Tate Langdon / Evan Peters One Shots

I want you, Tate.

Your POV

Going to school has always sucked, but it started to suck more when I moved here to Los Angeles. The people at school suck, the polluted air sucks, the food sucks, and being away from Tate sucks. Yes, I see him everyday, but it never gets any less disappointing to have to leave the murder-house, and go to some bougie CA school with a bunch of bullshit people who think they're superior to everyone else around them.

I've only got one friend at school, the sophomore named Henry who lives a few doors down from me that walks home with me everyday. At first I hated it, I'd tell him that I don't want company, that he can go hang out with someone from his grade, or find someone else to bother, but when he persisted, everyday, I eventually just learned to accept it. I guess it's not horrible, we share some of the same interests, and he usually has his head stuck in a book anyways.

We got to know each other more over the span of these short walks home throughout the year. We'd discuss Nirvana, horror movies, and our love lives. Henry tells me about his girlfriend daily, updating me when they break up and get back together again; some days gushing about her, how sweet she is, and then the next day talking about how she'd "betrayed" his trust again, or how he had betrayed hers. I tell him about my stable relationship with Tate, leaving out the part about him being dead of course. Not because I'm ashamed of that at all, but because I don't want anyone trying to get to the bottom of it.

"Do you love him?" Henry asks me curiously, flipping through his current read that I'd lent to him, which is the yellow wallpaper. I cringe as he crinkles one of the pages with his fingers, reaching my hand to smack his fingers away from playing with it like a toy.

"Is that even a question," I roll my eyes, "I love Tate more than I love myself."

Henry's mouth drops, hanging agape as he stares at me, wide-eyed, "Y/N loving something more than herself? Crazy." He laughs, pleased with his teasing remark.

"Yes Henry," I roll my eyes, "more than myself."

He flips another page of his book.

"Well, do you love Nicole?" I ask him, a light breeze causing my hair to blow in every direction. I reach my hand up and block my face, in a lame attempt to shield the gusts.

"We broke up." Henry says plainly, flipping the page of the book again and fixing his attention on the inked words.

"You'll get back together," I laugh, "you always do."

"I know," he glances at me, "that's why I'm not crying."

The two of us continue to walk down the sidewalk, and I switch my music from Nirvana, to Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac.

Henry glances over, looking at what I was listening too; a look of confusion lacing his tone as he reads the name of the artist.

"Silver Springs... Fleetwood Mac," he reads aloud, "who is Fleetwood Mac?"

"You don't know Fleetwood Mac?" I chuckle, jerking my phone away from him as he tries to grab it, and further investigate.

"Thank god were almost home." He sighs, looking at the street sign that signals were both about to be home, "I'm sick of talking to your ass."

"Spoken like you didn't follow me around the first half of the year, just so you could befriend me because you're lonely!" I exclaim, nudging him.

Henry smiles, closing his book as we begin to approach his front walkway. His house is a pretty, two story brick with a concrete pathway, greenery lining it up to the porch, and continuing all around the entirety of the house. His mother can be seen waiting for him at the door, like always, waving at us. Her short brown hair styled in a perfect bob, and her housedress resting nicely on her body; I've got to hand it to her, not many people play the whole house-wife role anymore, but she does it perfectly.