Call Me Milo (boyxboy)

Chapter 1

Tucker doesn't speak often. Well, certainly not when he doesn't feel like he has to. And maybe that's why to outsiders looking in, he seems standoffish, or cold. Sometimes even a little aloof. But they don't know who Tucker Hill really is.

Then again, neither does he.

"What kind of shit hand-me-downs are you even wearing?" a classmate says to Tucker as he tugs on the worn-out sleeves of Tucker's uniform.

Another one walks over and sneers. "It's not even a brand name. What is it, your cousin's old uniform from five years ago?"

Tucker hangs his head down, unable to retaliate against the growing circle of boys around his desk.

This time, a boy with a head of brown, curly hair approaches his desk and reaches forward with daunting hands. His name is Dizzy, or so that's what his classmates called him, probably due to the fact that he's always caught wasted and stumbling over. He's a good-looking fellow, probably the most handsome in the class. But his personality is the most hideous. Dizzy's fingers graze Tucker's glasses before ripping them straight off of his face and throw them to the floor.

The same boy darts his hand out again, this time, firmly gripping Tucker's dark hair and pulls his head back, straining his neck. Dizzy's piercing emerald eyes glare into Tucker's hazel ones.

"Go ahead," Dizzy says, tightening his grip on Tucker's hair. "Pick them up."

Tucker hopelessly stays still in his seat, unable to move from Dizzy's horrendous and painful grip.

"I can't," Tucker manages through clenched teeth. "You know that."

Dizzy laughs despicably and releases him, throwing Tucker's head down and it bangs against the desk. Dizzy takes a step to the side and gives a rough kick to Tucker's glasses which have now become cracked in one lens.

They slide over to Tucker's foot and he slowly reaches down as around five pairs of eyes follow his every move. Tucker's fingers just barely grab hold of his glasses when he hears, "Not so fast."

Tucker shivers when he hears the shrill voice of Chance Dillan, the self-proclaimed "leader" of the band of idiots as Tucker thinks of them as. Dizzy is one of those idiots along with the others who currently crowded Tucker's small desk.

"What're you all up to?" Chance asks, the corners of his lips curving up in a sly smile. He looms over the others, especially over Dizzy who backs away upon the sight of him.

Chance has had his fair share of fistfights, bar brawls, and run-ins with the cops. For him, it happens on a regular basis. He has one large scar that runs down the left side of his face, rumored to be from a battle with his step-father seven years ago. But he doesn't have a step-father. His arms are strong and his body is well-built. Obviously not caring for rules, he has cut the sleeves off of his uniform and now wears it as a tank top. Even in the winter. And finally, he has these icy blue eyes that seem to threaten your every move or freeze you in the moment without warning. You should know it's hard for anyone to look him straight in the eyes.

"This punk," Dizzy spits as he moves aside. "He's got a damn awful uniform."

Chance places a large hand on Tucker's desk, peering down at the pitiful fellow with one eyebrow raised, a slight grin still apparent on his face. Chance's dark eyes look as if a storm swirls around inside them as he speaks.

"Diz," Chance says, though keeps his eyes trained on Tucker who refuses to meet them. "Is yours anything to be proud of?"

Dizzy chokes slightly, clearing his throat in obvious embarrassment. "Excuse me?"

"Your uniform," Chance repeats, finally turning away from Tucker to train his eyes on Dizzy. "Is my old uniform. And why is that?"

Dizzy crosses his arms over his chest and puffs out. "You know I couldn't afford to buy one."

Chance grins widely at Dizzy, pointing his finger at Tucker. "Neither could he."

At a loss for words, Dizzy narrows his eyes daringly at Chance who turns back to Tucker.

"I'm not defending nor standing up for you right now so don't get any ideas. I just can't stand when idiots like him," Chance says as he points his eyes at Dizzy, "get all high and mighty for no fucking reason."

With nothing more to say, Dizzy resorts to the most immature action he could do at that moment and raises that forbidden finger on each hand at Chance before mumbling incoherently as he plops down in his desk by the window.

Chance laughs, the sound deep and husky coming from the back of his throat. Then with his head bent downwards, he whispers to himself, "I'm trippin'," before he bends down slowly and wraps his fingers around a cracked pair of glasses. Lifting his head, he shakes his dark hair out of his eyes and extends his hand to Tucker.

Simply staring back, Tucker makes no attempt at retrieving his glasses. Instead, he remains still, his eyes again refusing to meet Chance's. Chance breathes out and places the glasses on Tucker's desk and turns away.

"Really trippin'," Chance says and takes a seat beside Dizzy on the opposite side of the classroom.

Finally, the homeroom teacher walks in and Chance secretly glances over at Tucker who places his glasses back on his face. Chance smiles until he realizes the glasses are cracked in one lens and purses his lips.

"Fix his glasses."

Dizzy shoots his eyes to the side to look at Chance. "What?"

"Fix Tucker's goddamn glasses, Diz."

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