【 STAG BEETLE 】
1.
From the moment he could walk, Aspen was ready to burn.
He wasn't sure what had made him feel that way. What had him feel like a a match was lit inside his stomach. He supposed he should've blamed the weather. The strange oppressive heat of the morning. The kind that breathed down his neck, and curled the thick fabric of his collar. The way he felt devoured, caught inbeetwen it's hands and fixed in the middle of it's clammy mouth. Or maybe it was the sun—nasty blood-orange and blood-hungry thing unfolding out it's rind—from where he sat in his classroom. It made the air unbearably warm, sticky with acidity; enough to make his lips pucker and his hands slick with sweat.
But it wasn't that at all. It could've been the fact he removed from his art class—his true elective—where he should've been getting high off of poorly canned paint thinners and haphazardly uncapped markers.
Where he should've been learning about Newton's color theory and which acrylic meshed best with what. Aspen missed the art room; the synchronized scrawling and scribbling, the tired squeak of his wooden stool whining under his weight, the feeling of Mrs. Spellman looking approvingly over his shoulder at his canvas.
Instead he was stuck in band practice, stuck playing an instrument he hadn't played in years, embarrassing himself six ways to Sunday because Patrick Boyle—St. Clement's star clarinet boy—got sick right before the big Spring Ceremonial recital.
What the hell or who the hell had he touched to catch even catch whooping cough and pneumonia? Aspen supposed both him and world may never know.
All he knew was that he was forced to pick up Boyle's slack because he was most the viable option.
Most of the band weren't overjoyed that he filled in for Patrick and his mucus packed lungs.
They didn't have to say anything to him. Aspen knew his spectacular gift of only playing sour notes caused an applause worthy ripple effect of face wincing and unanimous ear-covering.
Aspen was just grateful the music teacher wasn't there to micromanage his posture and stare at him disapprovingly (as if he asked to be here), and that his deskmate Anna was nice enough to pass him some pointers on her flashcards so he wouldn't sound so awful the next time.
But Aspen knew it wasn't that either. It was something he was trying desperately to ignore. Something he had pretended wasn't taking over every once of his attention, or taking over his life. Something—or more appropriately—someone he was trying to chalk off as meaningless. Someone who didn't matter.
Which was quite hard to do when it was St. Clement's very own patron saint, it's mortal idol, and resident teenage god: Abe Blackthorne.
God, if beauty had a beating heart, Aspen thought, it would be him.
He was as handsome as life. Swoony-eyed. Soft-mouthed. Bronze-fleshed. With his tousled, golden hair, his pretty smile catching the sweltering sunlight between his teeth, his long legs in a boisterous stride—everything around him seemed to disappear. He was too bright. Too vivid. A piece of heaven intercepting earth.
