No Academy (boyxboy)

Chapt. 11

Nelly :)
—

By the time Waylon woke up he was alone. For the rest of the day he was, sitting in his room waiting for Harlow to come through the door. He wanted to question the guy, ask about last night—he just wanted answers. It never came.

Harlow had disappeared like he always did when Waylon was of no use to him. When he didn't have to reassure his drug mule everything was okay. A bitter taste made a home on Waylon's tongue, and he stared foggy eyed at the door for the entire day. To most people it would appear insane, but this wasn't the first time Waylon had done this. Whenever he was upset as a child he'd put himself into a willing 'timeout'. Staring at a door or wall for hours until one of his parents begged for him to cut the behaviour out. He did this up until ten, he didn't know why. Wether is was self soothing or a childish form of silent treatment he didn't know why.

His mother—nowadays—boasted about it, about "how easy!" He was to raise. Not a problem, not a sound, not a child most of the time. Whatever personality trait sparked this behaviour it appeared Harlow inherited it. So he stared.

By nightfall Harlow never returned, only then did Waylon move. Partially due to hunger and his bladder and the other half due to giving up. Like always, his roommate would make an appearance when he desired. He'd walk in when he felt, sit wherever he'd like and make the other go wherever he said. Fuck that.

The wooden floor creaked under each step he took, crossing the threshold of that rooms divide and into Harlow's portion of the room. Face to face with the assortment of posters and music iconography scattered among the small area. Waylon dropped to his knees, leaning down to peer under the bed. The two safes lay under it, he reached his bony hands around one and pulled it across the floor. It was heavy, clearly filled with an assortment of whatever was so keepsake for the blonde. Sitting on the floor with his legs splayed out, Waylon stared at the metal box sat between his legs. How would he open it?

He knew Harlow had both the codes, did he keep them somewhere? Looking around Waylon took in the sights of the room again, so many options; behind a poster, under a pillow, in a drawer, under a plant for all he knew. Under, under, under...

Waylon wiggled a finger under the safe and breathed deep, with a heave he flipped the safe onto its side. Revealing the bottom of it, "What a genius." He spoke lethargically, looking at the taped code on the bottom of the box. Pulling the safe back upright, he pressed the hash and began typing the code into the padlock. It took a moment but eventually he heard the lock release and tugged on the handle.

The door popped open, metallic surface glittering under the light in the dim room. Immediately items had begun spilling out, coating the floor. Waylon didn't know what he expected Harlow would store away, probably drugs or money but certainly not this. What he noticed first were the photos, polaroids much like that of the pool table image pinned to the wall. The first he gravitated toward was an image with Harlow front and center, he was smiling. Closed mouthed and his hair short, brown and curly, he stood in front of a park as it snowed heavily behind him. The crown of his head was dusted with white and he looked as if he was biting back a laugh. A small message was written in sharpie at the bottom, 'Remember this! Miss you—M' the letter 'M' had a small smiley face written next to it. Waylon felt something stir inside of himself, a mixture of indescribable emotion as he stared at Harlow's face. He looked...boyish, innocent.

He couldn't have been older than fourteen in the photo, the rest of the photos looked similar. It was normally Harlow or him with a group smiling into the Polaroid, consistently there was an older man who looked similar standing with him. The man was probably three to four years older than Harlow, he had jaw length hair and was covered neck to ankle in tattoos it appeared. He noticed a shift as well, as Harlow grew older so did the group he was with. The earlier photos saw him with people his own age but as time progressed it seemed they mirrored the age of the older man and more. The only other consistency was 'M', that initial always wrote a note under or behind each polaroid. At some point Waylon felt guilt nip at his ankles for reading them, feeling invasive he stopped looking at the photos altogether.