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imthejudge · 2 years

Text

make sense of me

Warren Graham x Nathan Prescott

Chapter Two Word Count: 5,026

Chapter One

Tags: fluff, hurt/comfort

*TW* anxiety, panic attacks/panic triggers and depression/suicidal thoughts. This is a pretty low point of Nathan’s life and it will get better from here.

Read on Archive

https://archiveofourown.org/works/41111322/chapters/104263551#workskin

Chapter Two: a hole in the earth

Another shitty day. Nathan focuses on the analog clock of his truck. 12:45. A bright green imprint of the digital numbers on the back of his eyelids tell him he’s been staring too intently at it again. Too focused on the passing of every individual minute that goes by impossibly slow. With growing impatience, he tells himself to wait five more minutes before leaving, his leg bouncing the whole while.

He doesn’t even last that long. Only being able to stand another three minutes before he hastily exits his pickup and slams the car door behind him. He slams it a little too hard and the sound bounces across the small space of the school parking lot. He knows he’s irritable, more so than usual, and doesn’t know if being aware of the fact is somehow better or only adds to it.

Clenching his teeth, he instinctively mirrors the movement by tightening his grip around the gun he holds in his jacket pocket. He dares not remove his hand, keeping it stuffed deep down as he makes his way across campus. In turn, the vibration of his phone in the adjacent pocket signalling that he received a text sends him jumping.

Fucking ease up, he tells himself, cursing under his breath as he pulls his phone out. A message from Victoria reads across the screen, which he promptly ignores when shoving his phone away again.

Making it to the stairs that go up to the main building, he pushes his way inside and is immediately met with what seems like the entire school body as they’re let out of their classes. He tries to avoid looking directly at anyone, averting his attention to the multitude of posters lining the walls instead. It’s a mistake, he realizes, as he locks his eyes with those of Rachel Amber. Or, at least the lifeless, black and white version of them. Her face plastered over and over like a stamp above lockers and pinned to bulletin boards.

Shame bleeds into his limbs, making them heavy and causing his already clammy hands to sweat harder. He drops his head and in doing so avoids noticing the haste of someone speeding toward him as he crosses the hall.

The impact is hard, knocking Nathan to the floor. It takes all his willpower not to whip out the gun he grips in reflex from the sudden physical impact. He refrains, luckily, sparing him to be witnessed waving a weapon around by basically the entirety of Blackwell Academy.

Scrambling up off the floor, he stares down the kid who was stupid enough to not look where they were going, “what the actual fuck, dipshit!” He’s met with the blown out stare of some dark brown mop-headed kid who Nathan swears is petrified in place. “I think you need to invest in some glasses since–hey! Where the fuck do you think you’re going!” He’s cut off when the guy snaps out of his frozen state and suddenly launches himself down the hallway past Nathan. He calls after him but doesn’t follow, seeing as he has no time to chase him down anyways, muttering under his breath as he turns back in the direction of the girl's bathroom, “whatthefuckever.”

It’s safe to say that Nathan’s heart rate has significantly increased after the encounter in the hallway, and it does nothing to ease his already racing mind when he swings aside the bathroom door to begin pacing the dirty, tiled floor. He hadn’t allowed himself to think much about the meeting that was going to take place here, and perhaps it's that repression that makes it harder to breathe right in that moment and his chest feel like it's being squeezed.

“It’s cool, Nathan… Don’t stress… You’re okay… Just count to three…” He runs the back of his hand against his temple which is now damp with sweat. “Don’t be scared… You own this school… If I wanted, I could blow it up…” The statement makes him flinch, seeing its reflection in one of the mirrors he’d planted himself in front of, aware of how it screws up his face. He doesn’t mean that. He knows he doesn’t mean that but still lets himself voice stupid shit because it’s all he knows how to do.

It’s all he can do to stop this hatred that spreads inside him–the little bit of rebellion against his father, his family–his teachers, everybody around him who think they know him, think he’s fucked up–and they’re right but don’t know to what extent–that he’s fucked up, yes, but to a level they could never even comprehend–and it eats away at him–where he turns it inside himself to push back out with cruel words and intentions because he’s scared that if he doesn’t that cruelty and hate will be self-inflicted–swallowing him whole–choking on it– realizing it–realizing that it’s because he hates himself–despises himself–wishes he was dead. In a hole in the earth.

It creeps slowly through to his bones, that feeling of numbness that turns his blood cold and prickles the tips of his fingers.

The bathroom door bursts open, jolting Nathan from the blinding panic that momentarily seizes him. He’s gripping the sink so hard his knuckles are paper white and he snaps his head up to see that blue-haired girl, Chloe–Chloe Price, in the reflection of the mirror. She struts in, leisurely pushing open each stall. Her shrill voice fills the air, going on about something that Nathan can’t focus on, too busy concentrating on his struggle to breathe.

Breathe in…

One.

Breathe out…

Two.

Breathe in…

Three.

“So what do you want?” he exhales the words out, hardening his gaze at her through the mirror. She narrows her eyes in return but there’s a ghost of a smirk on her lips. She’s enjoying this.

“Let’s talk bidness–”

“I’ve got nothing for you.”

“Wrong, you’ve got hella cash.”

Hella. He immediately thinks of Rachel. His gaze drops back down to his fingers, curled tightly around the lip of the porcelain sink. “That’s my family,” he hisses between clenched teeth. “Not me.”

“Oh boo hoo, poor little rich kid.” She emphasizes the last words, which grind into Nathan. “I know you’ve been pumpin’ drugs n’ shit to kids around here.” She comes up right beside Nathan then, their faces mere inches apart while his attention is still downcast. “I bet your respectable family would help me out if I went to them. Man, I could see the headlines now–”

“Leave. Them. Out of this, bitch!” He grips the sink so hard it hurts, wishing she would stop talking. To shut up, shut up shut up shut up.

“I can tell everybody that Nathan Prescott is a punk ass who begs like a little girl and talks to himself–” she shoves him, making him lose his grip. And he’s had enough. Nathan reels on her, shoving her back and yanking out the gun in his pocket to aim right at her.

Her expression immediately shifts, dropping any ounce of courage she previously wielded at the sight of a gun in her face. That’s right. “You don’t know who the fuck I am or who you’re messing around with!” His voice shakes and so do his hands, which he tries and fails to keep steady.

Backing up against the wall, she tentatively raises her hands in defence, “Where’d you get that? What’re you doing? Come on, put that thing down!” But he doesn’t, pressing it into her side instead. Half to aid his shaking hand and half to revel in the way her eyes flash with fear.

“Don’t ever tell me what to do. I’m so sick of people trying to control me!” Like everyone. Like everyone in his life.

“You are going to get in hella more trouble for this than drugs–”

He doesn’t care, barely even listening to her anymore as he cuts her off, “Nobody would ever even miss your ‘punk ass’, would they?” Nobody. Nobody would miss him.

“Get that gun away from me, psycho!”

The sound of glass shattering pierces the air, and for a split second Nathan wonders if that’s what it feels like to take a life. But he realizes soon that the sound had been real, that he’d never pulled the trigger, because the next thing he feels is the sensation of palms hard against his chest to push him away. And he’s falling to the ground for the second time that day.

He lies there for a couple of seconds, sprawled out and wondering if he can ever get lower than this. The entrance to the washroom has long since slammed behind Chloe, replaced by the blaring of a fire alarm. But it’s all white noise to him, his thoughts just as rhythmic. Just as loud.

I can’t do this anymore, I can’t do this anymore, I can’t do this anymore.

Nathan’s back at his dorm, pacing the small space of the room after booking it out of school and across campus. He’d immediately hid the gun away, desperate for some distance between it and him. He doesn’t want to think about whether he would have killed that girl. He doesn’t want to think about it but he does. Then he thinks of Rachel. And with the following step of his stride, he swivels to drop beside his trash can and proceeds to empty his guts out.

He’s calmed down a bit, spread out on the floor of his room–his racing thoughts drowned out by Low Roar’s Vampire on My Fridge that plays through his earbuds. Letting the music heal him in that moment, if only slightly. It's enough to ease his breathing, growing steadier than before. He yanks the cord free from his ears as he sits up, sliding to sit with his back against the foot of his bed.

Running a still shaky hand through his now unkempt hair, he takes the time to mull over the interaction in the bathroom and comes to the conclusion that someone pulled that fire alarm on purpose. And that someone had been in the bathroom with them.

So he goes back.

He retraces his steps once he’s inside the bathroom again and finds exactly what he’s looking for. There’s a polaroid ripped in two, its white-bordered pieces lay starkly contrasted on the gritty tiled floor. Nathan doesn’t know how he could’ve missed it in the first place. And when he picks them up to examine the photo as a whole he already knows who it belonged to before the halves touch. There’s only one student who uses Polaroid film in Blackwell, after all.

The image of a girl with short brown hair and her back to the camera centers the photo, confirming Nathan’s thoughts on who it is. Max Caulfield. He lets the pieces fall from his grasp, which flutter back to the floor.

The bathroom door swings aside upon his exit before the remnants of the photo even land and Nathan’s pulling his phone out to call Victoria. He falters when he’s faced with his unlocked home screen, though.

Victoria could most likely aid him with finding Max, but he knows she would be full of questions that Nathan didn’t want to answer. Couldn’t answer. So he continues staring aimlessly at his phone, lost for any sort of direction to take. I need a fucking cigarette.

Patting down his jacket and pant pockets, Nathan curses under his breath when he doesn’t feel the small carton anywhere on him. Shit. They’re in his truck. Left behind by his scramble-brained past self in his anticipation for the meeting in the bathroom. He’s making his way out of the main building and towards the parking lot before he knows it, craving the nicotine and need to keep his hands preoccupied and telling himself he’ll look for Max after.

Turns out he doesn’t need to look very far, as he descends the short set of stairs into the lot to see the very girl talking with someone not even 10 feet from his truck. Her short cropped hair is distinguishable even from this distance–as well as her poor choice of fashion–with her back towards Nathan in a way reminiscent of the photograph he’d found in the bathroom before she moves to sit on the car beside her friend.

He picks up his pace, making a beeline towards her and calls out her name, “Max Caulfield, right?”

The situation escalates—because that’s what Nathan’s good at. And what starts out as a heated conversation quickly turns physical.

His confrontation is interrupted when Chloe—of all people—pulls up in her truck to intercept the whole thing. And before he can react, he’s tackled to the ground by the person Max had been talking to. The same guy that Nathan ran into earlier that day–Warren…Graham. Yes, that’s who’s now taking punch after punch against the asphalt of the parking lot and whose sticky blood begins to coat Nathan’s fist, seeing the trickle of red run from Warren’s nose.

There’s muted yelling around him and the rev of an engine that makes Nathan jump back to his feet. He’s throwing punches and kicks towards the truck Max has escaped inside of, yelling for them to ‘get their punk asses out of there’ to little avail. They have the advantage, driving away and forcing Nathan to displace his anger somewhere else, anywhere else that he can.

Nathan whips back around to see a petrified Warren staring at him after having heaved himself off the ground. There’s a split second where they’re both frozen, which is broken when Warren turns tail to hide behind some old, banged-up car. Nathan follows and the two end up going in circles. Nathan’s frustration builds, coming to an abrupt stop at the side of the car. This little piece of shit.

Eyes darting around, Nathan looks for some sort of leverage, coming to the realization that the car currently being used as a barricade between them had to be Warren’s. He knows this when his gaze lands on the most nerdy piece of junk he’s ever seen strapped in the back seat at the window Nathan stands beside.

He sees red. And then he’s consumed by it.

Before he can fully comprehend what he’s doing, Nathan has hold of Warren’s science project and is hurrying away with it towards the open space of the lot. He blinks and it’s on the ground, pieces having smashed off of it to scatter around the point of impact. He hadn’t comprehended the weight of it leaving his hands, or the sound of it hitting the concrete before it’s over.

Too far. He’d taken it too far.

Did he though? Was destroying some punk’s science project really that bad compared to beating the shit out of him a moment earlier? Or pulling a gun on some defenceless girl in the bathroom? But they were different, those actions were met with despised looks thrown his way. Hatred. Hatred he could deal with, but this–the look of utter devastation on Warren’s face and the silence that follows is something Nathan doesn’t know what to do with, wishing for a hole to form in the ground beneath his feet and swallow him whole.

That will never happen, though. Not when he himself is the source of all of this. A black hole that destroys everything around him. Taking and taking and taking and taking.

The icy sting of cold water against his knuckles makes Nahan flinch, but he forces himself to hold his hands under the harsh stream anyways. He’s back at the dormitories after his failed attempt at intimidation. Or maybe he didn’t fail, maybe now Max and Chloe and whoeverthefuckelse will stay out of his business for good.

He pulls back from the sink, turning the tap off and grabbing at the paper towel dispenser. It feels like sandpaper against his skin. Then his hands are back on the sink to hold him upright and he’s finally forced to look at his reflection.

The person that stares back at him has become unrecognizable over the course of the last few months, it almost takes him a second to know it’s his own eyes that take in the form before him. They’re sunken in with deep, dark circles beneath that reflect the little sleep he’s been getting. Their usual stark blue look gray in this lighting, desaturated even next to his pale, white skin. And his hair, which he’d stopped styling some time ago, is dishevelled with pieces sticking out from him running his hands through it so often. Then there's the newly gained scratch marks along his cheek, to which he reaches his fingers up to gently prod at. It stings, but it's nothing compared to how agitated he feels. The marks are red and angry, just like him.

So. He pretty much looks like how he feels.

The vibration that starts in his pocket doesn’t make him jump this time, but a slow building dread spreads across his chest nonetheless. He reaches an increasingly shaking hand to grab his phone there, pulling it out to see the anonymous picture of an unknown caller. The feeling of unease in his gut deepens. He knows exactly who it is. He places it on the porcelain counter and takes a step back, combing his shaky fingers through his hair.

The ringing stops, and Nathan only gets about 30 seconds of peace before it starts back up again. In a fit of rage, Nathan grabs the phone off of the countertop and throws it across the room. “I don’t want to talk to you!”

He’s clenching his fists so tight that his fingernails dig into the palms of his hands, which he doesn’t notice until he unclenches them to see the little crescent marks dotted there, the slight sting that comes with them secondary.

For the third time, his phone rings. The vibration causes it to clatter against the grimey tiles. Nathan thinks he might rip his hair out, and considers sending a swift kick to the device to stop it from ringing for good until he sees Victoria’s picture through the newly acquired cracks on the screen.

There is the slightest bit of relief at seeing her call, but it’s fleeting. He takes a deep breath before picking it up off the floor and sliding his thumb across to answer. “You haven’t been answering my texts.” Her tone is curt, but hurt lies there, too. Nathan knows she means well, yet it still rubs him the wrong way.

“I’ve been busy!” He immediately fires back and Victoria grows quiet on the other end. He sighs to let some of the frustration out.

“Not busy enough to avoid checking in with me, Nathan.” Her voice is softer now, “is everything okay?”

I know. I’m sorry. Is what he should say. But he doesn’t, avoiding her question when he responds, “what do you want, Vic?”

“For you to talk to me, mostly. But right now? We need to talk Vortex. Are you around? I’m out on the football field.”

“Yeah. I’ll be there in 10.” He hangs up and is out of the boy’s dormitories soon after. The last thing he wants to do is talk about Vortex club business, but he thinks listening to Victoria ramble about something so mundane might help him feel a little normal right now. And God knows he needs it.

In the past week or so, Nathan hadn’t seen Victoria. Barely talked to her, too. Excuses of being too preoccupied with other things usually being the reason he blows her off. He wasn’t lying, not entirely. But he also wasn't telling her the extent of what was keeping him busy. The darker, much more sinister side of him that was taking over more and more of his life since being acquainted with–

No. He isn’t going to think about any of that right now. There was a reason he avoided picking up the call from before. For now, he’ll focus on putting one foot in front of the other, to meet up with Victoria and try his best to feel normal. Be normal. Far from the shitty day he’s had and far from the version of himself that came to school wielding a gun.

God, what has he become.

When stepping foot outside, Nathan takes note of how the once sunny afternoon sky has drastically switched to a cloud covered one. The dark gray above him charges the air like that before a storm, threatening to rain at any given moment.

Even the wind has picked up, making him wrap his jacket more tightly around himself as he takes the shortcut across the grass on the main campus. He barely checks for cars as he makes it to the stretch of road that divides the school from the football field. Once he’s across, Victoria can be spotted lounging on the bleachers with her usual groupies. She waves him over as soon as his feet touch the turf.

Stopping to stand in front of her with his hands buried in his pockets, she gives him a once over. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks.” Nathan replies flatly. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Victoria gets up from where she sits, tentatively taking hold of Nathan’s arm to steer him away from the others who continue chatting absentmindedly. “I mean, like, are you okay?” When she lets go, she moves in front of him with crossed arms, and as if only properly getting a look at him in that moment, her eyes widen with shock. "Oh my God, your face! What happened!?"

“It's nothing. I’m fine.”

"Um, that doesn't look like nothing, Nate. What the hell–"

"I said it's fine!" He snaps.

Doubt tightens Victoria’s features, but she doesn't press him. "Fine, don't tell me." After an awkward beat, she proceeds to usher them to an empty section of the bleachers and sets down her shoulder bag. Nathan plops himself down on the metal bench, waiting for Victoria to pull out whatever she’s digging around for. She procures a piece of paper, which she holds out for him with perfectly manicured fingers. “I wrote down everything we need for the party. Don’t forget, since it’s in a couple of days.”

Ah, yes. The drugs. Nathan takes the paper and glances over the short list written out on the back of one of the Vortex flyers in Victoria’s neat handwriting. Pretty much just the usual for a Vortex club party. He tries his best to fold it in a respectable enough manner before shoving it in his pocket. “Vic, you could have just texted me this.”

She presses her lips into a thin line, that doubt still prevalent on her face. “Would you have answered?” Nathan gives a sarcastic grunt in reply. Probably not. Victoria takes a seat next to him, body turned towards him. “I’m worried about you, Nate.”

He reflexively stands up, “don’t be. I’m just busy. Y’know. Gotta lot of stuff to do…” Victoria continues to look unconvinced and Nathan drops his head, opting to kick some of the turf beneath his feet. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you the stuff. Talk to you later, alright.”

Nathan’s reeled back around and heading in the direction he’d come from, not giving Victoria the chance to say anything else or try to stop him. He shouldn’t be surprised that she’d wanted something, pretty much everybody wanted something from him lately.

As if on cue, the hand he has firmly grasped around his phone deep in his pocket begins to vibrate. Nathan knows it's him again. Doesn’t need to pull it out of his pocket to confirm but does so anyway.

When he does, a fat drop of water lands on the phone screen, distorting the anonymous caller ID beneath it. Nathan averts his attention upwards for its source to see a rapidly darkening sky. Another raindrop plats against his forehead this time, making him wince. Should’ve seen that coming. The wind has changed from breezy to forceful, too, sending a chill across his body that has him hunching in on himself as he pulls his jacket around him tighter.

Stepping under one of the trees littering the campus grounds as some half-ditch effort of finding shelter, Nathan lets out a long, shaky breath before finally picking up the call.

“What do you want?”

“Oh, Nathan. That’s not the right way to answer these calls. But at least you did answer, right? Or was there a good reason for avoiding my previous calls?”

Irritation crawls along his spine. He tries to answer calmly but can’t stop the slight shake in his voice, “I was with people.”

“No. I expect you to pick up. Don’t ignore me again.”

Nathan’s clenching his fists again, unaware as he doesn’t know how to respond. But he doesn’t need to as the low voice on the other end continues, “we need to meet.”

Of course. Of course they do.

“When.”

“Soon. Wait for my call later tonight.”

“Fine.” Nathan hears a click that signals the call has ended. Walking out from beneath the tree he’d been situated under, he notices how there is now a steady downpour of rain. It’s quick to dampen his jacket, but he pays it no mind when making his way back to his dorm. He doesn’t even bother shedding himself of it once he’s inside his room.

He doesn’t sit down on his bed, or the chair at his desk. He can’t keep idle, not when his thoughts race and his legs are incapable of keeping still. The gentle tapping of rain against his window is the only company he has, the only noise filling the space besides the dull tread of his feet on the carpet as he picks up pacing once more.

There’s nothing to do now but wait. Wait to be called and told what to do. Like always.

He wishes he could talk to Victoria, really talk to her. To tell her everything going on. But it’s too much, and the thought of getting her involved with any of… this. His stomach clenches at the notion. No, she can never know.

He wishes he could speak with his sister, but she’s been gone for so long. Nathan doesn’t know how to talk to her anymore. She still sends emails, and as much as Nathan enjoys receiving them, he hasn’t responded in what feels like a year now. A little part of him is bitter. How is it fair that she managed to escape? To leave him behind. To be free of their name and what it means to have such a title hang over them. His own sister abandoning him to uphold the very mantle of being a Prescott all by himself. Left to deal with its crushing weight alone.

He even wishes there was a way to reach out to his father. The thought itself makes him scrunch up his face in resentment.

Weakness. That’s what his father would say. A sign of weakness. He’d berate Nathan for getting into such a messy situation in the first place. Tell him not to drag the Prescott name in the dirt behind him. The very idea of contacting his father would threaten the little bit of respect the man might hold for his son, if there was even any to begin with. Nathan doesn’t mean anything to his father, he knows that. He is just a problem for his family to deal with by being sent away to Blackwell. Something to patch up with more drugs, or God forbid more therapy. Therapy he hasn’t attended in who knows how long and drugs left untouched in neon pill bottles that do nothing but collect dust on his desk. He doesn’t need them, anyway. He doesn’t need them.

With sudden spontaneity, he grabs at one of the bottles and launches it across the room at the wall he stands adjacent from. It explodes, sending the collection of pills all over the place, but Nathan can barely see from how dark his room has become.

In the time he’d spent inside his head, night rolled in. Wind and rain still batter against his windows, though much more significantly. He blinks in the low light, wondering how he hadn’t managed to notice its intensity. He glances over at the clock beside his bed. It glows a time just past 9 PM.

This waiting is hell. And he doesn’t think he can take much more of it.

Now I really need a cigarette. He’s reaching a frantic hand at his doorknob before he fully comprehends what it is he’s doing. He’s going to his truck. He’s going to his truck to get a fucking cigarette because he wants to. And somehow, the rash decision feels like the only real thing Nathan has been in control of that whole day.

It’s enough to make him continue out of the dormitories and into the cold downpour. He doesn’t care how the rain pelts at him. He doesn’t care how the wind makes him sway with every couple of steps, or how he now has to hold a hand to cover his eyes as he slowly moves his way across campus to the parking lot. He doesn’t care when thunder rumbles ahead so violently that it shakes the ground under his feet, that he’s caught stumbling around in a fucking storm. He doesn’t care how he almost slips down the concrete steps into the parking lot, and how he grips onto the metal railing with a whitened grip to stop from tumbling down them.

He doesn’t care about anything!

The blacktop of the lot is sleek from the rain, reflective as if taking on the likeness of a distorted mirror showing a warped image of the streetlights that dot along the edges of the school grounds. Visibility is shit, and Nathan is now completely drenched from his journey across Blackwell Academy. It’s made him miserable.

He fumbles around for his car keys, cursing as he tries to dig them out. He stands there like an absolute fool, not getting any drier–but sure he’s crossed the point of getting any wetter–when a strange sensation hits the space around him. He’s confused for a moment, until a thought occurs to him. Though he is very much wet, there is a staticness to the air now that comes with an unusual warmth. In the second that follows after acknowledging this fact, Nathan braces himself for what he assumes will follow next, squeezing his eyes shut when a loud crack splits the air above him. What he does not anticipate, though, is the sound of a car screeching to a halt and the sudden impact that throws his body to the ground.

For the third time that day.

#life is strange #grahamscott #nathan Prescott x warren graham #nathan x warren #warren graham x Nathan Prescott #lis #nathan prescott #warren graham #lis fanfiction #mywriting #ayooo im back with part two babyyyyyy

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