cv (ephemeras) wrote in repose, @ 2016-03-10 02:34:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | *log, atticus mcvickers, billy kaufman |
Comics: Atticus & Billy
Who: Atticus and Billy
What: Comics and a very bad goodbye
Where: The comic store, mostly
When: Just before the ghosts went cray
Warnings/Rating: Nope!
The comics were an escape. Billy was self-aware enough to acknowledge that much, at least. They’d been an escape since he was a little kid, stopping off at the tucked-away shop on the corner a few blocks over, the bodega that sold acrylic bongs and flavoured rolling papers along with the latest issues of Spider-Man. What did that make Billy now, as a supposed adult seeking refuge in the quiet familiarity of a small town’s comic shop? Because comics were the constant, but so was the isolation. And maybe that made him desperate, or whatever the fuck. So be it. He was more than a little desperate to find some place that he could be alone and put his feet up, legs crossed at the ankle where he’d chosen to prop himself against one of the many cardboard boxes that ran under the length of the shop’s counter, labelled accordingly in thick black marker with the names and numbers of back issues. Labelled like they’d never been shelved properly and the very notion was long gone.
Billy was deeply engrossed in the latest Guardians of Infinity issue, #4, having made himself so entirely at home in the abandoned chair after wherever the hell the cashier had gone. He wasn’t entirely sold on the idea of Hermetikus as a protagonist, just in general, but he was willing enough to eat up the story. His face was arranged into a slight frown without him even realizing, eyebrows furrowed into a gathered point in the center of his forehead as he licked the pad of his index finger in order to turn the page with greater ease.
He spent a lot of time in the shop, when he wasn’t working. It was like a sanctuary without the saving, and that was enough. Billy wasn’t looking to be rescued. He was content to just sit, flipping through the comic that he would inevitably end up buying, he was sure -- and it would go on the stack next to his bed in his trailer, destined to be read over and over for a few weeks. When he was a couple hours into his escape, he would probably start to get looks from the guys who worked in the shop, and then he would sigh and and gather up the books he’d chosen and fork over the cash. Thus was the life of a bored and vaguely-unhappy fanboy.
But for now, he was content to read.
Atticus was on his way to the general store. He was picking up smokes, and he was doing it with the same lazy slowness that he did everything. Corduroy slacks in olive green, and a grey sweatshirt, he looked disheveled in his faded white converse, which he dragged along the sidewalk and onto Main Street. His curls were a mess, oft rubbed by the palm of his hand, and his stubble had become the almost-beard and moustache combo he always sported. Shaving was a hassle, but he managed a trim every few days. Anyway, he was walking, his Walkman a thick bulge in his front pocket, and his head phones the old overhead type, the black and sponge earpads faded to a brown-grey.
He stopped in front of the comic book store in a slow skid. Cris had mentioned comics recently, and Atticus hadn't picked up a graphic novel in years. That was enough to make him push into the store, which was warm in comparison with the outside chill. The store looked just like he remembered comic books looking when he was young, and Atticus liked it when things were unchanging and comfortable. He assumed he'd still find old classics on the shelves here, yellowed and corner-bent, and Atticus liked old things for the same lazy reason that he liked old music. Atticus didn't like change.
Atticus tugged the headphones off and let them rest against his neck. The music playing through grey foam was quiet and tinny, but it was audible in the immediate vicinity of the man that walked through the doors and wandered through the aisles with a scuff of feet, carrying the smell of some deodorant marketed to men and the Menthols he was still working his way through.
The comic that finally drew his attention was a classic. He picked it up with a smile, one that barely drew smile lines along his cheeks, but which brightened his hazel eyes considerably. After turning it over in broad fingers that were unmarred by any real work, he tugged his glasses from his pocket, and he slipped them on. He turned the page, unaware of anyone sharing the space with him.
Billy’s eyes flicked up at the sound of the bell over the shop’s door ringing out, because it was enough of a rarity that anyone else who came into the shop while he was perusing was met by silence. And neither of the cashiers came out of the back at the sound, which made him smile -- clearly, it was enough that Billy was out here to harass the wayward stragglers and point them in the proper direction if they had questions. He couldn’t see the new entrant from his vantage point, but he was almost done with his comic, so it wasn’t any particular hardship for him to close the book and toss it down on the counter.
He could hear the muffled sound of music being filtered through headphones, even over the talk radio station that played on a constant, quiet loop over the shop’s sad little PA system, so he pushed off his seat on the wrong side of the counter and ducked into the aisles. Both of his hands were shoved into the back pockets of his jeans, and he could be easily mistaken for either patron and employee (alright, so one of those wouldn’t have been a mistake) with his vintage Return Of The Jedi tee and a studded denim vest slung overtop.
Following the canned sound of that music like breadcrumbs, he finally wandered into the aisle where an older guy was paging through an issue of Action Comics with a look on his face like he was reuniting with a friend for the first time. Billy couldn’t help the grin that flicked into place, because he knew that feeling: nostalgia, mixed with thank-god-I-did-this, and just a dash of someone who was being transported into whatever place they’d once been while reading an old favourite for the first time.
He liked seeing that look on other people.
With a crack of his gum between his back teeth, Billy deliberately angled himself into the guy’s personal space and leaned against the wall opposite, smile wide and open. One hand came up to flick the tip of his slender index finger against the comic’s cover, just above where it was being held.
“It’s kinda sexist, don’t you think?”
Atticus was engrossed in his reading, and he didn't hear the approach of the young ingenue. Fact, he didn't realize the boy was there until he heard the boy speak. Atticus' personal space wasn't encroached upon by living things often, and he didn't expect it. The man didn't notice people around him at the best of times. Walking down the street. Standing in line at the bank. Eating a slice at the pizza place. Atticus walked around the world in his own personal bubble, and he was used to his solitude. He didn't notice until he heard the boy's voice through his headphones, which was a bit of of a feat. Atticus liked his music loud.
But there he was, a boy cracking gum and looking fresh-faced. Atticus hadn't recently met anyone he'd apply that particular combination of words too. Fresh-faced. He'd taught teenagers and young adults for the better part of his own adulthood, but he didn't recall anyone looking as untarnished as the boy leaning against the wall and grinning.
Atticus knew life was never as simple as he wanted it to be. The boy looked like an angel with too many teeth. Atticus knew, therefore, that the kid wasn't hiding wings.
Atticus lowered the flicked comic slightly, and his hazel attention dropped to the boy's shirt. "Han shot first," he said, grinning at his own stupid joke. "Seen them?" The movies. "The old ones." Not the prequels. Not the new one with the girl protagonist. The originals, which Atticus remembered fondly from a life before courts and foster homes.
Call him a damn cliche, but all that Billy did was invade personal space. Granted, usually it was at the invitation of whomever chose to be his victims, but okay. He wasn’t above nosing his way into situations in which he was not necessarily, explicitly invited. Billy liked his music turned down to ‘5’ so that he could make headway with the men who generally wanted nothing to do with him. He liked a challenge, even more than he liked to win.
And from there his grin stretched out like pulled taffy into smirk, something a little more slippery as he glanced down at his own shirt, shooting the older guy an approving look and plucking at the Star Wars decal before thrusting at him with a closed hand, just begging for a fist-bump.
“Oh my god, absolutely. My dad is super into the original movies. Like, making us watch on a monthly basis kind of obsessed, you know? I’d seen the movies before I was allowed to watch Mary Poppins or E.T., or any of that classic kid stuff.”
His smile had already been fixed in place, but it gained a different sort of quality with the memory. A little sad, maybe. But also slightly conspiratorial as he leaned into the guy’s personal space, maybe-possibly-absolutely admiring the way that the hair at his temples was flecked through with something that might just be grey, maybe trying to gauge his reaction to Billy’s presence. Can’t blame a boy for multitasking, and, yep. Super cute, and Billy was only human. Human and a teenager, at that.
“Hi, by the way. What’s your name?” And there he was at his most charming, reaching up with one hand to sweep his thick, dark thatch of hair up and away from his forehead. White teeth flashing, deliberately holding himself back from the place where he wanted to reach out and brush a hand against the bend of this man’s elbow, but somehow resisted. He was occasionally capable of keeping his hands to himself. Every now and then.
Okay. Maybe he did reach. He reached and he ran the tip of an exploratory index finger down the edge of the comic’s page, with chocolate-brown eyes that twinkled at the older man in delighted experimentation. Pushing buttons with a practiced precision, and paired with a face that played at innocence.
(God, but this guy was handsome.)
“I’m Billy.”
"Was too small to see the first movie in theaters with my father, but he took me to the second one. Don't remember many details, but certain things stand out, even all these years later. Love the films." Atticus smiled that lazy smile of his. Not too much effort, but it still warmed his face and made him look like he'd never outgrown being a kid. Odd for someone who'd never had a real childhood, but the effect was what it was. "But, hey. I'm fond of Mary Poppins," he added. He didn't start singing about tuppence or spoonfuls of sugar, but it was a near thing. His smile, still lazy and barely tipping his mouth, turned a bit more joking. It was his eyes, mainly, that warmed with the grin. "Small aliens that like peanut butter and chocolate? Much further down my favorites list."
Atticus wasn't even aware of the grey that flecked his temples. He paid very little attention to his own appearance, and greying was just another of many ignored things in Atticus' daily life. "Atticus." His name. He watched the boy's hand flip through dark hair, and he felt like he might've met the kid somewhere before. But it was impossible, unless this boy had just relocated from the Bronx, which he hadn't. The accent wasn't right. Wasn't a student, because Atticus hadn't taught in years, and this boy was too young. Still, the sensation lingered and fussed.
Maybe it was just the invasion of personal space, which Atticus didn't actually recognize as invasion. He took a shuffle back, and that was just before the boy touched the comic. Atticus thought nothing of that finger tracing the comic's edge. Atticus didn't read any intention in those brown eyes. Atticus was accustomed to students, but he had no real experience with reading body language beyond that of sullen teens being sullen. As a result, Atticus was just as lazy-boned as he'd been a moment earlier. He was unaware that there was blood in the water. Atticus turned the comic. Figured that was what the kid wanted. "Want to see the panel?" The words were barely out of Atticus' mouth, and then the boy introduced himself.
The comic almost slipped. Atticus stammered for a few seconds, and then the stammer became a nervous laugh, one accompanied by the tinny music from the headphones. The curls on Atticus' head were obviously somehow responsible for this moment of awkwardness, because Atticus ruffled them with more effort than he'd given to anything throughout the entire conversation. The comic smacked him in the nose. "Billy. Nice to meet you."
“Enough to get the references, sure,” Billy heard himself agreeing, even as he shifted his weight from one Converse-clad foot to the other and his eyes met the man’s gaze without apology. “You’re crazy-lucky you got to see any of them in theatres, holy shit. I’d kill for that.” Because first-run fortune was different then going to ‘revival’ screenings that he’d attended as a teenager, although he wasn’t sure that was the right word when the franchise never exactly stopped being popular. And certainly better than the prequels-that-shall-not-be-named. Billy was automatically jealous.
Atticus. The name from those lips made him smile, as he recalled their back and forth banter on the journals. Reluctance of the other party be damned. “Shut the fuck up,” he beamed, with that hand rubbing through his own hair like a mirror image, a preoccupation rather than mocking. But, then - “Hey, I totally did it. I watched Ghost and Pretty Woman.”
He blinked a little, biting into the meaty inside of his cheek as he flickered a glance down at the offered view of the comic before the man was jerking like he’d half-stepped off a cliff or missed a phantom step on a staircase. Eyebrows lifting. “What? So be it?”
Atticus laughed quiet when Billy said he - Atticus - was lucky to see the original Lucas flicks in theaters. "Just means I'm old," Atticus said, a twinkle in hazel that indicated he didn't really mind being old. Made it this far, that was how Atticus saw it. "The theater seats were red. The kid behind me kicked the whole time. Wanted the darkside to get him. Wanted to be C3PO. Not Han or Luke or Leia. C3PO."
But then Atticus had given his name. Billy had given his name. "Shut the fuck up," Atticus finally echoed, that hand still wreaking havoc with curls, accent distinctly northeastern. He wasn't sure whether the echo related to who they were, or to the fact that Billy had actually watched the movies Atticus had recommend. Assuming Billy had watched them. Atticus couldn't tell yet.
Atticus swallowed thickly. There were decisions to be made here, but Atticus hated making decisions. He much preferred to coast through life and let all the choices be made for him. But he was standing there. In a comic book store. With a kid looking at him in a way that wasn't academic.
Least Atticus thought it wasn't academic.
Could be wrong, Atticus decided. It was a sorry and cowardly decision, but it was a decision. He lowered the hand from his curls, and he scratched at the scrap of beard on his chin. "Nice to meet you. Wasn't an opening salvo." He set the comic aside, and he proceeded to give Billy the most teacherly look he could manage. Which was hard, because Atticus had never deliberately tried to look teacherly. He tucked his glasses away. He turned off the Walkman. He regarded Billy with a bit of a squint. "What did you think of them?" The movies.
Billy decided that he liked that laugh almost as much as he liked the self-deprecatory instinct, found it charming. It wasn’t the kind of thing that people used when they were fishing for compliments or reassurance. Atticus wasn’t looking for someone to soothe his ego with protestations that he wasn’t old, probably didn’t even care what anyone else thought about him. Probably hadn’t for a long time, if ever. So Billy liked it because it felt genuine to his ears, along with the fondness for the memories drawn up from somebody else’s childhood.
And because it was sort of impossible for Billy’s facial expressions to go unnoticed, with the thickness of dark eyebrows so prominent against olive-tan skin, his amusement tinged with surprise was starkly evident. Atticus sort of looked like he was seconds away from fleeing, and yet there went the glasses and the old school headphones. Down to business. Or homework, in this case?
Billy hummed thoughtfully, angling himself away from Atticus for the first time so that he could lean up against the nearest wall, shoulder blades pressed to plaster as he planted his feet out a little farther into the aisle. He let his head fall back so that he was looking up at the shop’s ceiling for a long moment, lips pursed while he gathered thoughts.
“I loved Pretty Woman,” he admitted, more careful than sheepish. “I feel like I’ve always heard people talk about how it glamorizes prostitution. But I didn’t get that at all. I mean, the movie starts with a dead girl in a dumpster, right?” He paused, and both his hands came up to slip into the front pockets of his jeans this time. The furrow in his brow was back. He was getting into this for real, he liked the analysis.
“I mean, I guess it was kind of cheesy, but aren’t most movies from the nineties? You’re never going to get complete realism from a mainstream movie. But… man, I loved that Julia Roberts was such a badass. She defined herself, instead of being defined. She did what she did because she wanted financial… what’s the word?” Here he allowed his head to fall to the side, expression quizzical as he looked to Atticus for confirmation. “Autonomy, right?”
He didn’t wait for a response, just nodded to himself because that felt correct. “And yeah, it plays into the whole ‘tart with a heart’ cliche. But I don’t think that has to be a bad thing. Her character felt real. And even though she ended up being a victim of assault, the movie never blamed her choices or her profession for it, and that’s… I mean, that hardly even happens in movies being made now. You know?”
Atticus had never been a very good teacher. It had been a paying job, but he'd never felt this overwhelming need to better his students. He just liked talking about what he loved. It was too selfish a sentiment for a good teacher, which Atticus had always known. Atticus was always aware of his own faults, and he had a rotting Greek chorus to remind him, if ever he slipped. Didn't slip often. The pocketing of the glasses was more of this brand of self-interest. He'd been joking with Billy on the forums, but his appreciation of the movies he'd mentioned was real. Homework. Maybe, but Atticus' lazy expression exhibited a fair amount of lazy interest. Enough to keep him from away at the sight of the small and determined enemy at the gate.
Billy leaned, and Atticus didn't watch the movement. Cold air swirled around them, and something acrid whispered in Atticus' ear, issuing warnings Atticus' really didn't require, thank you very much.
Atticus listened.
Atticus didn't pretend to listen. He didn't partially listen. He didn't listen with the intention of finding his own response. No. He actively listened. His attention was entirely on Billy's face, and the boy could've been talking about the Dust Bowl as a metaphor in Grapes of Wrath, so precise was Atticus' attention.
Atticus, for all his lazy demeanor, loved a good discussion.
"Autonomy." Atticus nodded, encouraging. "Nineties movies sugarcoat. The era wasn't as gritty as now, though some movies toyed with realism that way. "Less Than Zero. Late 80s, but good example of grit from that time period." He took a few moments to think, to consider what Cris had told him about the boy leaning against the wall in front of him. "Society likes to judge, even in cinema. Impossible without putting yourself in someone's shoes. Who can know what it's like to end up doing that work? Only someone who's been there, and even then circumstances are unique." He shuffled from foot to foot. "Think we were willing to give the benefit of the doubt then. Now, we think raw is best. Isn't always the case. What matters more? Who she is? Or judging her for what she had to do in order to survive?"
Atticus pointed back toward the comics. "The one you were reading. Why that one?" he asked, genuinely curious. Adding, belatedly, and maybe he should've asked before. "Hungry?" Bad idea. Maybe.
As he talked, Billy was aware of the weight of the other’s gaze on him, felt it like he probably would have felt the press of a hand on his shoulder. It didn’t make him self-conscious, because Billy wasn’t really like that. He was used to people looking at him, whether they were judging or appreciating or just looking because he was there. Because he was small and kinda loud and he dressed weird for a small town, or just because he was pretty. Because it was his job to to draw an interested eye. He didn’t mind, usually, and Atticus looking like he was, it didn’t make him feel lesser or scrutinized.
“Sugarcoat,” he echoed, his turn to nod in agreement. It came out soft, thoughtful. He turned a little on the ball of one foot, angled half-towards Atticus again. Caught between the open flirtation that hadn’t gotten him anywhere and the discussion of the movies that the man probably even hadn’t meant as anything more than a deflection of Billy’s attention. “‘Less Than Zero’, isn’t that… it was a book first, right? Bret Easton Ellis?”
A tilt of his head, arms spreading a little so that his elbows angled out from his body even as his hands stayed anchored in his pockets. “I like ‘American Psycho’, and ‘The Rules of Attraction’. I heard he didn’t like the adaptation of that other one though, so I never saw it. Is it any good?”
Billy bit down on his lip, working it back and forth between his teeth for a minute. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to answer Atticus’ questions, or if they were even non-rhetorical. They felt a little too close to the stuff that his shrinks probably would have liked to ask him, if he’d been back to one after he ran away from the Upper West Side. But the comics, yeah, that was something he could jump onto. That was safe.
“‘Guardians of Infinity’,” he offered with head bob, and that little grin was fixed back in place. “Starving, actually. You want to grab a bite? I can tell you about it on the way. If you want.”
Atticus didn't so much as quirk a brow when Billy turned on his foot. For all his laziness, Atticus was fairly observant. He tried not to be. Aspired not to be. But he was. "Sugarcoat," he repeated unnecessarily, the syllables crowding his mouth for a moment. "Right. Ellis. American Psycho is considered his magnum opus. Only one of his I like is Lunar Park. Slightly wistful." He smiled a small smile, one reminiscent of a warm smirk. "Man lost my respect when he wanted to write the screenplay for Fifty Shades of Gray." Atticus had read all of Ellis' portfolio, as modern American short story and novel were his area of study, but he had no great fondness for the erratic man. "Movie was a loose adaptation. He claims to like it now," he added of Ellis. Though what was more interesting was the fact that Billy had read any of the books at all. "Like to read?"
The boy bit his lip, and Atticus waited with the kind of patience that spoke of comfort with long silences. Atticus, like most readers, could get lost for hours in the pages of a book. Days could go by without him talking. Had happened more than once. He wasn't very personable, and friends weren't something he had many of. Repose was proving that. He knew he'd already disappointed that entire crew of kids from the Capital. Nothing he could do about that. Atticus was what he was, take it or leave it.
He didn't push when Billy seemed disinclined to keep talking about prostitutes.
"Guardians of Infinity. Don't know it." He nodded when Billy took the half-offer of food. "Lead the way. Pizza. Burger. Diner." Atticus didn't care. He was all about lazy food, and all of the options in Repose were lazy. This wasn't a place for sushi or sous vide, which Atticus could appreciate.
Atticus left his comic behind, and he tucked the headphones to his Walkman beneath the chaos of his curls, so that it rested more comfortably against the nape of his neck. Hands deep into his pockets, despite the discomfort of fitting broad fingers beside the thick Walkman and glasses, he moved toward the door.
Billy grinned in a portrait of amused relief, all flashing teeth and his mouth tucked into a dimple on one side. “His magnum opus, of course,” he repeated, yet again his turn in this game of theirs that had the boy shaking his head just a little, part amused and a greater part wry. He opened his mouth, because he was thinking about asking Atticus to show him that movie he hadn’t seen, but then he thought better of it. Maybe later, or maybe never.
He painted on a wince, instead. “Seriously? He was up for that? God -” and here a shake of his head, slow and deliberate. Disgruntled. “Maybe it’s like how that one actor was going to play the lead, because it was supposed to be such a huge thing. And then he realized that it would have been career suicide.”
Billy’s weight shifted onto his back foot, as he pulled both hands out of his pockets. And then it was eyebrows even more up, as he meet the other man’s appraising gaze. Ducked his head a little, like it was strange to even hear the question posed. “What? Yeah, of course I like to read. I didn’t even have an option from the time I was a kid, my whole family is big on books. And I’m in the middle child, so I got no reprieve.”
Shuffling back a half-step, brow wrinkled like a loaded gun was cocked. Body language and facial expression enough to let the guy know that Billy thought it was a weird question even as he made his way back over to the counter at the suggestion of food. He leaned over with one hand braced on top, reaching down to hook the other around the strap of his messenger bag where he’d left it by the abandoned chair. The bag was mostly empty, just his usual change of clothes that he brought with him on outings, and then the wallet that he pulled out in order to extract a couple of crumpled bills. (He double-checked the price on the Guardians book before he dropped the money on the counter, weighting the bills down under the edge of an abandoned mug.)
“Diner,” he supplied, once he’d caught up with Atticus at the shop’s door with his comic book carefully slid into his messenger bag, tucked away safe where he’d slung the bag across his chest. “I’m in a waffles kind of mood. Cool with you?”
Atticus had no clue he'd escaped a movie bullet. He did laugh slowly at that painted on wince. "Seriously. Questionable decision making. Can't forgive him for considering Fifty Shades of Gray," he said, shaking his head seriously. Might have killed a person, that was the severity of Atticus' fake demeanor at the moment. "Anything mentioning chocolate starfish seriously. Career suicide." So said the man who wrote nothing himself. Writing took too much commitment. Atticus didn't have enough commitment in him to produce a poem.
Curls bobbed as Atticus nodded, the movement indicative of understanding. "My parents were teachers. Literature. History. Read constantly. Thought reading could change the world." Of course, reading hadn't done anything of the sort. His parents had lost that rose-colored vision when they landed in jail. They'd come here once released, to Repose, where there was no one to save. Least Atticus had thought that was the case. Then he'd moved here. Now, he knew better. He wasn't going to save anyone himself, but he knew better. "Where's your family?" Belated. Cris made it sound like this kid had no one but himself.
Atticus let the kid lead to the the door, with a pitstop for that messenger bag. He considered paying for that comic, but it was too late. Atticus was a man of lost moments. In the city, he was always too slow about pulling out money for beggars on corners. He thought. He thought. And then the moment was gone. Like this moment. But he didn't feel badly about it for long. He would pay for food.
"Diner," he agreed, holding the door for Billy, one arm up high on the door, which required close quarters for the kid to get out. Badly planned. And then he walked out onto the sidewalk and tipped his head in the direction of the diner, a hand making a nervous pass along the nape of his own neck. Kid would know where the diner was. Stupid gesture, but it was too late to regret it. "Waffles? Breakfast late in the day. Admirable." He looked over at the kid, and he smiled, eyes crinkling into new wrinkles at the corners. "Think it's more of a burger kind of day."
It took some work for Billy to feel like he was ducking beneath the weight of Atticus’ judgement, even as he laughed loud and delighted. “Oh my god, ‘Chocolate Starfish’?” He shook his head, now more wry. Grinning and a half. “Who even are you? That’s the ultimate dad moment. But only if my dad was Fred Durst.”
And then the wince was a thing again, eyebrows furrowed and a sarcastic slant of his mouth. Disapproving even as he feigned glancing around in case there was anyone within earshot to witness his pretend embarrassment. And then with one hand tucked under the strap of his messenger bag, Billy made his way forward and only had to incline his head ever so slightly in order to pass under the outstretch of Atticus’ arm where it held the door of the shop open.
“Thanks, handsome. Such a gentleman,” came the smiling exhale as Billy stepped through and reached out to graze the flat of his warm palm against the spot where Atticus’ waist tucked in above his hip, deliberately casual. Supposedly thoughtless, while entirely weighted.
“My family? They’re still in New York.” He tilted his head and glanced back with another pop of his gum. The perfect picture of nonchalance, even as he felt a little tug in his chest. Billy missed his parents, missed his siblings so much it hurt like a festering wound. He kept it off his face for the most part, smiling broadly while he fiddled with his bag. Added details because they made for a better distraction. “West ninety-fifth street. Right now, my mom is probably cooking some truly inedible dinner, and my dad’s probably in surgery.”
It was cold out. Billy realized belatedly that he’d left his hoodie on the back of the chair in the comic shop, and did his best to suppress a shiver as the wind picked up and buffeted them on their way down the street towards the diner. He pulled his sleeveless denim a little tighter, deliberately holding himself back from the all-over shudder that wanted to assault his body, lest Atticus decide that he was a Julia Roberts type who needed his jacket, or something.
“Please,” he added, glancing with an amused glint in his eye. “It’s not late for me. This is my morning. Occupational hazard, and all that.”
"It's my way or the highway." Atticus knew some Limp Bizkit, thank you very much. His grin said as much. "Wasn't the one who wrote that book. Don't give me or Fred Durst credit for those chocolate starfish." Atticus didn't ever intend to be anyone's dad. His lack of sexual encounters with anything living guaranteed that. Parenting needed to be left to people who actually wanted to parent. Atticus was content with this. Conversation, comics, his Walkman in his ear and no responsibility.
Atticus stoically ignored the endearment. Kid had been flirting with him since the forums. Didn't mean anything. Atticus wasn't going to pull out his wallet and buy any time with the kid. He ignored. Endured. Smiled, but tried not to smile too much. Didn't want to be encouraging. He could almost hear Cris in his head. Could almost see the sentences where Cris informed him of Billy's hardships. Nope. Wasn't going to encourage. Maybe he was smiling a smidge too much, but that was a nervous show of teeth. Atticus wasn't accustomed to people in his space. That touch of palm, which made unused muscles beneath frumpy fabric jump, counted as people in his space.
Stammering a few steps, Atticus listened as Billy talked about family. "Long way from home. Why here?" Why this? That was the unasked question. Surgeons made good money. Wasn't any need for Billy to be out here, doing what he did.
"Cold?" Atticus asked, a small frown drawing a line between his brows. Wasn't the gallant kind. Didn't offer any items of clothing, but he did look toward the diner. "Should eat another time, maybe." He looked up at the sky, as if the darkening there could offer him a temporary reprieve from something or another. But, in truth, it was the things surrounding them that concerned him. Wouldn't do for them to fixate on this kid. He cleared his throat. "Should probably get going." He reached into his pocket, looking for money. "Raincheck on that burger?"
It was getting colder. The air was more acrid as Atticus pulled out his wallet and fished out a twenty-dollar bill with slippy fingers. Nervous. He knew he wasn't hiding it well as he held out the bill.
It was a completely delighted sort of laughter that made itself known in response to Atticus and his Limp Bizkit reference. “You’re still making jokes about buttholes, just FYI. Let’s not forget that.” And Billy was grinning all the way through it. His smile wide, dimples on vaguely stubbled cheeks. Somewhat disbelieving, but also that brand of amusement. “How wonderful of you.”
He knew it was obnoxious, but he was beaming. He was just that delighted. He wasn’t even really put off by Atticus’ stoicism, slanted back as he was while angling himself accordingly, stepping back through the askance sort of look. Dark eyes shining, amused and unsure.
“Why here?” And there was the echo, even as he laughed. That had become as much a part of their shtick as anything. It was sort of a joke, right? It wasn’t like this guy really wanted him to be different than he expected. Billy was the kid who was supposed to fill in according to the numbers. “I guess I was enough of a fuckup, huh?”
Billy was unapologetically unforgiving. He didn’t hate himself, was actually pretty secure in his own reality. Atticus wasn’t about to make him feel ashamed. “I wasn’t kidding, by the way. I really do think that Ghost was unrealistic. Most ghosts aren’t that articulate, and they’re probably not as handsome as Swayze.”
He blinked several times, in rapid succession, big eyes with long lashes fluttering. He watched the pull of that bill from Atticus’ pocket, with brows that furrowed once again. There came the reality of their particular dance, crashing in unwanted. “What the fuck?” And even as he asked, it was severe enough of a question. Tasted harsh enough in his mouth. He was frowning, starkly, and he was upset. His brow tucked into a wrinkle, as he tracked that crumpled bill and lit upon that realism of ‘here’s where the questioning man gives the bill to the whore’.
He looked at the bill clutched in Atticus’ hands, so slippery, potentially damp with sweat. Frowning at the spread of his fingers. “Oh my god, are you serious? No.” The scoff was just as real as the rest of him. “No thank you. And also, fuck you.” Billy’s eyes narrowed. He was angry and indignant all at the same time, worked up so that his heart was pounding hard in his throat.
“You don’t have to be an asshole just because you don’t want to hang out with me. If you don’t want to chill, just say so. Seriously, I’m a big boy. I know how to deal with rejection. But I don’t need your fucking money.”
Atticus laughed a lazy laugh. He wasn't embarrassed about the literary conversation. Musical conversation. Both. It was the kind of detached thing he felt good joking about. Atticus deadpanned, but he liked to joke. Was just who he was, even if it didn't do him any favors most days. "Too old to blush at butthole jokes." He pointed a finger that didn't raise above his chest, because that was too much work. But, fingers pointed up toward Billy's dimples. "Dimples. You're still young enough to blush."
Atticus understood being a fuckup. He understood it well. He made a sound indicative of that. No words, just that sound. He didn't see himself in the kid walking alongside him. Not at all. He'd never been like Billy, but he understood. "Miss them?" he asked of Billy's parents. "Miss home? I do. This place is nothing like New York." Upstate or the city. Atticus missed both places in different ways.
Billy mentioned ghosts, but Atticus didn't even acknowledge the sentence. What could he say? What could he do? Show Billy his scars? Unlikely. No one had seen Atticus' scars, not since he was a child. Wasn't going to get into an explanation about his own suppositions that he was some sort of conduit for violent manifestations. No. Atticus didn't talk about those things.
The air around them, cold and acrid, didn't make Atticus more inclined to talk. He knew he'd upset the kid with the money, but the things that hung around Atticus weren't always playful or mischievous, and Billy was better off with hurt feelings than injured. Atticus tucked the bill away. "Wasn't being an asshole. Really have to go right now. Another time. Not lying. I don't lie. Too much work." That was honest. "Raincheck." Repeated.
Atticus took a step back, and he gave Billy an apologetic grin, one that came with a tip of his head. Made Atticus look like a fluffy dog. Headphones went over his curls, thick fingers settling them in place.
Billy couldn’t help it, he balked under the jab of Atticus’ finger. Rolled his eyes. “Physical responses don’t have a freaking age limit, dude.” And it was a bark, way less humorous than he’d intended. He didn’t mean to be so bitter, but it came naturally to him.
“What does that mean?” He was exasperated now, throwing both hands up and spread wide. “Of course I miss my family. I miss my parents, I miss my siblings. Miss my kid sister systematically getting in the way, miss my older brother playing at knowing so much better than me. I even miss my high school.”
And there was the eye roll, again. Entirely unimpressed. Billy was angry, now. Atticus had played right into pissing him off, rejecting him, making him feel freaking unwanted. All of the things that he was least crazy about.
“Oh, you’re not an asshole, huh? Because to me, it sounds like you’re just a fucking coward. Atticus.” And there he spit the name out like an epithet, upper lip curling. It was enough of a big deal that he actually cursed, out loud and everything. He could deal with rejection well enough, but pity pissed him right the hell off. He was still smiling, but it was cut with a sharp edge. He wasn’t pathetic enough to deal with that slight, or feel that he deserved it. Pity was for suckers. And Billy’s entire life was geared toward the fact that he was anything but a damn sucker.
"Was joking." Atticus explained about the butthole joke, but he didn't say it with any kind of force. Atticus didn't argue. Atticus wasn't argumentative. Atticus hadn't argued a day in his life, and he was uncomfortable with altercations. He could tell Billy was getting bitter. Better now than later, Atticus thought. Atticus didn't have many friends for a reason. Wasn't about to blame the world for his own shortcomings, but he was how he was. He wasn't going to change.
Still, the exasperation was surprising. He'd asked about Billy missing his family as a conversational opening, but he could tell immediately it had been the wrong thing to ask. Atticus wasn't the kind of man who determined outcome before speaking. "Course you miss your family. Wasn't the right thing to ask." Billy was getting angrier and angrier, but Atticus remained the same level of mellow, the same level of nonplussed. He ignored the eyeroll with the studied patience of a teacher.
Atticus waited for Billy to finish telling him he was a coward. He waited quietly. "Am a coward. This isn't about that," he said calmly. "Really have to go." The boy's lip was curling, but Atticus didn't have any better explanation than that to give. The best he could do was go, before Billy became angrier. Lesson learned, perhaps, because Atticus knew better than to make connections. The air swirling around them was proof enough of that.
"Goodbye," Atticus added awkwardly. With a jut of his thumb in the direction of the general store, he turned. Moved. Walked away. Billy would probably hate him, but that was safer for Billy. Maybe better for everyone involved.