So, this was home.
B just marveled at the mahogany door for a few seconds, capturing it, knowing he'd look back on this moment for years. His hand slid across the brass doorknocker, and gently, he tapped it against the unforgiving wood. The knock echoed due to the door's size, rattling the inlaid stained glass windows.
B was faintly surprised. He hadn't expected Wammy's House to actually be the ruins of an ancient church. He'd passed it off as a myth, no more believable than the idea that L clones droned around behind those doors. This place was no less than legend; its association with the great detective L was hardly a secret. So, naturally, Wammy's House had its own share of ghost stories.
He'd been there for fifteen minutes, and already one had been proven true. B shivered.
The massive doors pried themselves open, and an elderly man stepped out from inside. His skin was wrinkled and speckled with various moles and birthmarks, and he wore thick glasses over his beady, squinted eyes. He was balding steadily, and what remained of his grey hair had spread to his upper lip, in the form of a shaggy moustache. He glanced at B, nodded, and beckoned him closer.
"Beyond Birthday, I presume."
"Yes," he muttered. "but I prefer B. I hate my name."
The man shrugged. "Whatever suits you, sir. Are those your only bags?" He gestured to the crammed plastic shopping bags clutched against B's chest.
"Y-Yes." Only now did B bother noticing the man's name. The familiar milky letters swayed above his head: Quilish Charleston Wammy. The founder. B cursed his stupidity; he had been rather cavalier with his new caretaker. "I can handle it."
"Very well. Please address me as Watari." Wammy spoke with an English accent, hoarse with age. Something about him radiated class and wisdom. And, perhaps, a tinge of subtle patronization.
It dawned on B as he ducked behind the door and into Wammy's House. Wammy looked just like a butler, the kind who always made cameos in murder mysteries and spy flicks. The kind that were usually the killer.
This morning, B was visibly shaking with excitement. He had convinced himself that anywhere – especially a high-class place like Wammy's – was better than his old foster home.
Now, he was rather unsettled. Wammy's was an old deserted church in the middle of nowhere, staffed by a geezer and wrapped in secret. And he had yet to see anyone orphan-age.
Watari seemed to sense his fear. "All the children are outside. They've organized a large game of tag, or so I've heard."
B followed him down a series of elegant hallways, wallpapered and adorned with lamps and vases. Marble tile clicked underfoot, and the yellowish light of the interior gave Wammy's House a stuffy, proud aura. So far, the place had certainly lived up to its reputation – old, creepy, and frilly. Similar to its owner, B thought with a smirk.
The hallway opened up to a small parlor, a cozy room with a few chairs and a fireplace. One of the chamber's walls was an oversized sliding glass door, leading to a massive grass lawn. Watari gently pried it open, and stepped aside, letting B pass through and out into the sun.
The Wammy's House backyard was more of a small ranch. Endless manicured greenery stretched out before B, giving the illusion of freedom. Instinctively, he sprinted away from Watari, relishing the feeling of wet grass beneath his sneakers. He sped over a few hills, keeping up the breakneck pace until he reached a chain-link fence. The boundary seemed so far away, like he could run for miles before the fence held him back.
The sound of juvenile yelling jerked B out of his trance. Watari was right – a mob of (pre?) teens were scattering themselves across the field, shrieking with terror and joy, immersed in some kind of game. B hadn't the slightest idea of what they were playing, but it looked worlds more entertaining than tag. A brutish, thickly built boy nearly tackled him as he watched the chaos unfold, and B was abruptly jerked from his thoughts.
As Bruce Walters (for that was his name) brushed his shirt off, B summoned the courage to speak to him.
"What are you playing, and may I join…?"
He shrugged. "Sure. It's called Suicide Tag, AKA Everyone's It. You know how to play?"
B sighed, suddenly feeling extremely ignorant. "…No."
"Well," Walters muttered, gesturing to the frenzied game, "it's like normal tag, but everyone's it."
B smirked slightly. It was mutually assured destruction… unless he could psyche the other orphans out. Since he was new, it would be a cakewalk. He could win. "Sounds… great. I'm in."
Walters turned to face the majority of the tag-players. He let loose a bellow, the sound carrying a shocking distance. "HEY, GUYS! WHITE-SHIRT'S IN!"
B couldn't help but chuckle.
And, suddenly, Walters was upon him. B hadn't even seen him move. He'd barely had time to flinch and curse as he heard a muffled "Tag!", and felt a tug at his shirt sleeve. As quickly as he had joined the game, he'd lost it. Dejected, B sank to the grass, sitting cross-legged as the other "out" children did. The first rule of Suicide Tag: Be aware.
With little else to do until the next round, B adjusted himself and picked a random tag-player to watch. He decided on a lanky boy, one of the older children, with a black collared shirt and grass-stained jeans. His boots trampled the lawn as he nimbly avoided a noticeably younger attacker, retaliating with a tag-back. Collared-Shirt (B was too far away to see his name) won the little skirmish, but was promptly charged by another Wammy's kid. A few others began to gang up on Collared-Shirt, but he was consistently one step ahead of them, both literally and metaphorically.
He was one of the important kids, B decided. That was why he was being sought out; he was a local celebrity. Athletic enough to outrun the sporty kids, and intellectual enough to outsmart the strategists.
Collared-Shirt tagged out another batch of orphans, leaving only two left standing. The survivors simultaneously tagged each other, as if agreeing that surrender surpassed failure, and Collared-Shirt was officially the winner. He whooped victoriously, his voice the cracked, wavy pitch of adolescence, and did a sort of spontaneous jig. He looked incredibly silly, B thought. Cocky, too – he had essentially expected to win. Collared-Shirt would make a worthy opponent, and, if B managed to defeat him, even in a simple game of Suicide Tag, it would gain him some renown.
After finishing his victory dance, Collared-Shirt let out a call for Jail Break, meaning the start of the next round. The tagged masses of kids rose from their grassy seats, and the game returned to its usual hectic mess. B stumbled to his feet, and immediately began to seek out Collared-Shirt, using the chaos as a means of camoflauge. It was pure luck that he wasn't tagged as he darted into the fray, eyes searching frantically for that dark shirt and those heavy-duty boots (they were ridiculously tough-looking shoes, B thought).
B found his target in the back-left corner of the field, panting and resting from what must have been a tagging bloodbath. Ten or so children were seated around him, fresh victims of a master tag-player. Collared-Shirt himself stood hunched-over, gripping his knees and trying desperately to catch his breath.
B skidded to a halt a few feet from the teen, adopting a vicious pose and crouching low to the ground. His amber eyes locked with his opponent's – a striking jade green – and he took a quick pace towards Collared-Shirt. He responded with a tentative step back, a worried smirk flashing briefly across his lips.
"I wouldn't… do that. I'm… pretty… fast." He paused for breath between words.
"Any game can be won with superior intelligence," B replied coolly, taking another step towards Collared-Shirt.
"I never said I run fast." He sidestepped B, not willing to lose any ground. "I do, for the record. But you're right; that's immaterial in tag." The term "biting sarcasm" seemed to fit the boy's quote, as his humor stung B.
Not willing to waste any time with witty remarks, B dove in for the kill, seeking to tag him on the chest. Collared-Shirt sensed the move a moment before B lunged for him, and slid back on his heels, sucking in his stomach and barely missing B's outstretched fingers. He laughed quietly as B was knocked off-balance by his own momentum, but Collared-Shirt had to wave his arms just to keep himself from falling.
B recoiled, and swatted again, but this time, his enemy was ready. He ducked away from B, twisted around to flank him, and tagged B in the side of his ribcage. It was more of a poke, and B flinched, drawing back in discomfort. After processing what had happened, he let out a groan, and fell to the lawn, landing on all-fours.
Collared-Shirt chuckled, and B reluctantly turned to face him.
"You really wanted to tag me, huh? Why?"
B shrugged. "You looked well-respected among your peers. I figured, if I could beat you, it would be impressive."
He smirked again, though more wholeheartedly. "Yeah, it would be. …Huh. It just dawned on me; you're new here, right?"
"Yes. I've only been here for an hour or so."
"Ah. That explains a lot." He extended a hand to B, pulling him to his feet as B mistakenly shook it. B brushed dew from his jeans, and released Collared-Shirt's grip. It was the first time he allowed himself a long look at the teen.
He wasn't as tall as B had originally imagined – about 5'7" or 8". It was a trick of the eye, as he wore a long, slim button-down shirt (which also gave him a slightly feminine figure, but he managed to pull it off). The cuffs of his sleeves were doubled-up, giving the appearance of cufflinks, and the ankles of his faded dark-wash jeans were tucked tightly into his leather boots. His hair, a deep, nearly-black coffee brown, fell loosely to the nape of his neck in the shaggy remnants of a long-ago bowl-cut. He'd gotten it layered since then, B could tell, because a few of the rougher strands obscured his eyes, and the edges of his locks were frayed. Freckles spotted his off-white skin, collecting along the outline of his cheekbones. His eyes, though – they were probably his best feature. They reflected the sunlight gorgeously, taking the color of sea glass, and were bright with curiosity.
Whitish text wafted above him. Aidan Emory McFarland.
"Name's Aidan McFarland. Never call me that and I'm sure we'll get along." He grasped B's hand and shook it firmly. "I go by A, as in, the letter."
"Beyond Birthday, likewise. I'm B." He felt his hand go limp in A's grip, and suddenly felt extremely small.
"B? Heh. That seems a little too convenient, don't you think?" He grinned and released B, wiping his hand off on his jeans. "You have your room assignment yet?"
"Room 14," he replied meekly, posture sinking lower to the ground.
"For cereal? I'm Room 14. I haven't had a roommate since last summer, when we got into that gang shooting… blood and shotgun shells everywhere…" He trailed off, a distant, clouded look in his eyes. A stared into space, lifting his hand to grip his chin in thought.
B took a cautious step back, eyes wide with shock. "They died?"
He broke into a fit of giggling, serious façade vanishing. "Dude, I can't believe you bought that. I've never had a roommate, largely due to the fact that my room is farthest from the front door, and no one bothers dragging their suitcase a few extra feet for my benefit. …A and B. Pre-tty special." A clapped B on the back, smirk fading slightly. "Just for the record: I'm bisexual, I'm Irish, I'm not in any gangs or cults, I'm Catholic, I have only done weed once, I'm 16, my favorite color is green, I'm not a virgin, and, in America, I support the Democrats." He chuckled hoarsely. "Though not in that order."
B peeled A's arm from around his shoulders. "I'm 14, in the Witness Protection Program, agnostic, and I don't enjoy being touched." He attempted a smile.
"Oh… sorry about that, then." A drew back, instantly sending a pang of guilt through B. "But… the big W-P-P? You're in some serious shit, my friend."
B lowered his voice, and stared intently at his sneakers. "I was, at one point. Now… I suppose I'm in more moderate shit."
A stifled a laugh. "I think I like you, B. Meet me at supper, in the dining hall. I'll give you the grand tour."
The game long forgotten, A strode away, leaving B to sort out his thoughts.
The main cafeteria of Wammy's House did not disappoint. It was a massive hallway, originally the chapel of an old church. The arched, intricate ceiling and unnecessarily high walls made for an aesthetically appealing, unusually large lunchroom, with more than enough space for the student body. Five industrial-size lunch tables stretched down the length of the chamber, each place set with silverware and china plates. The menu was fixed (B would have been shocked if it hadn't been), but tonight's dish – lasagna – sounded edible.
B intentionally arrived a few minutes late for dinner, waiting for the various Wammy's cliques to solidify before choosing a seat. He took a few moments to look around, the gorgeous architecture more interesting than the trays of food being passed amongst the students. He then scanned the crowd, searching out the brunette boy – A, he'd called himself – and found his target at the end of the farthest table from the doorway. He sat casually, with the same confident posture, despite the fact that he was almost completely alone.
Cautiously, B waved to him. He grinned and waved back, then beckoned B over.
B took a seat across from him, fidgeting slightly. He felt unreasonably out of place, in this classy school, across from someone who seemed to genuinely want to be his friend. He stared at the floor, then the tablecloth.
"Hey…?"
B jolted, and looked up, making eye contact with A. "Oh, hi. You wanted to see me?"
A picked uninterestedly at his heaping plate of lasagna, twirling his fork into the cheese. "Well, you're my roomie. We should get to know each other. I mean, you seemed like a decent guy earlier…"
B sighed, and helped himself to some of the pasta. A was just being friendly, and B had already managed to shoot down what could be his first real friendship. He hated his awkwardness.
"Oh… Of course. Forgive me for being a poor conversationalist; I'm an introvert."
A playful, subtle grin stretched across A's lips. "Ah, don't worry. You'll get used to me."
B nodded quietly. "You said you'd give me a tour…?"
"Oh! Right, right. After supper; don't let me forget. Have you seen your – er, our – room yet?"
"No…" He paused to take a bite of lasagna (which tasted far better than he expected). "But Watari brought my bags up. I spent the last few hours in the main study hall, checking out textbooks and reading."
"You read? Heh… I don't know why that surprises me. I don't have the attention span, y'know?" A sipped his drink, a mostly-flat Coke.
B didn't know, but nodded anyway. "Tell me about Wammy's. Whatever you think I should know about it."
"Alright… Lessee. This entire place was an old church, until Watari bought it. He spent a while renovating it, and then opened it as the Wammy's House Orphanage, where he raised the guy now known as L. Watari himself is supposedly an inventor, who managed to amass a fortune over the years, and decided to start tinkering with people instead of fuses and wires." A made a few subtle hand gestures as he spoke, his manner casual. B couldn't entirely understand him, but got the gist of things. "I'm the first participant in something called the Second L program, which is basically training to become L's successor. It's kind of a bummer, really…" He took a gulp of Coke. "I know they picked me 'cause I'm supposedly a genius. But, dear Lord, they really heap on the assignments… Anyway, Wammy's House is as close as most people can get to Detective L, and you do get pretty damn close."
B listened, fascinated. The rumors were true. "So, anyone can be in the Second L program?"
"Nah, I think L or Watari has to tap you for it. But you seem pretty clever. I wouldn't be shocked if they made you runner-up."
The edges of B's lips curled into a smile, as he was irrationally flattered. He covered his mouth to hide his grin. "But… You've only just met me. How would you know?"
A stabbed his lasagna. "Just from my first impression of you, I guess. I dunno. You just look like the kind of guy who does really well in life, despite a lack of tag-playing ability." He chuckled to himself.
"…Thank you," B muttered sincerely, meeting A's eyes briefly before going back to his food.
A seemed like a passable roommate. Maybe even a friend. There was something unidentifiably appealing about him, some strange quality B couldn't quite put his finger on. Perhaps it was his endearingly imperfect grin, or his clear, adolescent voice. Maybe it was the subtle, joking tone of his dialect, or the way the cafeteria lighting echoed in his eyes.
Or maybe B was being just a bit too observant.
No, A was just being friendly. That was all. He was likeable.
A likeable kid, who just happened to enjoy eating alone.
"So, when do you wanna leave?" A interrupted his thoughts.
B stirred, caught off-guard. "Ahm… Whenever you want to."
The older boy smiled awkwardly, ruffling his own hair. "Well, I mean, I just thought I'd ask. You've been staring blankly at me like that for the last fifteen minutes." He glanced down at his now empty plate of lasagna, the sauce scraped from the silverware. His Coke was now little more than a light glass of discolored water.
"…Oh." B laughed quietly, forcing the sound. "Forgive me; I must have been lost in thought… Might we go on the tour now?"
"So, ah, this is my pad."
A motioned towards his room, arcing his arm in a sweeping motion. The dormitory was the epitome of a teenage lifestyle: clothes strewn messily about, posters advertizing the Beatles and the Rolling Stones tacked sloppily to the walls, blankets in a crumpled heap at the foot of a decrepit bunk bed. A glossy red ceiling fan rotated lazily above the two teens, fluttering the pages of the textbooks splayed out on the top bed bunk. The room was expansive, roughly the size of a small apartment, but seemed to contain everything needed or desired by a sixteen-year-old boy.
It was, despite all the mess and subtle imperfections, a palace.
B marveled at his new home for a moment, taking a few tentative steps and closing the door behind him. A darted nervously in front of him, brushing the debris from the bottom bunk of his bed. Assorted books, discarded articles of clothing, and various trinkets spilled out onto the floor, and A made a hurried, though honest, attempt at cleaning his room. B guessed he hadn't done so in months.
"A… I love it."
A paused, glancing over his shoulder at his roommate, before sweeping another armful of discarded clothing from the floor. "Huh?"
B smiled, the feeling of his lips in that unfamiliar shape slowly becoming less painful. "Your room. I love it. It feels," he whispered, stroking his hand tenderly over the bunk bed's ladder. "like home."
"…Oh." A ruffled his own hair, chuckling awkwardly. "Cool. Is the bottom bunk alright for you?"
B nodded, taking a tentative seat on the foot of his new bed. After a brief, though awkward silence, A joined him, and began fishing through his pockets. He produced a hot pink plastic egg, which he popped open to reveal a greenish blob.
"Silly Putty," A explained. "Probably my favorite thing in the universe." He mashed the compound between his fingers, stretching and twisting it in his palm. "Helps to keep my focused."
B reached out for the toy, poking it with the tip of his index finger. "I used to have some as a child. I haven't seen it in years."
A smirked. "Y'wanna piece?" He tore a hunk from the glob.
B held out his hand expectantly, and grinned as he felt the slimy novelty upon his skin. A glared at him.
"Well, aren't you going to name it?" He said it so matter-of-factly.
"No…?" B shrugged.
A motioned to his handful of putty. "This is Charlie, so we'll call yours… Charlene?"
B, far too fascinated by the chemical compound to really care, simply nodded. He saw something in the gift – something monumental, prophetic. It was a toy, a novelty, and nothing more. He knew this. But it was the willingness with which A gave it, and perhaps the unique nature of the putty itself, that struck him. Putty was formless, and it could change with even the slightest outward stimulus. It never remained, and never became dull.
It was him, in a sense.
B gingerly placed his glob of putty on his new bed, praying it wouldn't stick. "A… Would you mind showing me to my classes tomorrow?"
"Why, you worried you'll get lost?" A began to clear space in his dresser, emptying a drawerful of garbage into a plastic trash bag.
"No." B paused, choosing his words carefully. "I just… enjoy having someone to talk to." He immediately averted his eyes to the floor, already regretting his display of weakness.
A just smiled. "See you bright n' early, then."
((A/N: Oh, my God, so very very sorry about the double spacing. I'll fix that ASAP.))