Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 07 | Small, insignificant

THE WORLD AROUND JAMES seemed to fade into a haze, his surroundings blurring into the background noise of the school hallway, the taunts and sneers of the jocks now distant, almost surreal. All he could focus on was William Carlisle, who stood a few feet away from the group, silent and unmoving, as if watching from behind some invisible wall. The blond's expression was unreadable, those mismatched eyes remaining indifferent as the confrontation escalated.

James' chest tightened, his breath coming in shallow, ragged draws. There was something unnerving about William's apathy, the way he didn't flinch, didn't step forward, didn't stop the others. It was almost as if he enjoyed watching, though there was no visible sign of malice on his face. The longer James stared at him, the more the world warped around them, like William existed in some different plane, detached from the cruelty happening mere feet away.

A sick feeling pooled in James' stomach, but not the kind of nausea that came from fear or humiliation. No—this was something else entirely, something darker, more confusing. It was like being drawn to the edge of a cliff, knowing the drop could kill you, yet unable to resist looking over the side. The silence William maintained made him seem more powerful than the boys who surrounded James, throwing their insults like knives. It made James feel... seen. In a way that no one else had ever made him feel.

But William said nothing. Did nothing.

"Hey, freak, we're talking to you," Marcus' voice cut through the fog in James' mind, yanking him harshly back to reality. The tall jock's expression was twisted into a smug grin, as if he could sense that James had mentally wandered off and was eager to reclaim his attention. "Or are you too busy daydreaming about your little camera to notice us?"

James blinked, his heart pounding against his ribs, but he couldn't respond. His throat was too dry, his mind still caught in the strange pull of William's presence. The weight of Marcus' words barely registered.

"What's the matter?" Trent chimed in, a sneer curling his lips. "Don't have any smartass comebacks? Or maybe you're just too scared." He leaned in close, his breath hot against James' ear. "You should be scared, you little creep."

James tensed, his hands balling into fists at his sides, though he knew better than to lash out. He'd seen how these boys operated—always in packs, always with the same vicious energy. Lashing out would only make things worse. So he remained silent, his eyes darting briefly toward his Polaroid still clutched in Marcus' hands. The camera was more than a tool for James; it was his shield, his way of making sense of the world. Without it, he felt exposed, naked, like a part of him had been ripped away.

"Give it back," James muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible.

"What was that?" Marcus' voice was mocking, and he raised the camera higher, just out of James' reach. "I couldn't hear you, freak."

James clenched his jaw, forcing himself to meet Marcus' gaze. "I said, give it back."

The boys erupted into laughter, their voices sharp and cruel, and Marcus stepped forward, towering over James with a sneer. "Or what? What are you gonna do? You think you can take it from me?"

James said nothing. His eyes flickered, almost unconsciously, back toward William, as if hoping for some kind of intervention, some sign that the blond might step in. But William remained where he was, his hands in the pockets of his letterman jacket, watching with a detached interest that made James' skin crawl. It wasn't cruelty—no, that would have been easier to understand. It was something far worse: indifference.

Suddenly, a voice boomed down the hallway, cutting through the tension like a knife.

"Marcus! Trent! What the hell are you boys doing here? Practice started ten minutes ago!"

The voice belonged to Coach Reynolds, the basketball coach, and the irritation in his tone was palpable as he stormed toward them. The group of boys immediately tensed, their postures stiffening like soldiers caught slacking off. Marcus quickly shoved the Polaroid behind his back, attempting to hide it from the coach's view.

"Coach," Marcus started, flashing an innocent grin. "We were just, uh, messing around. You know, having a little fun before practice."

"Messing around?" Coach Reynolds narrowed his eyes, his gaze flicking between the group of boys and James, who stood awkwardly to the side, his face pale and tight with tension. "Doesn't look like 'messing around' to me. Were you picking on this kid?"

Trent was quick to shake his head, flashing the coach an exaggerated expression of innocence. "Nah, Coach. We're just playing. Right, James?" He shot a sideways glance at James, the kind of look that was more of a warning than anything else.

James hesitated for a moment, his mouth dry, his mind racing. If he told the truth, if he said what had really happened, it wouldn't change anything. The boys would deny it, maybe act out even worse later. He was outnumbered, and no one in this town would side with the quiet kid who carried a camera around like a lifeline. So, he swallowed down the lump of anger and humiliation lodged in his throat and nodded.

"Yeah," he muttered, his voice hollow. "We were just messing around."

Coach Reynolds' frown deepened, but he seemed to accept the answer, albeit reluctantly. "Well, whatever this is, it ends now. Marcus, Trent, the rest of you—get your behinds to practice before I make you run laps until you drop."

"Yes, Coach," Marcus said, his grin returning now that the threat of punishment had passed. He turned back to James, his expression smug as he threw an arm around James' shoulder in a mock display of camaraderie. "See? We're all good here."

James flinched slightly at the contact, but didn't pull away. Marcus' grip was firm, almost painfully so, and James could feel the thinly veiled malice behind the act.

"Here's your camera, bud," Marcus said, pulling the Polaroid out from behind his back and handing it over with a flourish. But the gesture was anything but kind—there was a cruel gleam in his eyes as he shoved the camera into James' chest, hard enough to make him stumble backward a step.

James caught the camera with shaking hands, the weight of it grounding him even as his body ached from the rough treatment. He wanted to say something, to defend himself, but the words stuck in his throat, useless. The boys were already turning away, laughing amongst themselves as they headed down the hall toward the gym.

Except for William.

The blond lingered for a moment longer, his gaze drifting lazily back to James. His expression remained unreadable, but something flickered in his eyes—something cold, distant, and impenetrable. James' breath caught in his throat as their eyes met, a strange shiver running down his spine.

There was no kindness in William's gaze. No concern. But there was something else, something that made James' skin prickle with a mix of fear and fascination.

Then, without a word, William turned and followed the others down the hallway, his footsteps echoing in the empty space.

James stood there for a long moment, the cold metal of his camera pressing against his chest, his mind spinning in a thousand different directions. The confrontation had ended, but the real battle was still raging inside him—the battle between fear and the unsettling pull he felt toward the boy who had stood by and watched it all happen.

He wanted to hate William. He knew he should. But instead, all he could think about was the way those mismatched eyes had pierced through him, the way William's presence had made everything else seem small, insignificant.

And it was in that moment, as the weight of his obsession began to take root, that James realized something terrifying: he wasn't afraid of William Carlisle.

He was drawn to him.

And that scared him more than anything.