heart won't slow, it won't slow

"Nathan. Look at me." His jaw is tense, eyes glimmering. He chews on his lip for a bit. "I- Iloveyouallright? So – you've got me, now. Screw anyone else."

My skin prickles, stomach hollow and tightened like when you're spiraling down a rollercoaster, because he's never said this before, "I love you", it makes my heart explode—

I can't help it now, can't help the sobs that come out more forcefully now, the sounds of my strings being severed. Because, I love you from Warren is different than when Vic puts her head in my lap and whispers, Love ya.

"Did I – did I say something wrong?" Warren asks urgently. He presses his lips against my cheek – kissing away the tears – and I have to wonder how my sadness tastes.

"No." I try so hard to stop the shaking, but I've never been good at staying still, not even on a good day. "I just – fucking love you too, idiot."

Warren kisses my forehead, my eyelids. The corner of my mouth – his lips, they're salty. He twines his fingers in my hair, and this time I let my body go limp. I let him cradle me, let him use his thumbs to wipe away tears that are still pooling in my eyes.

I look down at my shirt; it's damp with both snot and tears. Jesus. Maybe it's best not to cry when you're wearing goddamn Yves Saint Laurent. "I'm gonna change out of this," I mumble. "This is fucking embarrassing."

"No, it's not." He stands up from the bed and strides toward the closet. "Here. I'll get you one of mine."

I slip out of my jacket, unbutton the shirt, crumple the expensive fabric and let it float onto the ground.

"Okay, which do you want – Harry Potter, or outer space?"

I cover my bare chest with his blanket. "Whatever. Doesn't matter. Anything but that stupid 'Ninja-bread Man' shirt."

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just insult Ninjabread Man. He has a candy cane sword—oh, this is a good one." He yanks a shirt from the closet and tosses it to me. It's got a ridiculously complex mathematics equation printed on it, and at the bottom it reads: "If it were easy it'd be your mom."

"I can't believe you actually purchased this," I groan, pulling it over my head. "With real money." My urge to keep complaining dissipates because, god, it smells like him.

I start slipping into my jacket to hide the angry rows of cigarette burns decorating both arms. Most of them are nothing but scars now, but there are two in the crook of my elbow that are only several hours old.

"Nate." Warren hovers over me. "You don't have to cover them up if you don't want to. It's just me."

I bite the inside of my cheek and toy with one of the sleeves before pulling the jacket off and folding it into a perfect square. Warren's eyes scan my arms like I knew they would.

"Ah – Jesus, when is that from?"

"Today." I cross my arms self-consciously. "Just – don't worry about it. It's fine."

He sits beside me again, takes hold of my arm like I'm some fragile and delicate creature. "I really wish you wouldn't do this to yourself," he sighs. "I mean, shit, Nathan – that has to really hurt."

"That's the point." I say matter-of-factly. I can still feel it, too. The white hot torture, it makes me grind my teeth. But it's the best kind of the pain, the kind you can channel – you can make it pulse beneath your skin, through your veins, instead of throbbing in your skull. (Your heart.)

He kisses the fresh burn, and the sting of his mouth makes me wince. I close my eyes to pretend it doesn't hurt. "I just want to protect you," he says, pecking the dozen scars littering my arm.

"From what?" I can't look him in the eye. "Myself?"

"Well, yeah, I guess." He tugs on his blanket and wraps it around me. The goosebumps that prickle my skin are apparent. "I don't know how you're always so cold."

I can think of many reasons, mostly medical, but I just shrug.

He pulls himself under the covers, too – and it feels impossibly nice, his body heat radiating – but I don't want to sleep. Don't want to invite any hideous nightmares in. And I sure as hell don't want to talk about my outburst from earlier, because I know that's coming eventually.

"There's no chance you'll let me copy your chem homework, is there?" I ask. Talking is a good way to stay awake.

He sighs, squeezes my hand. "I already told you. You're not learning that way. You won't remember anything you write and then you'll just bomb the test."

"And you definitely can't be bribed?" I brush my knuckles against his arm, lightly. Coming from a rich family means I know a lot about getting what you want.

Warren frowns. "This is totally unfair, y'know."

I slide my hand beneath the blanket and caress his thigh through his jeans. My fingers move in slow, small circles, rubbing through the denim.

"This isn't about the chem homework, is it?" His eyes are closed now. Looks peaceful.

"Don't know what you're talking about." My hand moves to his inner thigh, now. "I'm very serious about chemistry."

The truth is, when you're focused on someone else's body, it's easy to forget about your own. It's better this way, because to acknowledge you are rotting from the inside out – it's lethal. From there, things can only get worse.

"Nathan..." His voice trails off, and I can tell his train of thought is dwindling.

I guide my hand upwards until it slips underneath his shirt.

He gasps – "Damn, your hand is cold."

My fingers trace the skin on his hips, and then his ribs. He shudders with his eyes still shut. He lets me do this for a while, until my hand creeps down, lower down

"Ahh... Nathan – hey." He takes my wrist, gently.

I look at him with bewildered eyes, a puppy dog stare.

"I know what you're doing," he says quietly. "Look, I mean. We have to talk about… today. You know that. I just want to know what made you so upset, you know? Because if I have to like, fight someone—"

"Yeah, yeah. All right." I mutter. "But – can we just – ? First? And then I promise we—"

He straddles me, slams his mouth against mine. I jerk in surprise, but kiss him back – I cup his face with my hands and kiss him ruthlessly. Until we're both faint from oxygen deprivation.

He stares down at me, eyes wild, never blinking. While he's vulnerable, I shove him down onto the bed and crawl over him –hovering like I'm the fucking cat and him the mouse. I still have something awful inside me – bad energy, it leaves me breathless. I kiss him in an attempt to suffocate it.

Sucking on his lip gently, and then biting hard enough to draw blood. Our mouths raw, ravenous. Grinding against each other, denim on denim.

(This is how you keep warm. This is how you keep your blood flowing, hot and quick.)

I pull away from him, the air full with my rapid breaths, his sighs.

"Don't stop," he whines. His cheeks are rosy, and his hair sticks to his forehead from the sweat.

I want to smile, want to be mischievous – but my heart is heavy, too much blood flow, and it's hard to stay cool. I just stare at Warren, and my lips are trembling again.

He sighs now, eyes changing from hazy and light to solemn... and dark. He rolls out from underneath me, and I collapse in the space where he once was.

He waits for me to speak, to vomit my heart out. But I swallow everything down, always.

I can read Warren just by the way he twitches his mouth, or drums his fingers on his thighs – but me? Everything I do is in a foreign language.

I stare at the ceiling, at my shoes; I never took them off, so his sheets are probably all scuffed with dirt. I'm such a piece of shit. Now he has to sleep in these sheets – these dirty sheets

"Nate?"

I make myself look at him, but it's like all my muscles and joints have rusted over. He isn't looking back at me, though. He's just playing with his thumbs, because he isn't so great at keeping still either.

"It's nothing," I hear myself say, and it's like watching myself from the corner of the room, doing things I have no control over.

Warren still doesn't move. I can't see his eyes; it's like they are hiding from me.

"Really," I continue. "I'm fine—"

"It's not nothing." Slowly, he slides his hand across the sheet and grabs mine. I squeeze back, as if to say please don't hate me, please don't be mad, just don't hate me like everyone else.

"Seriously not a big deal," I mumble. "It's just my dad… he called in the morning and we had this stupid fucking fight, but it's whatever, and then – yeah, it's just a bad day. It doesn't mean anything."

"Are you kidding – ugh, I hate that dick. Don't listen to him, okay?" His brows are creased in frustration now. "Whatever he said, it doesn't mean shit. God, I want to fight him so badly."

"You can't fight my dad, Warren."

"... I know."

"But I mean – thanks, anyway."

He turns his head and kisses my cheek. "Man, screw your dad, though. You know what we should do?" He lets go of my hand and sits up now, eyes sparkling.

I shake my head. "What?"

"Tomorrow night, we can go to the dollar theater and watch whatever weird shit they're playing and then, like. Drive around and find one of those 24 hour diners and eat pancakes at three in the morning. It'll be totally awesome." He's giving me this ultra dorky grin that, unfortunately, I find really hard to resist.

"Fuck yeah." I grin too, in spite of myself. "Except, I'm more of a waffles guy myself."

Warren is practically bouncing on the bed, now. "And then if you want, we can get, like, mega wasted and talk shit about your dad or something - oh, we can throw darts at his picture-"

I snort. "Warren. Why don't you ever want to go anywhere nice?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know. Like, a fucking black tie restaurant. With candles and shit."

He scoffs at me. "Man, I don't want you to spend a ton of money on me – that's dumb. Like $90 lobster or something? I don't need that."

"Yeah," I say. "I guess."

He glances at me, and then sinks back down into the pillows. "Come 'ere," he tells me, and it's all I need to hear. I lean my head on his chest, and it soothes me to feel his chest rise and fall.

I want to fall asleep like this, but it's heartbreaking to know that in the morning, the moment will be gone.

My eyelids are impossibly heavy, but I put up a fight, because this has to last a little longer. It has to.


A/N: ch 2 is coming soon folks