Chapter Text
"It's…different, that's for sure," Will mumbles, cheek pressed against the door of the rental car.
"I know," his mom says, hands on the wheel. "It's not Texas, is it?"
"No."
She sighs softly, tone somewhere in between I am frustrated by my teenage son and I love my teenage son. Though, Will's not quite a teenager anymore, he supposes. Is he? What does being eighteen even mean?
For most people, he supposes, it means high school grad parties and the best summer ever before college, or maybe a quiet one working jobs in their hometown, reminiscing on a childhood just passed. Not for Will. Nope.
"This apartment's in Brooklyn," she says, "One of the nicer neighborhoods. Carroll Gardens, I think."
"Great," Will says flatly, staring out the window. They're pretty close to the city, but the scenery is all green and forested, like they're smack dab in the middle of the woods. It's…strange.
Will's mother clicks her tongue. "You know, I understand that this is a lot, but it's good, darlin'. It's good for us. I'll be in New York, you'll be at Yale, and we'll both…we'll both be moving on to bigger things."
Will drums his fingers on his knees, sitting up slightly. He's not…he's not mad, per say. Just a little bummed, is all. There was so much he wanted to do back at home. He wanted to see Annabeth again after she came back from college, he wanted to get up to no good at the mall with Lou and Cecil, he wanted to attend dumb house parties and maybe finally kiss a girl, or a guy, for that matter.
He glances at his mom. She…she doesn't know. But what is there for her to know? That he's horny? That he's woefully repressed? That he's maybe probably bisexual?
She's probably gonna be supportive—heck, of course she will be. He's half sure she's hooked up with women herself (which he does not like to think about), but…still. Something holds him back. Maybe it's just 'cause he's so used to being a straight-laced kid. He fucking got into Yale, after all, for molecular biology on a pre-med track. And now she's paying for it, with her big-shot newfound musical stardom.
And he never once dated in high school—probably because he didn't think they were going to be rich come graduation, and so he had his head deep in textbooks trying to be a good enough student to get a hefty merit scholarship to a state school, only to pay full price for the ivy league by the end of it all. In the middle of that, he didn't even think about dating, except for the deepest hours of the night where he would listen to trashy garage rock and imagine getting drunk and grinding on someone in the back of one of those dingy bars his mom used to play at. It was all a glamorous fantasy to him—the life of a teenage slacker, blowing through classes while smoking weed, cutting algebra to kiss someone in the bathroom. But Will spent his high school years penciling his way carefully through AP Calculus MCQs.
And then it was over, and when he finally thought he might have a chance to figure out who he is, they were moving half a country away.
Soon enough, they're slogging through the city traffic, and they make it into Brooklyn with some difficulty.
"We're here," she announces, parking the car in front of an old-looking building. Not old in a run-down sense, because it's perfectly pristine. It's old in the historical sense, maybe like one of those brownstones Will's heard about, but he wouldn't know for sure what those were if they smacked him in the face. They're barely at the doors when they swing open grandly, a nice lady with a nicer updo and even nicer flashy jewelry greeting them as they step inside.
"Patti Erinyes, nice to meet you," she says, holding out her hand to shake to his mom. She then turns to Will and shakes his hand, too. "It's so nice to meet the famous Naomi Solace. I'm a big fan of your last album."
"Thank you," Naomi says, smiling. "And you're the agent for this place?"
"Yes, my clients own the whole house," Ms. Erinyes says, showing them around the entrance. The interior is far more modern than the exterior, almost disgustingly so. "It's been newly renovated," she explains. "My client's wife…she wanted a nice, homey place to raise her stepson."
This is homey? Will thinks. He looks around, and everything is perfectly staged. Hydrangeas bloom in blue and pink from an oversized black vase, sat on a round table framed by the spiral staircase. Giant paintings line the walls, signed off with the names of famous painters. The hutch in the foyer boasts expensive bottles of wine and an obsidian ashtray, never used.
"It's…fancy," Will's mom decides as they step in to the large kitchen and family room. The kitchen is done up to the nines, with an eight-burner gas stove and three ovens, a fridge outside and another fridge in the butler's pantry. The family room has a sofa large enough for all the members of Will's high school lacrosse team and then some, and the TV is the largest Will's ever seen outside of a movie theater.
"My client runs a major pharmaceutical company," Ms. Erinyes says with an unnervingly wide smile. "Everything is top of the line. You'd certainly be getting great value for your money."
"And it's a lot of money," his mom mumbles quietly, but to the realtor, she smiles. "That's great."
After showing off the house's in-built vacuum cleaner system, maid closet, and dumbwaiter, she takes them up the stairs and beelines for the master bedroom.
"It's spacious and gorgeous," the agent says, grinning as she points out the ornate decorations on the ceiling and the California King bed that the room has been staged with. "There are his and hers closets and toilets, a free-standing tub, a shower that doubles as a steam room—"
Will starts to zone out, and ignoring his mom and the real estate agent, he wanders out of the master bedroom. He starts peeking through the doors, finding linen closets, sitting rooms, libraries…and then, another bedroom.
The first thing he notices is the walls.
Every other wall in the house has been pristine white—but this room is paneled in the darkest walnut Will's ever seen. It lines the floor, the walls, the ceiling—and suddenly the inside of the house does match the outside again.
It's like going back in time.
He steps inside and sees the carved wooden frame of the four-poster bed, covered in silky cream-colored sheets. A grandfather clock sits in the corner by a reading nook, stacks and stacks of books pushed up haphazardly against the walls. On the other side of the room is a black and silver drum set, the seat well-worn, and five different electric bass guitars on nice display against the wall.
He turns around and sees the vinyl collection, nearly squealing out loud.
It's huge, and there's so many it's a little messy. There's a record player there, too, and Will's eyes start flicking through the exposed titles, trying to memorize the names he doesn't recognize because whoever lives here is the coolest person on planet earth.
The other decoration on the wall—two silver, curved swords like that of a pirate—just proves it to him more.
"And over here is the—oh, hello!" Ms. Erinyes stands by the doorway and beams. "Looks like your son already found his room, Naomi."
"Hey, Will," his mom says, and Will takes a second to close his mouth and act normal. She looks around. "Wow…this room is certainly quite different."
"Yes, the boy…my client's son…has unusual tastes." For the first time in the whole tour, the real estate agent's facial expression begins to resemble disgust. "I apologize for how dark it is in here, and the boy still lives here, so it isn't staged. But it's nothing a little bit of white paint couldn't fix."
No! Will wants to shout. You leave this wood paneling alone!
As such, he says nothing.
"Nah, I quite like it," Naomi says, smiling and looking around. "What about you, kiddo? You think you could live here when you're home from school?"
Will bristles a little at the word kiddo, but he doesn't let on how much he dislikes it. "Yeah, ma, definitely. It's really nice."
Tragically, the real estate ushers them out to go see the pool table and home theater on the third floor, and Will is forced to leave the most gorgeous bedroom he's ever seen behind. It's more than a little bit sad.
He'll survive.
"What do you think?" Naomi asks as they're heading out of the city again.
They're driving to Stamford, Connecticut—apparently, his dad's side of the family owns a house there, something about his grandfather owning a big bank headquartered there. Will hates his dad's side of the family…well, mostly, he hates his dad. The guy never showed up for any part of his life, so why should Will like him?
Plus, apparently, his dad is rich. And for almost eighteen years, his mom struggled to make ends meet down in Texas while he was frolicking all over the country, having more babies. Just the thought of his dad makes him bitter…and now they're staying in his house? When his mom has all the money in the world to buy herself a jazzy place in New York City?
"The apartment was okay," he mumbles, trying to swallow down all the negativity. He gives his mom one of his signature sunshiny grins that always makes her happy. "I really liked the second bedroom."
"Me too," she says, flashing a smile back at him. "But the rest of it was a bit much, don't ya think?"
"Mom, you're rich now," he says, turning to watch the scenery. "You don't have to think that way. We don't need to stay in a house we don't own in Connecticut, for example."
"It's cheaper," she argues. "Just because I have money doesn't mean I should go spending it like a mad woman. Nothin' is ever a sure thing in music. The next album could be a bust."
"But your new record label signed you for a eight-album deal already," Will retorts, "and they're paying you like music royalty because that's what you are, now."
"I know," she says quietly, hands tightening on the steering wheel. "My publicist said I should stop renting cars like a normal person, the paparazzi will be on me. She said she'll get the accountant to budget for a private jet. I…I don't really want a private jet."
"Then don't get one," Will tells her, voice soft. "Do what you want with your money, but do it. You've earned this, haven't you?"
She sighs, but lets out a small smile. "Yeah…I guess I have."
They briefly pass through Stamford's downtown—a mess of corporate office buildings and one ill-placed giant shopping mall—before they reach winding residential roads that curve around the lakes and the woods like they're deep inside a national park, the only sign of civilization being the occasional mansion-sized colonial home peeking out from between the trees.
Finally, after what seems like half an hour of just the wilderness, they pull up in a driveway as wide as Will's entire high school campus and park the car.
"This is one of your father's side's seventeen vacation homes," Naomi says as she heads to the front door. "There's about six more bedrooms than we need, so you can take your pick, honey."
Will opens up the back of the car and pulls out his one, singular suitcase—the rest of his belongings stayed at his childhood home back in Texas. He pulls out his mom's suitcase, too, and closes up the trunk to head inside.
"We could've rented," Will mumbles again as he rolls the suitcases through the enormous mudroom.
"I know, honey, but everyone knows me on sight now," Naomi says. "I didn't want the paparazzi or the city noise to be a bother for you. I wanted you to have a nice summer."
If you wanted me to have a nice summer, Will thinks bitterly, you would have let me stay in Austin.
"I guess," he says out loud, wandering through the halls. The house is huge, bigger than anything you could ever get in the city. He peeks outside and sees a massive pool and acres of grass. Why does ANYONE need this much space?
Eventually, he picks a room—this one clad in striped wallpaper and wainscoting—and lays his own blanket from his suitcase over the dusty sheets before plopping on the bed.
He pulls out his Galaxy S II and sees new text messages. Cecil: Did you see any famous people?
Will sighs and texts back. No.
To his surprise, Cecil texts back immediately. Oh, right, they're all in disguise to avoid the paps
Will: They're not that common
Cecil: I wouldn't know, I've never left Texas
Will: I wish I'd never left Texas
"You're taking this one?" His mom asks, leaning into his bedroom.
"Uh…yeah," Will says, switching off his phone and sitting up. "Is that okay?"
"Of course," she says with a soft smile, leaning her head against the doorway. "Make yourself at home. Maybe we can check out the downtown together tonight."
Will tries to smile back, but internally he wonders, and what if someone recognizes you?
He sighs and shakes his head. "Can we just…order in? I'm tired after the flight."
"Sure, sure," she says, pulling out a pamphlet. "There's probably pizza I can deliver. My shopper says she's gonna bring in groceries by tomorrow morning, so I'll have stuff to make breakfast with."
My shopper, Will thinks with distaste. My assistant. My publicist. My agent. My maid, my cook…
It really shouldn't make him as angry as it does, but it all reeks of stupidity. For so long, they lived humbly. He's not used to this, he doesn't want to get used to this.
"Pizza works," he mutters, sliding off the bed to root through his suitcase for pajamas. He pulls out his iPod instead, and tosses it onto his bed. "I'm…gonna rest for a bit, if that's okay."
"Sure," she says with an eager grin, pausing for too long before realizing that those were code words for leave me alone, I'm a moody young adult. "Alright, see you later, honey."
She's barely out the door before Will's closing it, turning the lock and sticking his headphones in his ears. He jumps back on the bed, trying to carefully pull off his shirt while simultaneously bobbing his head to the music and not tangle himself in the cords. Shirt off, he grabs his pajama shirt and jams out aimlessly around the room to something or the other. Lately, every song he listens to is about sex. For someone with such a sexless life, it's a little silly. But the lines about wanting to be free are a little more relatable.
He shakes his head back and forth to the music, unbuckling his jeans as he keeps changing. He can't dance for shit, and if he had an audience, he wouldn't.
It's only here, all alone with the blinds drawn, that he shimmies his hips like some lead singer of a rock band who everyone thinks is a sex god. He throws his head back and slides to the floor, wearing nothing but Star Wars boxers and gray socks with holes, drunk on the dream of holding a cigarette. Then he runs his hands through his hair, pushing the errant curls this way and that until he can imagine that, perhaps, he could be a teenage heartthrob in another life where he had any talents besides being a massive fucking nerd.
Eventually, he slides his pajamas pants on, plugs in his Acer laptop, and clicks over to look at the emails from Yale. Welcome webinar this, Substance Abuse prevention course that—summer's just started and they're already providing deadlines for choosing housing assignments.
On the forum for the Class of 2015, people are already looking for roommates. I'm really into Astrology, one girl boasts. Another guy says he'd totally be down to room with a Hufflepuff.
Which frats have the best parties? someone asks, and Will feels a little lightheaded at the thought of thirty shirtless straight guys drinking alcohol around him. He would lose it.
And what if his roommate is hot? What if he's hot and gay? Wouldn't that be something?
Will snorts at the thought. Fat chance. Connecticut is one of the best states for the gays, or so he hears. But still—most people are not on his side. He certainly can't tell his prospective roommates that he's bi, lest he wants them to act weird around him all year.
But that's months away, and he still has all summer to enjoy.
Enjoy, he thinks, and he listens to the music playing in his ears again. Why are all the lines euphemisms for giving head?
He sighs, slumps against the side of the bed, his laptop buzzing on the floor. It's weird. It's like everything's about sex but nothing is.
His head hurts.
Maybe his problem is that he needs to go make some friends. Yeah. Maybe real social interaction will pull him out of this weird, horny, dissociative headspace where everything feels more theoretical than real.
He flicks his laptop closed and pulls on his pajama shirt. He'll go around the Stamford downtown tomorrow, he thinks. Maybe he'll meet someone.
Maybe I'll meet someone.
He snorts. As if.