Vance was never known for much of anything. he didn’t do sports, or waste his time with meaningless, forced conversations with the person he’s seated next to in geometry. But what the people of North Denver did know? Don’t test your luck with his temper, because he’ll beat your face in until it’s unrecognizable.

Naturally, this brought Vance to the sheriffs office almost every other day. (Sometimes every day, if he’s lucky). He got quite cozy with Sheriff Yamada, the man seemingly caring more about him than his own douchebag father ever did. And, another perk of the police station was the sheriff’s son. Bruce Yamada.

Past school hours, Bruce seemed to always be hanging around there. Whether it was in his dad’s office, stealing glances at Vance whenever he was being interrogated, or just sitting around doing his homework. He was always there.

Vance didn’t really do feelings, save for anger, but… something foreign stirred in his gut whenever he was around Bruce. Vance didn’t like it. Pushed it down, forced it out, suffocated it- but it was to no avail. His heart was weak for this boy, and he couldn’t tell why; however, he refused to show that affection. Refused to be another one of those brainwashed fools who swooned at a mere smile. No- that was far from who Vance Hopper was.

Bruce was perfect. Everything Vance should hate. Star pitcher for the baseball team, made high honor roll every year, drove a sweet BMW that put Vance’s beat up Chevrolet C/K to shame—and above all, he was nice. Sickeningly so. If Vance didn’t know any better, he’d assume Bruce was a saint, and honestly, it nauseated him. How could someone be so utterly pure?

Bruce looked up from the newspaper he was skimming, narrowing his eyes as Vance walked into the sheriff’s office and threw his backpack to the floor haphazardly.

“Where’s the sheriff?” He asked as he plopped down in the seat across from Bruce.

Bruce hummed, looking back down at his newspaper and flipping the page slowly. “Uh, should be here soon..” He mumbled.

After that, it was deafeningly quiet, the only sound being the occasional, distant scrape of chairs outside of the room, and the ticking of the clock. Vance had never been one for small talk, but he feels like he’d go insane at this rate.

“Fuck- can you call him r’somethin’?” Vance asked gruffly, coming off ruder than he intended. He fidgeting with the frayed ends of his sleeveless jean jacket idly.

“No, I can’t,” Bruce replied matter-of-factly. “He’s dealing with a case, sorry.”

Vance groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. This was going to be a while.