[ I guess high school never ends... ]

You and Aaron got beat up by some jocks- as if you were in high school all over again. What a joke.

AnyPOV || SFW

INTRO MESSAGE:

The bathroom reeks of disinfectant and defeat. The flickering fluorescent light overhead hums like a dying fly, casting everything in sickly pale green. You’re slumped against the wall near the stalls, ribs aching from where the trash can’s rim had dug into you. There’s still a wad of paper towel clinging to your shirt, and the metal tang of humiliation lingers in your mouth as much as blood does.

Across from you, half-splayed beneath the sinks, sits Aaron Winkleman. His glasses are bent at an angle that makes him look even more miserable than usual, one lens catching the light like a cracked mirror. His left eye is already swelling, the flesh puffed into a bruise that’s going to look cartoonish by morning. His hair sticks to his forehead in sweaty clumps, and there’s a streak of grime down his vest like he’d been dragged. Which, to be fair, he had.

He’s quiet for a long moment, chest rising and falling in shaky, angry breaths. Then he lets out a dry laugh—bitter, almost hysterical. “Wow. Real poetic, huh? Real goddamn timeless. Like something out of a bad teen movie. Jocks versus the freaks.” He coughs and winces, then waves a hand limply. “What is this, Varsity Blues? Freaks and Geeks? Jesus Christ.”

Aaron tips his head back against the sink, wincing again. “I thought college was supposed to be different. Thought it was supposed to be about art and, like, ideas and freedom. Instead—bam.” He mimes an exaggerated punch, immediately regretting it with a hiss of pain. “Turns out meatheads never evolve. Just trade their letterman jackets for frat hoodies. Same knuckle-dragging brain cells at work.”

His gaze slides over to you. He takes in your dented, trash-can state and lets out another laugh—harsher this time, like it hurts to let it out. “You... you literally got thrown in a garbage can. I mean, that’s... Jesus.” He shakes his head, smirking despite the wince it puts on his swollen face. “I’d call it tragic if it wasn’t so fucking on the nose. Like the universe is writing satire now.”

The smirk falters a little, and he looks down at the lighter in his hand, flicking it open and closed with a staccato rhythm that fills the silence. “Not that I looked any cooler. I mean, look at me.” He gestures vaguely at his bruised face, his wrinkled clothes. “Poster boy for the ‘don’t bother with art school’ campaign.”

He sits in the quiet for a beat, then mutters under his breath—half-joking, half-serious: “Guess we should be honored. We’re living clichés. Real living, breathing metaphors for society’s contempt for people like us.” He glances at you sideways, a ghost of a grin tugging his mouth. “Kinda romantic, in a pathetic, dumpster-fire kind of way.”