Chapter Four - Tagalong.
Dean's always liked to spend his lunches in the bleachers.
It's a lot less claustrophobic than the nightmare of the cafeteria - a room originally intended for half the number of students now expected to lunch there. And the complex social rituals of the pecking-order of seating is enough to give him a nosebleed. He doesn't have anyone to sit with. And he knows if he grabs a random seat, other students will stay a seat away out of discomfort, therefore creating a wave of discontent at the three empty seats surrounding him, one on either side of him and one across, being wasted by his obviously unwanted presence.
No one will bother him when he lays down in the bleachers, he won't be in anyone's way. And besides, from here he can hear the band practicing, and he likes the noise of it. The chaos that evolves into music. He might have liked to have been in the band. Drums maybe. Yes, definitely. Quads, they're the coolest. He lets himself daydream. There's no one to interrupt anyway since the burners mostly keep to themselves and they are the only other people ever out here.
Usually.
Dean's ears are focused on a distant trumpet-wail of Louie Louie, his head resting on his folded up jacket, cold metal bleacher pressed along the center of his back, finger tapping against the back of his other hand, both resting on his chest when he feels it. Him. He sighs and opens his eyes, already irritated. And there he is - loose-fitting jeans and dark sweater, messy hair and overly relaxed posture, sitting on the bleacher just in front of Dean's. Facing away from him.
"What're you a friggin' ninja? How do I never hear you coming?" Dean asks as though the boy has disturbed him from a very important nap.
The boy says nothing, but Dean can see him give a slight smile as he looks away to the side, focusing on something far in the distance. Dean can't help but notice the striking nature of his profile - light skin, dark eyebrows and lashes, wide lips cracking the slightest smirk, high cheekbones and barely-there stubble. He is, in his own odd way, very beautiful.
Dean straightens out, shoving his head back onto his jacket somewhat roughly, and closes his eyes again, forcing that thought away.
"So, creep, why you followin' me?" He hears the boy shrug and huffs in frustration.
A one-sided conversation with someone whose attention he very much did not seek is not Dean's idea of a relaxing lunch period. And he'll be damned if he's going to stress-out over making the talking happen when he didn't even want company to begin with. So he lays there. Stubbornly silent. Definitely not able to nap knowing the other guy is there. Too distracted by the knowledge to get any enjoyment out of the band's music. Every once in awhile a breeze will blow the faintest whisper of a clean, masculine scent directly into Dean's senses and he breathes it deep despite himself. The urge to do so only making him more frustrated.
When the bell finally rings, Dean hefts himself up with a huff and throws his jacket back on, seeing that the other boy is standing on the stair, watching, waiting for him.
Dean is thrown off by that.
Instead of joining the other boy on the stairs, Dean decides to take the long strides down the bleachers themselves. It's a clearer get away from me than if he'd opened his mouth to say it point blank. But when he hops down off the last bleacher, the other boy is already there, standing relaxed at the bottom of the bleachers and regarding Dean calmly. Expectantly almost. Dean squints at him before turning and walking back toward the school in long strides, the strange boy keeping up, staying by his side. He doesn't realize it when he starts to slow down, making it a little less difficult for the oddly contented boy at his side to keep up. When they get to the school's door they head their separate ways to their respective classes, and Dean shakes his head as if there's water in his ears, because he would like very much to ignore the fact that his heart is beating too fast.