'Language is scary when overanalysed
Sebastian Castellanos fills his life with empty choices, because it's far easier to just mutter 'yeah, sure' than argue about something as insignificant as preference.
Maybe that's why he'd decided to take Spanish classes instead of French or German, regardless of the fact that he's already fluent. He supposes the teacher doesn't need to know that, though. If she can't guess from his fucking surname, than that's none of his business anyway. He'll just continue taking educational siestas and accepting 'A+'s in the meantime.
"Hola clase!" Ms Durante exclaims cheerily, as though it's not mere routine for her. Sebastian wonders how many times she's already prattled off the greeting, and whether it ever gets boring. He doesn't think she'd care. "¿Cómo están todos?"
"Bien," one or two hopefuls respond. No one else really has any interest in impressing Ms Durante, despite her low standards when it comes to grades. Sebastian had attempted failing before, if only to try something new, but somehow left with a 'B' and a note saying 'not to be disappointed'. He absolutely fucking had, though. He'd deserved a 'F', dammit.
The teacher laughs, and its high pitch jars Sebastian from his dormir. His head is precariously laid across a small mountain of books that will likely collapse at any moment, but he's too tired to organise the molehill. A sheet on 'los animales' threatens to paper-cut his kisser off, but he'll face that damage later. Or someone else will. Probably the latter.
"Estamos aprendiendo sobre de las vacaciones hoy!" the clueless woman declares, glancing around the room for their no doubt ecstatic reactions. Only part of Sebastian's curiosity is piqued, but it's enough. He raises his head drowsily. If there's one thing he does enjoy learning about, it's other countries. He knows shit about Europe, but what he wouldn't do to explore the place. It could be a fucking modern-day adventure, he thinks, yawning into his sleeve.
"¡Qué!" an academic crows indignantly. She struggles to find the Spanish words before giving up entirely. "I've never left America before, at least since I was a kid!"
Ms Durante smiles indulgently at her. "You can all find a partner. They can tell you about where you've been, so you'll get a secondhand idea of a foreign holiday."
Sebastian throws his gaze across the room, scanning the class for any potential 'friend'. He doesn't have all too many, not like people think, but he's content with the few real ones he has. He doubts that many have ever left Krimson City: the land of lacklustre opportunities. He hopes they don't have boring stories to tell, either. He likes a good thriller.
He wants to be paired with someone who has travelled extensively, because that could prove fascinating, so he tells Ms Durante he's never gone abroad before. In reality he's ventured to Spain, although that was the extent of it. Once he even ran away to Springfield for the kick of it, but he returned in a week.
"Then you can join Joseph," the teacher says delightedly. "I think he'll really help you improve your work ethic, Sebastian!"
He's probably better at Spanish than she is, but he doesn't tell her this. "Tal vez."
The impressive pile of books wobbles as he carelessly grabs a notepad, but doesn't fall yet. He manoeuvres through the stream of chattering students as they play 'meet 'n greet' in the middle of the classroom. The 'Joseph' kid is sat in the very back, and stares studiously at the blank sheet in front of him. He's pretty, for a boy. Black hair like coal while his eyes then resemble charcoal. His skin looks like it could have been pieced together from porcelain, elegant and breakable. Gracelessly, Sebastian crashes into the chair beside him, offering the boy a lazy grin when he spins around in surprise.
"Sebastian," he hums, by means of introduction. Perhaps he'll actually remain awake for this class. Well, maybe. "Where've you been?"
The other boy bites his lip awkwardly. "I'm Joseph," he confirms warily. "I've been to Japan, Canada, France, England, Ireland and Germany."
Sebastian feels his eyes widen in elation. "Really?" he breathes, brows raising. "That's amazing."
"And you?" Joseph looks intensely uncomfortable. "I know you said you've never left the states, but, um, your surname isn't really..."
"American?" he supplies easily. "Yeah, well, my dad was Spanish."
"Was?"
"Yeah."
"Okay," Sebastian ignores the watery sound of the teen gulping. "Well, I don't know what to tell you then."
Disappointment sets in his stomach. "What?"
"I mean," Joseph continues delicately. "I suppose you can speak Spanish twice as well as I can, so there's no real point-"
"Of course there is!" Sebastian interrupts him, leaning closer. He tries to smile at the kid, but it's not returned. He wonders if he's intimidating him. "You can tell me all about the countries- fuck the language!"
The geek doesn't flinch against the swear, but recoils when Sebastian removes the distance between them. "You want me to?" he asks slowly.
"Fuck yeah!" Sebastian agrees enthusiastically. He doesn't want to scare Joseph off, not yet anyway, but six other countries in sixteen years? A wistful sigh escapes him. "I'd love to've gone to that many places, damn."
"You like travelling?" the boy questions. He seems genuinely curious, so Sebastian nods.
"Well," he clears his throat embarrassedly. "I love imagining it, anyway. I've hardly even left fucking Krimson."
"Oh," Joseph's lip quirks into something a little more friendly. Not quite a smile, but close enough. "Well, I'm Japanese-Canadian-"
"Do you speak Japanese?"
He flushes. "A lot- maybe- well, a little," he admits. "But you should see the nature..."
Sebastian doesn't stop Joseph when he begins ranting about gardens and then traditional dishes, because it's the first time he's seen the boy light up. He himself is somewhat amazed that they had never spoken before- sure, they mightn't have the most in common, but Sebastian wonders how they've never held any sort of conversation without the forces of projects and school. The boy has a brilliant smile, he realises. It makes Sebastian feel awake as he listens to every detail on 'the benefits of eating buttered toast with nori'. It's like Joseph is recounting a bedtime story, but the sort to keep you up all night as a kid, wondering about every aspect as if each feature could have a second meaning to it.
It's only when the bell rings that Joseph hesitates, arms hovering from where he'd been waving them wildly. "Um, well," he coughs, not meeting Sebastian's eyes. "I hope that gave you an idea of-"
"We should hang out again," Sebastian cuts in, though he doesn't expect the eagerness in his tone. Joseph clearly doesn't either.
"We... should?"
It's too late to play it cool, so Sebastian just shrugs. "I like talking to you," he confesses simply. "And I don't usually with other people."
He tries not to squirm under Joseph's stare, and then refrains the glow threatening to consume him with the other's approval. "Okay then."
Every word that I say seems far too contrived
Joseph Oda didn't 'need' glasses until he was thirteen-years-old.
He was alone, then. Friendless and tired. His social life was non-existent and his studies dull. The nerds rejected his intelligence because of his looks and the so-called 'popular kids' dismissed him for his more-often-than-not smart-ass comments. Joseph had never been one to give up quickly, but nine years of unnecessary isolation had drove him to the edge- and an edge of what, he wasn't sure, but he did know that with another step, he'd fall.
He didn't sleep much in those nights, though slept all too much during the days. He perfected the art of looking wide awake while lost in dream, hiding his eyes with hand or hair. Though he could never understand why such nightmares plagued him- dusty memoirs of past lives, marred with death and loss. He woke screaming until the day he didn't- the day he realised he had to change. Sleeplessness brought headaches, and when his mother suggested a visit to the optician to test his sight he readily agreed. The proposal of needing glasses was nearly attractive, in the moment. Because, if anything, Joseph Oda was a fucking nerd. And he would remind his classmates of such.
If only to remind himself that he belonged somewhere.
He had to.
Later, he may have admittedly exaggerated the extent of his purblindness, mistaking 'm's for 'n's and somehow 'h's for 'z's. He was diagnosed as remarkably short-sighted and told he could choose any pair of glasses he wanted. However his mother was quick to deny the motion, arguing that her father's old spectacles were as much a blessing as they were a dusty heirloom. Joseph didn't mind, though. Logan Martin had been a wise man who claimed his glasses were a 'fecking godsend'. Joseph was reasonably sure that the old adventurer's story of escaping an abandoned asylum by fooling the patients into thinking he was two different men (one with glasses, and one acting like he needed them) was likely enhanced with time, though it had been entertaining each time it was recounted- and his grandfather had retold the tale a dozen times a day until his last. Mrs Oda had taken the specs from her 'special drawer' and placed them reverently onto his face, as though knighting him an utter geek. His vintage glasses and intelligence would be his rising and his downfall, he was sure.
And, somehow, in the days following his new sight, Joseph found himself further understanding Logan Martin. He did feel like two different people now, and soon it became clear that the glasses weren't about being able to see... they were about feeling normal. And Joseph needed that. Pathetically so. He sat with the nerds that Monday and nobody questioned him. Odder still, Oscar Connelly began babbling about Minecraft to him as if he had belonged there all along. Joseph restrained the irritated twitch in his eye and nodded along, even though he had always avoided the game- as well as Oscar himself. The boy, for all his goofy smiles, had sensational anger issues. But Joseph just smiled.
It was the longest conversation he'd had in a long time, even if it was about fucking blocks.
It was not until Joseph's 15th birthday, a party to which only Oscar showed up, that he realised that the other boy considered him a friend. They'd spent two years talking awkwardly and playing video-games and Joseph had always thought it was mere necessity. Sometimes, when the Connelly boy was too tired to bitch about the state of the universe as they knew it, Joseph would show him pictures of Logan Martin, and tell great stories of the mad adventurer. The nerd would smile sleepily and mutter something about his 'grandpa being a badass', before promptly passing out on the sofa. Joseph's mother would pass them without casting judgement, clinging tightly to her sanity and depositing a blanket over the boy. Naturally, Oscar was no genius, and nor was he an angel. He got pissed off and broke the Oda's TV screen when he threw one of their controllers at it after he lost a Mario Kart race, and though he apologised he hadn't paid them back shit and Joseph had to sacrifice what was in his own pocket instead. He wasn't quite sure he would ever let go of such a grudge until the day Oscar offered him the oddest gift.
The older boy looked even more awkward than usual, before thrusting a newspaper-wrapped package into his arms. Joseph took a moment before pulling layers of articles away to reveal something smooth and black. His eyes widened as he picked the fabric from its paper, holding it up in awe. It was a black suit vest- just like his grandfather used to wear. Practically identical, he wondered in amazement.
"Found it in a vintage store," Oscar grumbled, looking uncomfortable as he wrung his hands and stared at Joseph's shoes. "I looked so gay the shop attendant asked if I wanted to see their range of man-scarves."
The moment was perfect, and Joseph refrained from hugging the massive dumbass in thanks. It was a lonely birthday, considering he had invited sixteen others, but it was more than worth remembering.
He turned 16, no surprise, a year later. Oscar, he realised, was no longer a nerd. He appeared to have transcended into something much, much worse. A fucking hipster. The kid seemed to be on the verge of gaining some self-confidence, and even found himself challenging Joseph by identifying him by his vintage exterior and obsession with the colour black as an emerging Hipster-Emo... better known, apparently, as a hippo. Joseph had hit his friend with the butt of his game controller. Oscar punched him in return, and Joseph hid the black-eye with his man-makeup. Damn asshole.
Then, three months later, Ms Oda announced she was dying.
She didn't dramatise it, and there was no sentiment to the words. It was a harsh truth, bitter and accepted. Oscar, as an unofficial Oda himself, had been the only one to cry. When the woman's lovely inky locks began to fall like the petals from a wilting flower, the Connelly boy shaved his head. He looked alien, without his tufty brown comb-over. It made Joseph laugh, and it made him sob too- but only late into the night, when no one heard and no one cared about the boy breathing through his pillow.
One night they sat before the fireplace. Ms Oda was quiet, so Joseph prattled on about every meagre aspect of his day. She interrupted him, softly, as he described Pythagoras's Theorem with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.
"Dear," she said kindly, sounding all too resigned. "I'd like to meet your other friends."
Joseph's heart sunk in his chest. He'd been telling her pretty white-lies for three years, narrating wild tricks and a close-knit clique. In all actuality Oscar was his only real friend, but he couldn't tell her that. Not now.
"Alright, Mum," he concedes, staring into the flames in shame. 'Failure,' something inside him hummed knowingly. 'Fuck-up.'
His mother sighed, allowing the warm armchair to swallow her contently. "I can't wait," she whispered.
"Me neither."
What are your intentions? I'm ashamed by mine.
Joseph agrees to meet the other boy after school, though he doesn't ask where.
He doesn't know much about Sebastian Castellanos, though it seems this disadvantage is mutual. Neither are quite sure how to speak to one another, though it didn't seem to dissuade the older boy. All they had spoken about were the places Joseph had gone- the places Sebastian hadn't, and likely never would, travel to.
He can't pretend not to recognise what sort of student Sebastian is. He's the nightmare pupil, bored and endlessly tired, relying on his rugged good-looks to bring him anywhere. He doesn't pay attention in class and he disrespects the teachers. His friend group are something outside that of the typical nerds vs. populars cliche. They're the outcasts. He hangs out with fucking Miles Upshur- the renowned 'dick-rider'. Being friends with some of the gayest of the gay is sure to lose you some cred, but Sebastian doesn't seem to care much.
And maybe he can admire that, because whenever Joseph Oda finds 'faggot' scrawled over his locker, he just scowls and bows his head.
It's nothing particularly new. A subcategory of the outcasts (with the atypical name of 'the Variants') have gotten their kicks from exploiting his potential sexuality for years now, from 'kick-me' signs to thorough half-assed attacks. Regardless, Joseph likes to think he's a little less gay than the lesbians with leather and mohawks. Fuck those guys.
Things would be much worse, he thinks, if he wasn't far past his identity crisis of '95. It hadn't been an easy time, and probably had the muscle to rival the shit year that '97 was proving to be. It doesn't make it 'okay' though. He's not Miles Upshur- he can't just laugh off the insults and slurs. No, instead he carries each indignity across his shoulders (like one of Oscar's infamous man-scarves) and lets them drag him down.
He doesn't cry though. He's not so weak.
Allowing a rather unattractive grimace to stain his face, he simply grabs his bag and walks away. He's not a very confrontational person and would far rather remain neutral in the corner, although circumstance often removes that option. Glaring irritably, he strides out of Beacon High with a vexed pride. His glasses are slipping down his nose and his shirt is bunching up unflatteringly, but he can't bring himself to care. Fuck the Variants, fuck hipster polos, and fuck Beacon H-
"Joseph!" calls Sebastian Castellanos, sidling up beside him with a drowsy grin. "Hey buddy."
"Buddy?"
The delinquent shrugs, a careless shift of his shoulders that's partnered by a light chuckle. "Force of habit- my friends are freaks."
Joseph tries not to stare awkwardly. "Ah."
Sebastian manages a short laugh. "I mean, I love them, don't get me wrong- but fuck, can they weird me out."
Pausing, Joseph attempts to imagine a time where Oscar had been particularly intolerable. It's all too easy. "My best friend broke my TV once," he offers.
The other boy blinks. "Well damn."
"So, er, where are we going?"
"Oh, yeah," Sebastian says, shaking his head. His smile has returned and it has the potential to blind Joseph. "I thought we could play video games at my place, if you like that kind of thing."
"Uh..."
Sebastian is quick to explain, discomfort suddenly shadowing his face. "I just thought you'd like gaming," because I'm a fucking nerd? "Cos it's kind of like an adventure, y'know? Exploring and shit." Oh.
"That," Joseph swallows, fighting the slight smile aching against his lips. "Yeah, that sounds cool."
When I'm thinking too much, I realise I'm unkind
Sebastian doesn't have a pricey car or motorcycle to accompany his hooligan-like appearance, and nor does he suggest catching a ride with anyone else. He doesn't address the fact that they'll be walking a good twenty minutes at all, and can only hope Joseph will be as accepting as Miles and Rick. He doubts the other boy wants to know that, no, Sebastian can't afford a Cosmic Starship bike or limousine. The confusion marring Oda's expression almost carries a frown to his face- what did he expect? Krimson City only homes about thirty millionaires, and Sebastian most definitely isn't one of them.
He tries to remind himself that people make assumptions- it's mere human nature. Maybe Sebastian's fuck-all nonchalance has fooled the kid into believing the illusion of his- of his what, actually? The only costly item that he can brag is his beige trench-coat, which was from... well, it was a gift. He's not sure how anyone could glance at his scruffy apparel and think, 'fuck, that guy's got money'. Sebastian has only ever been mugged by his neighbours once or twice, so it's clear no one else has shared this opinion.
Whenever Professor Jimenez comments that he looks like a street rat, Sebastian doesn't bat an eye. It's not an unfair assumption, so who's he to complain?
But, irrationally, the pity growing Joseph Oda's eyes as they travel further into the slums of Krimson bothers him. He doesn't treat the boy with the same detached evenhandedness that he would anyone else, and though he knows it's crooked play he sends the guy a shit-eating grin.
"It's a nice neighbourhood, really," he tells him wryly, struggling to maintain the dark twist in his lips. "Lovely people."
"I'm sure," Joseph consents carefully, and it makes Sebastian want to tear at his hair. "And you live nearby?"
"Just another minute," he confirms, pulling the nerd past a group of teens spray-painting something about the 'new world' onto a wall.
"Bringing a faggot in here, Castellanos?" one of the vandal's jeers behind them. "That's a fucking mistake, mate!"
"Not as much as a mistake as the one your mother made, Blaire!" he retorts without looking back. Joseph bites his lip beside him, and Sebastian pushes away the urge to ease the kid's nervous stare.
"Is this a regular event here?" the shorter boy asks. A tense amusement brightens his gaze and Sebastian lifts a shoulder in resigned response.
"'Spose so," he decides. "They've become more poetic over time."
"This is some Wilde level shit," Joseph agrees. Sebastian snorts. "I appreciate that they spelled 'cesspool', 'sesspool'. It really gives new meaning to the word."
"Or just further enforces the original meaning," Sebastian argues lightheartedly. He laughs a little. "And Blaire has the guts to shit on Miles and Way."
"Way?"
"One of Miles' exes," he recounts. Something like nostalgia enters his expression freely. "Two fine idiots. They gravitated towards one another after some equally shitty relationships. They were probably perfect for each other."
"Did... did they break up?" Joseph wonders. There's something about love that can sadden any stranger, and the boy looks oddly disappointed. Sebastian supposes that everyone prefers a happy-ending, even if the odds are stacked against it.
He glances at the roughly cobbled road. They'll reach his house soon, and they'll pass Gluskin's within seconds. "Way disappeared one day," he mutters shortly. "We don't know why. At first we thought it was his fucktard ex, but then other kids started going missing and-"
The silence lasts a moment before Joseph speaks up. "Did you know those other kids?"
Sebastian let himself release a bark of resentful laughter. "I was dating one of them," he admits easily. "She was the best thing that ever happened to me."
Joseph hesitates, turning to face him briefly. "That's pretty shitty."
His lour twitches, and he nods in confirmation. "Yeah," he remembers, forbearing and harsh. It's sudden and crude but all he wants to do now is scream. Maybe he'd spit swears and angry curses, but maybe he'd just howl in frustration and punch a hole in someone's wall. The latter is nothing but a common occurrence, but Joseph doesn't need to know that. "But that's life," he tries weakly, but if that's really life then he wants none of it.
"Maybe," Joseph concedes, and it's almost disenchanting. As though he's shaking himself out of a dream, Sebastian surveys the scrawny nerd with the perfectly combed hair that's walking awkwardly at his side. His glasses are clearly aged, though have been polished lovingly without blemish, and adorn his pale face like mere decoration. His frame is slight and gangly, and the the shirt clinging to his front has something of an obnoxious turtleneck and a small pocket against his chest. His shoes are black and formal, nearly sparkling over the filthy roadway. The boy is clean and faultless, and Sebastian realises what a massive oversight this is.
Why the fuck did he invite some pristine nerd from his Spanish class to 'hang out'? What was he thinking? He's dragged this kid into the most dangerous district in Krimson to play fucking video-games. No wonder the other boy looks strained and small, hiding his hands in the upmarket jacket he'd pulled out of his schoolbag.
He doesn't mention any of this to the kid. Instead he leads him into his house, introduces his shabby pup Zehn, and offers him his outdated game controller. They battle in silence, opting to use partner-based games rather than fighting against one another. They defeat monster after monster wordlessly, and Sebastian ignores Joseph's cautious gaze as he masterfully shoots down the Keeper. The boy perks up when he opens his mouth, but all Sebastian can say is 'you want a drink?' to which the other answers a listless 'sure'.
It's not exactly that he's lost interest. He just doesn't care for dragging others down for the sake of simple curiosity. Joseph doesn't have the eyes of someone who knows pain, and Sebastian doesn't want to be the one who taints that.
Maybe this isn't a kindness, but it's all he knows.
Pretend that I'm nicer than I'll ever be
Simple interaction with Sebastian dissolves into pure discomfort, but Joseph resists squirming in the spring-rough couch. He watches the hours tick by patiently, waiting for a time polite enough to leave without appearing rude. It strikes seven and he stirs against the cushions.
"I should probably go," he excuses, sighing in a way he hopes looks annoyed. "I'll see you at school?"
"I guess."
Joseph pretends as though his fists aren't tautly clenched, and reaches over to shake the other boy's hand. Dispassionate and tired, the other accepted it with an uncharacteristically loose grip.
Sebastian stands, stretching for a moment before moving toward the door. He opens the rickety exit and nods at Joseph, as if to say 'go on then, I was waiting just as long for this'. Joseph wonders if his frown is as obvious as Sebastian's.
He steps out into the darkening road, pivoting wearily to wave in the most civil manner he can muster. What an ass, part of him hisses as he smiles diplomatically. At this Sebastian pauses, his door hanging half-closed and insecure. He looks uncomfortable, and something like shame flashes across his lifeless profile.
If this was one of his mother's movies, Joseph would probably yell an indiscreet 'fuck you' at the guy who had lead him on. Perhaps he'd just flip him the bird, or shake his head ruefully. Instead, he turns to merely walk away. Wait, he thinks then, balling his fists once more. He crosses his arms to hug them against his chest, guilty and frustrated. This isn't one of Mum's movies- this is her fucking reality. I can't just tell her I lied. Maybe I do need someone, and maybe this asshole will have to do.
"Maybe we could meet up like this again," he offers, though it's not a question. He allows a hint of benevolence to the suggestion, and hopes the friendliness is enough to make it seem honest. He keeps advancing, distancing them quickly. He doesn't particularly want to hear the other's response.
"What?" Sebastian calls. Unaltered surprise laces his far-carrying voice, and Joseph almost wants to laugh.
"I'll see you at school," he repeats, and when Sebastian remains silent it almost feels like a cold victory.
I am selfish and deluded, enjoy my hypocrisy
When Sebastian's father died, he was caught between caring and just turning away. 'COPD', the doctors had all said for years.
"If he'd just stop smoking," one doctor had grumbled helplessly, as if any of them didn't know that now. As if it was that simple.
Nicolas Castellanos was Sebastian's main inspiration through childhood. He'd first been a detective, but upon investigating a potential crime scene that had been majorly obscured by a man-made flame he found the charred remains of an infant. Sebastian had only been months old at the time, and maybe that's was ran through his father's mind when he discovered the child. The parents had yet to be located, or even identified, and Nicolas Castellanos was one of the only people to attend the modest funeral for a nameless babe. Distressed by the loss, he revealed to his wife that he wanted to become a firefighter. He claimed he 'wouldn't fuck it up so much that a little kid would suffer'. Poppy Castellanos had smiled, Sebastian remembers. She told her husband that he was a man his son could be proud of, and that he could follow whatever path he wanted.
Nicolas trained for six months, and that was six long months without income. Understanding that the wages would be lower for what could be up to a year, Poppy suggested they sell their comfortable three-story house (with the flowers and hand-painted walls, that was decorated with love and tender memorabilia that Sebastian would soon forget) and move into a simpler home. They chose a dapper apartment and gave the family dog, Neun, to one of his mother's friends, Juanita. Nearly a year old, Sebastian had been unconcerned with every sudden change. It was a relief for his parents, both whom worried incessantly about giving their child the stability he would grow to long for. Poppy managed to obtain a good job as a human resources assistant, as it didn't require previous experience or training. It had a decent salary and was respectable and interesting. His mother enjoyed the work, and even continued it when Nicolas finished his preparation and was hired as a firefighter. Sebastian's new babysitter was kind to him, even if she did take jewellery and loose cash and never quite return them.
Neither of his parents were 'perfect', though. Poppy Castellanos started drinking at one in the morning, and Nicolas only ever stopped smoking around that hour. She claimed it gave her energy, and he argued that it made him feel in control. Fire was his father's one fear, even if he would never admit it. 'Fighting' it wasn't just, it was a self-serving emancipation. Nicolas worked to liberate himself from his past, and Poppy laboured to free herself from the constraints of family.
It was only when Sebastian turned seven that Nicolas Castellanos was diagnosed with COPD, and it was a shock to all of them. Poppy fretted constantly in the most subtle of ways- hiding cigarettes, closing the windows in favour of fans, and saying 'I love you' every morning. Nicolas took to smoking outside, where it was quiet and his wife couldn't judge him. Now Sebastian wonders if his father was simply resigned to his death, and if he was selfish enough to accept it without his family's consent. Poppy was promoted to manager out of the blue, and everything somehow got worse. She was gone long hours, and busy even while at home. Nicolas was forced to quit his job months later, and Poppy was suddenly the only one able to provide for the family. She stopped finding any happiness in her desperate work, and Nicolas gradually fell apart.
When Sebastian was eleven, his father died.
He had managed to scramble together a career as a delivery driver in his last few years, but earned far less than Poppy and nothing near as much as they needed. They held onto the apartment with all their effort until Nicolas passed, but his death was enough to push his mother off the edge. They lost their apartment within a month and Poppy struggled to afford babysitters or care for Sebastian. It frustrated her to no end that, when it came down to it, she was going to have to choose between her rewarding job and her stranger of a son.
He should have been relieved she picked him over her profession, but all he had left was a ghosting sense of guilt. Their new house was humble, to say the least. It was two stories tall with a crusty cream-like paint coating its exterior. The door was stiff and one of the windows was cracked, forming a spider-web of broken glass. There was only one small bedroom upstairs and a garish yellow bathroom, so Poppy opted to turning the laundry room by the kitchen into her own room. The house had its flaws, extensively so, but they slowly learned to adapt. Sebastian's mother had to give up her work and take up a far less satisfying job in the local supermarket. At the very least they could afford what they needed, and Sebastian was able to leave his upmarket elementary school to an unpretentious middle school. The walk was only fifteen minutes, and Sebastian promised his mother that he could walk alone.
It was okay if the widow wanted to avoid his company, because he didn't particularly enjoy hers either.
Complain that I'm bored, when being bored is a privilege
Saturday mornings are rarely anything of interest in the Castellanos household. Poppy works a morning shift in Krimson Market, and Sebastian volunteers at his friend Chris' homely garage business. 'Walker's Wheels' may not be a five-star establishment, but Chris does what he has to do to keep the repair shop alive. It's a black-blue box protruding from the corner of Massive Road, simple and subtle and cheap. Chris is twenty-one, smart as fuck and probably better suited to the work of a bodyguard. He's a muscular and hefty man, intimidating at first sight and suspicious at a second. Regardless, he follows Sebastian and his friends around like a mutated mother-hen, and they've grown to appreciate the lofty support.
Chris was introduced to Sebastian through his other friend, Rick. And, to be honest, Rick is just about the biggest asshole Sebastian knows, so the hulking engineer with the cautious attitude and over-protective instincts of someone far older was a far cry from the bastard they'd been expecting when Richard had announced he wanted to introduce one of his favourite 'customers'. Sebastian hadn't been sure what to anticipate when imagining a repairman who bought stolen goods from a hoodlum teen, but Chris Walker was a pleasant surprise. Sometimes he even offered Sebastian a plate of bacon when he visited, though more often than not Miles was the one to snatch up the meat. 'Little Pig', Chris dubbed the gluten. Miles didn't mind, even if Chris ended up chasing him around the residence. They all got along well, even without Way appearing to mediate each situation and play referee. Sometimes Miles will go quiet, mid (girly-as-fuck) shriek, and they all know what's running through his mind.
Chris, surprisingly, is the best person to offer comfort. He's been going to therapy half his life, and he knows exactly what sympathies to rattle off through an understanding gruff tone. Rick and Sebastian are never so sure how to respond to angry tears, and often propose he 'man ups' with an awkward pity. Miles laughs when they try this, but both know it's not real. Miles is a slimy motherfucker and his lies oftentimes mould into dry truths.
"Sebastian," Chris greets him with a gravelly voice. His words often sound as though they're being heaved across a jagged stone, breaking off in sharp wedges and splinters.
"Hey Chris," he returns with a small smile. The man's shaven head shines impressively against the rising sun before Chris slings a cap over his crown. "How's business?"
The mechanic swings his hands in a debatable wave, glancing at the ceiling as if it would know the answer. "Nothing out of the ordinary," he grunts. "Suppose it's fine. Some rich bastard snapped his interior rear view mirror and keeps telling me it's a fuckin' crisis."
"That should be an easy fix, right?"
He snorts. "Elementary, even. The moron promised me two-hundred and fifty for it. Won't argue with that."
"A lucky day then," Sebastian decides. He grabs two buckets, and waltzes over to the tap. Filling one with soapy water and the other with clear, he hauls them over to the old car the older man is gesturing to. Chris doesn't trust him as far as he can throw him - which is understandable because the distance would be remarkable - so Sebastian rarely plays any role past washing the vehicles. The can with the soap bubbling inside is overflowing with suds, so he deposits both on a mat in the corner. Without delay he moves to kneel by the wheels, and begins swabbing the tires with practiced care.
The experience is an odd mixture of intense boredom and stressless lull. He blocks out the deafening tolls of the repair shop, dulling the noise of wet cloth and loud equipment. He once preferred this feeling- a powerful numb that soothed the world to monochrome and shadows. It was the closest sort of suffering he had to content, but now it just seems hollow.
Chris makes $17.65 an hour, and works ten official hours a day from eight in the morning until six in the afternoon. It isn't unusual for him to leave early without notice, or in contrast to work late into the night another day. Today Chris has declared the shop closes at 5pm, no questions asked. Sebastian can guess why. Tomorrow, Miles Upshur will turn seventeen at midnight. Sebastian, Rick and Chris are visiting a childhood friend this evening to organise a gift for him. Sebastian had originally been somewhat unsure of asking Juli Kidman for help, as she neighboured Gluskin without complaint, but he knew he couldn't refuse when Rick had described her 'loot'.
Sebastian should consider himself quite fortunate. All of his friends, as brilliant as they are, are advantages of a sort. Rick steals, Chris pays, Juli provides and Miles will always be there when he needs him. He wishes, in a way that is adventitiously soft, that he could offer his companions the same aid they unwittingly supply him with everyday. When the microwave exploded, Rick had 'found' him a better one. On days when cigarettes became burning reminders, Miles crushed them under his heel and sat beside him. After Myra disappeared, Juli searched with him for hours. She'd called out to him, pitying and mellow, and showed him what she had uncovered: a scarf buried in a patch of lilies, sullied brown and red.
In comparison, Sebastian knows he's rather useless.
Act like I'm suffering, there's no suffering in this
Opening the door to his house, Joseph pulls out his headphones respectfully. The time he has at home is devoted to his mother- he wouldn't have it any other way. Today she's at the fireplace again, huddled into her cushiony armchair in a frail heap. Despite this fragility his mother remains all sharp edges, pointy and fierce and proud. She smiles, warm from the fire and something like satisfaction when she notices him. Slow and tired, he collapses onto the sofa.
"Were you at that friend's house again?"
He startles. "No? What friend?"
"You were gone late yesterday," she explains, blithe and smug. "Oscar was at the door looking for you. Said he thought you'd be back earlier, but you'd left with another boy."
"Oh," Joseph says. He wavers slightly. Thoughtfully, he concludes, "yeah, I suppose I did."
"Well," she hums expectantly. She looks up to meet his eye with a relieved smile. "What's his name?"
"Sebastian," Joseph shrugs, thespian and brooding. "Sebastian Castellanos."
"Spanish?"
"Yeah, he's in my Spanish class too."
She laughs. "What a contrary kid. What were you doing that took so long yesterday?"
Joseph bites his lip. "Um," something nervous bubbles against his chest. "He lives down in the slum-side area, so the walk was pretty long."
His mother doesn't so much as blink. "Ah, that explains it. How'd you spend the time?"
"Video-games," he tells her, and she laughs again. He chooses to exaggerate, watching her proud beam. "His mum was out, so we could yell all we wanted. He has a pretty good selection," hesitating, he adds, "though he did seem pretty antsy."
"Oh, don't tell me that upset you, honey," she says, smiling sympathetically. "Love, you know that you can't let things like that get you down. For all you know he could've just been having a... a crappy day," she gives him a look and it makes him snort. It's that glance a parent sends to remind their child that, yeah, that's right- Mum was 'hip' once too.
Joseph nods vaguely, and his mother releases a sigh. "Maybe," he offers.
"Oh, stop it Jojo," she grumbles, shifting in her seat. "I always taught you to empathise with others, don't you forget it. You mentioned his mother wasn't home," she tries, waving her hands loosely in contemplation. "Maybe... well, maybe they're having trouble. You said it yourself, they're stuck in the slums where money's tight and hooligans frolic around like it's Grease or something. We can't make assumptions, of course, but still, love, I doubt he's got it easy right now."
I don't have it easy either. "You're right," he swallows. Regret pierces him suddenly- fuck, what an asshole he's been. Granted, Sebastian was perhaps the more prominent ass in the situation, but he wasn't sure he could excuse his unfair sharpness to the older boy. He had only started to block Joseph out when they breached the border of conversational into personal, and it was very possible it had brought back some shit memories for the guy. "You're right," he echoes again, guilty now.
"I understand he was probably acting like a jerk," she emphasises, but her expression has softened. "And I'm no saint - you know I'd have no qualms in calling him out on his sulking - but remember, he's your friend."
"My friend."
"And I can promise you, someday you'll feel like a godawful wreck, and he'll be right there."
Someday? he wonders through his smile. It plasters itself across his face, so tightly he knows it will sting to remove. Everyday.
First world problems, they breed in my head
When Joseph sees his potential 'friend' next, it's not under the greatest of circumstances. A crowd has gathered around a band of variants who are attempting to beat the shit out of some students. Jostling further through the mass of observers, Joseph gains a front row seat to a fight with dangerously unbridled disdain proving adequate motivation. Perhaps one of the outcasts succeeded in taunting a variant into violence, and now both groups have moved to defend.
Sebastian has Frank Manera in a headlock, pounding his pointed elbows against the thrashing boy's back. The scene is pure bedlam- Manera is howling irritably ("What? You want his meat, faggot?") and Sebastian's only response is to hit him harder. Dennis Ratchet has shoved lanky Miles Upshur into the wall, spitting insults during the brief intervals in which he's not studying other brawlers.
"Fuck you, you homo-repressed piece of shit," Miles croaks, barely catching a breath before his skull is slammed into a locker. "Fuck."
When Joseph turns to inspect the damage on Sebastian's side, the other boy is already approaching. Manera is slumped against the wall, groaning and whining like a wounded beast. Sebastian acknowledges no one else, focused and harsh, and glares with intense contempt at the Variant. "Get the hell away from him, Ratchet!"
"Why'd you care so much, Castellanos?" the hefty boy coos. "Did he suck you off?"
Sebastian scoffs, balling his fists. "What, are you jealous or some shit?" he sneers.
Something hateful and red consumes Dennis Ratchet's features, and Miles stifles a laugh. "Oh Seb," he coughs. "Darling, we've been caught! Fortunately, Dennis only wants to join in the fun."
"Go to hell," Ratchet hisses, wrapping his large hands around Miles' scrawny neck. The chokehold only tightens when Sebastian rushes forward. He hesitates. The boy glances around the hall with concealed concern and clear anger, and his gaze meets Joseph's.
Should I do something? The thought pounds against the base of his skull without mercy, urging him to act without restraint. But Joseph Oda is a boy of many restrictions. In an attempt to quench his impulse to help, he wonders why should I? Sebastian never offered him a hand before, when he was bruised and bloody against the bike-rack where the outcasts sat to smoke. In fact, they usually walked past him. Though they never seemed to notice his incapacitated presence- which only ever served to make him feel worse. I'm invisible to you, he thinks bitterly. I owe you nothing.
Maybe Joseph still anticipates the cliché from Sebastian, because he almost expects the boy to call out to him. He doesn't. Joseph will later ponder whether it was a purposeful silence to keep attention away from him, though he doubts Sebastian has such extensive consideration for him. Regardless of intent, the detachment proves unnecessary, as Ratchet follows his stare.
"Oda?" he says, almost like a question. He seems to blink, unsure as to why Sebastian Castellanos would eye someone so insipid during a fight. Joseph is inclined to agree with him as he tries to sink into the crowd, though the throngs only move with him. One students elbows him thoughtlessly, thrusting him into the limelight.
"Let go of Miles," Sebastian steps closer, drawing the scrutiny back to him. "Or I swear..."
"You swear what?" Ratchet tuts. Threats are void on kids raised on brutality. He doesn't look away from Joseph, and broods for a moment. "Tell you what, Seb. If you can convince little Jojo here to come out of his big-ass closet... I'll let your friend go."
Sebastian blinks, and Miles barks with laughter.
"Joseph's gay?" the Spaniard asks, furrowing his brows.
"You'd stoop so low as forcing some kid to out himself?" Miles sniggers at the same time. The sound is derisively humorous. "In front of everybody?"
Where the fuck are the teachers? Joseph thinks anxiously. What's the point of this? You've already shown everyone I'm gay with your tasteful graffiti... why am I worried? Wait- oh fuck, they're staring, of course they're staring. Get it together. Sebastian and Upshur can get out of this by themselves, I have to... I have to make them stop staring.
"What are you waiting for, Jojo?" Ratchet questions. Malice darkens the grin playing across his lips, and Joseph has to remind himself not to look at the others as he smooths his own expression to deadpan.
"Nothing. I don't know what there is to say. I'm not gay."
"Really?" the other boy cocks his head, tightening his grip around Miles' throat. He frowns. "I mean, do you honestly think anyone believes that bullshit? Fag."
He can see Sebastian staring at him from the corner of his eye. Joseph feels shame rising in the back of his throat, sour and vile. "I'm not gay," he echoes. He's about to turn away when he hears Sebastian yell.
"No-"
Miles Upshur's head strikes the locker again with so much force that it drives a dent through the metal. His eyes drift closed and, suddenly, Sebastian dives at Dennis Ratchet, swearing and flailing and entirely enraged.
Joseph doesn't want to be involved any further, and dissolves, invisible, into the chaos.
Ethical contradictions between my actions and what I've said
"Hey, Seb," Miles breathes. His guardian, Just-Call-Me-Ivan Diaz had been quick to hear of the violence. Always one with a flair for the dramatic, he'd spat into the principal's face and called Dennis Ratchet a 'fucking pansy-ass bitch' before demanding Sebastian help carry the boy to his truck. Miles now lays in bed, rejecting pills and regretfully watching his icepack slip down his face until somebody adjusts it. He's a sorry sight.
The sigh Sebastian heaves is one of weary regret. "You fucking asshole," he complains, shaking his head. "You just had to goad on the fucking rat."
"I did," Miles nods sagely. "At least his brother wasn't there."
"Little Timmy?" Sebastian says derisively. "How the fuck are you more afraid of a pubescent lesbian than his massive Schwarzenegger brother?"
Miles only stares. "Timmy is Satan."
"Besides," Sebastian finds himself arguing. "He hates his brother. He'd probably beat both of you up and then piss on your graves."
"Dennis could easily defend himself! I'd get twice as much shit!"
"The hell you would- Timmy would focus all his anger on Dennis and you could sneak away."
"Oh really? As if either of them would let me go after that one time."
"You and Rick robbed them blind twice! They're dirt poor, what'd you think they'd do? Thank you?"
"Oh, shut it," Miles grumbles. Balancing the wet icepack against the boy's forehead, Sebastian exhales. His smile is of relief and light irritation.
"You're still a fucking asshole," he tells him. "But I'm glad you're okay."
"Fuck you," Miles retorts affectionately. "Or, well, fuck Oda. This isn't the first time I've wished someone was gay, but it's the second time it's ended violently."
"Alfred Drevis was a mistake," Sebastian concedes, but a scowl settles on his face. "Jesus, you're right. Why didn't Jo- Oda - do more?"
"Because he didn't want to be beat up?" Miles suggests. "I'm pretty sure I don't blame the bastard. Would you step up for the gayest stranger you'd ever laid an eye on?"
Sebastian attempts a grin, refusing to answer through disgruntled amusement. "But still, the sentiment remains. Fuck him. But at least you survived, you jackass."
"At least you're alright," the injured boy corrects. "I thought Manera would gnaw your dick off."
I should just shut my mouth as evidence piles against me
"This is for you, Jojo!" Miles Upshur howls as he grinds manically against the cafeteria wall a single day later. Everyone is staring, tittering with uncertain laughter and confusion. Joseph wants to bury himself alive and never see the sun again, and, as if to worsen things further, Sebastian Castellanos is cheering for him.
Probably drunk, Joseph decides, train of thought derailed. Irresponsible. Unfair. Selfish. Cruel.
The entirety of the school faculty has twisted in their seats to observe the oddity. They whisper and point and Joseph doesn't know if he can bear it. He hasn't been so humiliated in years, not for a lack of trying on the variants' side though. However he'd never imagined the outcasts, the delinquents fabled to protect any fellow nonconformist or misfit, would be the clique to succeed. He feels his face spoil to scarlet, hot and wide-eyed.
"What are you gonna call me now, Krimson?" Upshur hoots, and a dozen people reply in loud slurs. "My personal favourite is wall-rider... it has a nice ring to it, right buddies?"
It does, and Joseph is sure it will catch on fast. But he can't fathom how terrible his new 'nicknames' will be. Faggot, lesbian, cock-sucker- none of which are of any novelty anymore. Each slander is merely threadbare now, and something hollow aches in his chest at the realisation. There is to be no great evolution in his status as the 'gay nerd'- after all, that's all he's ever been to most. He has no other meaning to his classmates. If Joseph Oda were to drop dead, it would be as if he'd never existed at all.
To his classmates, he's merely a source of entertainment. He's disposable. But he knows, really, it's not their fault.
They wouldn't be doing this if I'd just helped them. It was the right thing to do. Gossip indicates that Sebastian carried Miles home, or at least out of the school. He was so badly injured... my fault. All my fault. I'm such a fuck-up. And... the speed to his thoughts falters, and a sob builds in his throat. And now this.
Perhaps if he was in any way familiar with this nervous sensation of being the centre of attention, he could react better. Laugh off their stares and return to his meal. But he can't. Everyone's gaze against him seems inhuman, or, maybe, too human. It's the cold curiosity of a child burning insects with his magnifying glass, dismissed as an innocent interest in something they can't sympathise with. Some people awkwardly turn away, though Joseph can't blame them- he'd do the same.
He notices the variants throwing him wayward glances, and finds himself trembling. I'm fucking weak. Do I... do I deserve this shit? Even Castellanos is watching for a reaction- no, everyone is. The spotlight is on Joseph and he wants to just fade away
Sudden and shaky, he stands up. His feet, although sore and subdued by embarrassment, propel him toward and out the door. It slams behind him. The strident sound is enough to make him flinch.
Going home - Mum will understand - don't want to handle this - fuck Sebastian- fuck me - fuck-up
That I'm so much worse than I think, exposed as a phoney'
Sebastian doesn't laugh, or sneer, or heckle when Joseph Oda flees the room with a stiff figure and trembling limbs. Part of him longs for the boy to meet his eyes- it was a joke dumbass.
Somehow he still feels like the one in the wrong, although Miles remains cackling through his black and blue bruising. It's almost as though he's punched his best friend, crooked and undeserved and selfish.
He could run after the kid, yelling out apologies and swearing down what aches like a mistake. He could tell their jeering audience to fucking stuff it. He could do anything more than... this. Instead he clears the frown struggling against his lips and starts to chuckle.
It's funny, it really is, how pathetic Sebastian Castellanos proves to be.
This is just the prologue- I hope it's half decent. There will be aspects of Outlast (characters), but not enough to fully consider it a cross-over. The page-breaks are lyrics from the song 'I am Shit' by Crywank. There are no OCs, as everyone mentioned is from some kind of horror-related game.
I'm really sorry if this ends up being OOC, and I did make the characters pretty angsty... regardless, thank you for reading!