Trigger Warning: there will be very sensitive content in this story in future chapters in the form of flashbacks.
For Reid Thompson, being popular was the only thing he had going for him. If you asked his friends, they'd tell you that he wasn'...
Not too happy with this chapter-- no matter what I did it wouldn't come out right. But this is a filler chapter so that's probably why. Also, a new character is coming up soon and I'm super excited to write him (I'm going to be writing his own story too) so that probably didn't help me to feel motivated to write this filler haha. Sorry for rambling.
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"This is why your grades aren't better."
Reid sighed at the words that fell out of his mothers' mouth when he first stepped through the door. Slipping off his shoes and shrugging his letterman jacket off, he made his way to her in the living room and folded his arms across his chest. "What do you mean?"
"Having friends over instead of focusing on studying? I understand you want to have fun, Honey, but your grades are more important right now."
Reid's eyebrows furrowed as anger sparked in his chest. He tried to keep himself calm though, taking a deep breath and squeezing his arms even tighter against his chest. "He was here to do a project. We're working on this thing for English. When have you ever known me to bring friends over just because? I'm tired, I'll see you tomorrow," he muttered, grabbing his shoes and jacket before making his way towards the stairs.
He stopped before his foot could meet the first step, back tense as he turned his head to the side slightly, just enough so he could see her out of the corner of his eye. "Love you, Mom."
He heard her whisper it back as he ascended the stairway, the anger leaving him with every step.
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He couldn't sleep. As exhausted as he was, and as good as the warm shower he'd gotten out of over an hour ago felt, his mind was running too wild for him to be able to slip into that calm abyss.
Every time he blinked, Reid could see his own sketched eyes staring back at him, with Lance leaning over to get the perfect angle.
How did he know? How did Lance see that part of him, when no one else could? Even he himself couldn't see it sometimes when he looked at himself in the mirror. He didn't feel like himself when he did that—looked in a mirror. It was like some foreign person staring back at him, saying the same things and making the same faces. Answering back with the same exact mouthed words; who are you? Who do you want to be?
It freaked him out too much to look at himself and not recognize the person before him, so he just stopped, only doing it when necessary, and even then he tried to keep his eyes off of his reflection's eyes.
How do you see me? He wondered in his mind, eyes staring blankly at the moon-lit ceiling.
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