a/n: so another ~mild~ retcon: had to change up the uniform of the academy slightly b/c i was rewatching glee and realized w a horror that the academy uniform was too close to the warbler uniform and i'm sorry, i can't stand for that

also -- this chapter and the past, like, four are dedicated to CimerianSparrow for your unmitigated enthusiasm during these past few filler chapters. i mean it when i say your comments really helped keep me motivated while writing, so thank you for all of your support <3

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At the prestigious institution that was St. Zachariah Cross's Academy (or St. Cross's for short), we really championed what I could only describe as inappropriately fashionable funeral attire. The main (and student-guidebook-preferred) uniform consisted of a crisply ironed white Oxford shirt that was to be paired with the black, silver-buttoned blazer embroidered with the school's equally-silver crest and completed with a pinstriped tie.

Girls were allowed to choose between pleated skirts or gender-neutral charcoal trousers (though skirts must be knee-length and worn with pantyhose). You could be a little audacious and opt for brown loafers instead of black, but absolutely no sneakers were permitted.

Now, did anyone actually follow this ensemble?

One. I reckon you can guess the name.

Aside from that loser, everyone else treated the uniform rules as what they truly were: guidelines. Most kids opted to ditch the blazer in favor of more fashionable variants, such as the black cashmere vests, sweaters, or cardigans offered to second-years and above. Some of the more daring students wore just the Oxford, and professors turned an eye if a skirt at least hit mid-thigh.

I personally hadn't touched the blazer in years (a fact that had me reprimanded several times by the resident good boy). It hung in the back of my closet, still smelling like a frozen mocha -- courtesy of the Unholy Trinity's sophomore greeting.

My preferred choice was the cardigan, a much more sensible option for Paradise's fall and spring climate. Normally, I'd leave it open (or halfway buttoned, if a certain student body president was stalking the halls), but with my dress shirt crinkled from being shoved in a drawer the whole summer, I had no choice but to fasten the silver clasps up to my collar, where the sloppiest Windsor knot known to man sat at the base of my throat.

I took one final look in the mirror. My dark hair, which had been given the liberty of flowing free all summer, was now back in its usual knot at the nape of my neck, and the locks that cascaded down my back were now auburn in color. For the finishing touch, I rubbed at my eyes until I achieved that perfect look called "hasn't washed her face in three days."

Alright, I thought satisfactorily, wiping the excess stains onto the back of my hands, it's time for one last year, Alex.

With the strap of my bag secured on my shoulders, I slipped my feet into a pair of severely beat up, chunky black loafers (with conspicuously missing triangular labels) and opened my bedroom door, only to come face to face with a blond whose face was streaked with contact solution.

"Park," Darkwood sobbed, his eyes squinting in pain," I can't get these fucking contacts in."

His black hair was now obscured by a horrifically platinum wig, cut and styled so preppily it looked ready to threaten me with the words "my father will hear about this." Combined with Darkwood's ever-sickly pallor, faded eyes, and the fact that he had on just the white dress shirt over his pants, he truly did resemble the specter of a Victorian child stricken with tuberculosis.

I sighed. "We're already late," I said, marching into the kitchen towards a drawer labeled 'Disguises' (thanks, Elijah), "so wear these." I fished out a pair of round tortoiseshell spectacles and passed them to Darkwood. "We don't have time to teach you how to wear contacts."

"It's six-o-one."

"Exactly."

Darkwood took one second to think over the choices before shrugging and flicking the contact lens into the sink like it was a bug from his fingertip. Glasses accepted, he returned to the bathroom before reemerging fully dressed, the black academy sweater hanging loosely over his frame, the white of his Oxford peeking out at the sleeves and hems.

See, Cross, I thought, noticing the way Darkwood's tie draped on his shoulders like some flimsy scarf, at least I wore the fucking thing right.

He pressed the frame of the glasses up the bridge of his nose, the lens doing nothing to diminish the piercing quality of his eyes, and frowned down at me. "Have you washed your face?"

By six-o-four, I was locking up the apartment before rushing Darkwood down the stairs. When Elijah originally bought the building and renovated the ground floor into a coffee shop, he planned the backroom around a doorway that linked to the stairwell. It was through this entrance that I'd emerge in the mornings, greeting my cousin behind the bar. He'd have my vanilla latte and a warmed bagel haphazardly stuffed into a pastry bag waiting for me at the counter, both of which I'd grab on my rush to catch the morning bus before it left without me.

Nowadays, there was no longer a need to rush for the early bird shuttle; however, there was a supremely punctual bodyguard who took the first day of school as seriously as he would a coronation, and I would hate for him to miss five whole minutes of being fawned over by incoming freshmen.

Perhaps, by some act of God, Logan himself would be running late this morning -- nope, there he was, already standing at the counter as Darkwood and I tumbled into the café.

As predicted, he was dressed to the academy nine's, his blazer even freshly steamed. I stifled a snort at the sight of the excessive Prince Albert knot stationed perfectly below his shirt collars. With a flick of his wrist and a twist of his forearm, his sleeve fell to reveal his watch -- as if he hadn't been internally counting the seconds since it turned six.

"You're late," he reprimanded, passing me my latte, his own six shots of espresso over ice clutched in his other hand.

"Good morning to you, too."

Darkwood peered around Logan's figure, as if Logan was hiding a third drink somewhere out of sight. When no such beverage showed itself, he snagged the pastry bag instead. "What, no morning coffee for me?"

Elijah rapped on the counter with his knuckles. "Logan didn't know what you'd like to order."

Looks like we weren't that late if Logan stalled to make sure Darkwood got his drink of choice. Or, more likely, Logan wanted to minimize the level of complaining he'd have to endure should he have guessed terribly wrong.

Elijah looked to Darkwood. "What drink do you want?"

Already in the process of shredding my bagel to pieces, Darkwood paused. "Do you do those frozen drinks?"

"Do I look like a Starbucks to you?"

Darkwood blinked, wide-eyed. "Is this not a Starbucks?"

Elijah's glare was riddled with a profound level of offence, but nevertheless, he yanked a plastic cup off the top of the cup tower by the blender. "And a name for the order?"

Darkwood's confusion persisted. "Like my first name? It's Alec--"

I ribbed Darkwood.

"Oh, yeah!" he wheezed. "It's--" He paused. Then looked at me. Logan groaned under his breath.

"Rivers Callahan," came Logan's answer. Yes, we are indeed keeping the time old tradition of using middle names as aliases.

Elijah scribbled the name with a flourish before walking off, and Darkwood snapped his fingers. "That's right! And I'm thrilled to be finishing school by my best friend Logan's side." He tried throwing an arm around Logan's shoulder; Logan immediately ducked away.

"Old friends." Logan narrowed his gaze. "And I distinctly remember my old friend having brown eyes."

"About that. Can we workshop this disguise a bit? I don't think contacts are optimal."

"Your government-issued ID, which has been finalized and printed, says brown." Logan reached across to pluck the frames off Darkwood's face. "Try again. Pull up a YouTube tutorial. And if you still can't get them in -- I'll apply them myself."

Darkwood physically recoiled, batting away Logan's outstretched fingers. But all it took was Logan arching a single brow and Darkwood scurried away to the back room, the WikiHow article on "How to Apply Contact Lenses" already pulled up on his phone screen.

"Cutting it close, aren't we, Cross?" I asked, looking to my own phone for the time. At this rate, we'd probably arrive with barely a minute to spare.

"Yeah, well, I'd rather be late than risk someone recognizing him because of those stupid eyes of his," grumbled Logan.

So he says, I thought, noting the increasing pace at which he tapped his shoes. "All the decent parking spaces will be taken," I pointed out casually.

"That's fine." He shifted his weight between his legs. "While we wait for him, there's one more thing I need to finalize--"

Oh, God, not another security protocol review.

"We'll lose out on front row seats . . ."

Logan paused, his left eye twitching.

"We might even miss morning announcements."

That did it. Logan turned and marched to the back room, his deep voice hollering, "Callahan!" from the stairwell.

"Sparrow," Elijah chastised, shaking his head, "you're going to give him an anxiety attack."

Pretending like I couldn't hear Elijah over the blender, I continued to shout on about cataclysmic milestones ("What if we miss roll call?") when my phone chirped. Certain that Darkwood was now promptly  begging me to shut up because Logan was seconds away from sticking the lens into his eyes, I swiped up -- only to read a text from one Vincent Blackwell.

It was a selfie, taken by himself with a spread of entrées on the table behind him and sunlight spilling onto his curls. There were others in the back joining in on the photo, boys I didn't recognize. He must be out having lunch with his friends, I reckoned.

Bet you wish you were still here instead of having class in a couple of hours, huh?

Fuck. Normally, I was pretty adept at avoiding his messages for at least an hour -- since a certain bodyguard strong-armed me into turning my read receipts for "research purposes" ("Come on, Sparrow, I need to establish a base line for your response time so I know when to actually start worrying"), I now obsessively screened any and all notifications to prevent this very scenario.

I hope that your feelings change throughout the course of our engagement. And that you allow me the chance to bring along that change.

Great. I very much did not want to give him a chance to prompt such change, but how else was he going to interpret this? I had to weigh my responses very carefully.

But, Park! you might be saying. Wouldn't the easiest thing to do be to ignore him?

Yeah, tried that. He was one persistent son of a bitch (apologies, Lady Abigail). Short responses did nothing to curtail him either. Despite my one-worded answers this past week, he continued texting me as if we'd been holding the world's most invigorating conversation.

"Anyway, Sparrow, I need you to--"

Logan's voice came from right behind me, with no warning that I nearly dropped my phone. How did he get up and down the stairs so fast? 

I turned around. With a rather neutral expression not matching his previously frenzied tone, Logan nodded down to my phone. "Is that Vincent?"

Was it just me or did he sound upset? Then, before that train of thought could continue, I stepped on the brakes.

"Yeah, he's out for lunch with his friends," I answered, flashing him my screen. It was becoming this mindless habit of mine, to discern Logan's true feelings. Except I wasn't in a position to care about what Logan thought of me texting another guy. So, I pocketed my phone and asked, "What was it you needed me to do?"

Logan didn't answer, his gaze uncharacteristically glassy as he stared at where I just held my phone.

"Cross?"

He shook his head. "Nothing." Logan shook his head some more, as if his thoughts could fall out of his head. "I'll figure it out on my own."

Cryptic. I narrowed my eyes. I'll fire him if it's a new emergency protocol he's making me memorize.

Not giving me a chance to press the issue, Logan gestured for us to head out. As I opened my mouth to ask about Darkwood, a thundering of footsteps answered my question. Darkwood dashed back into the café, his disguise infinitely less off-putting with his irises now a dark brown. He seemed to have wrestled the glasses back from Logan.

"Don't punch anyone today," my cousin advised ever so wisely, looking pointedly at me. Then, he slid a frozen beverage across the counter, right into Darkwood's grip. "Don't kidnap anyone."

He took the jab in good faith, even saluting Elijah on our way out. Logan was waiting by the door; despite the fact his car was parked right against the curb, he insisted on accompanying me to the passenger's side. However, that proved to be his last act of protectiveness. When the roads switched from smooth city asphalt to the rougher mountain freeway, Logan, too, switched from vigilant bodyguard to, well, someone desperate to get to school on time.

"Remember, Sparrow: wait for me when lunch begins. I'll meet you at your class. At the end of school today, I have that student council meeting, so you two should stay in the library. In case anything happens, follow Emergency Protocol A. If the courtyard is too congested, switch to Protocol B and head to the stadium. But if--"

"Yes, yes, we'll try C and then D and then Z if all else fails." Darkwood clutched Logan's seat, his fingertips digging irreversible indents into the leather. "I'll do whatever protocol you want me to; please, just--"

He couldn't finish his sentence. As Logan rounded a steep corner, Darkwood cut himself off, looking a little green.

"What a baby," muttered Logan. "I'm not even driving that fast."

And yet, it felt like the car was starting to slow down.

Our trio arrived on campus with barely ten minutes to spare. Personally, I saw that as a huge accomplishment, but Logan was cursing up and down, bemoaning about being relegated to the second row of his first class. Without us, he'd probably already be seated, pencil out and ready for Syllabus Day.

Three spots down from our parking space were Charles, Eric, and Muffy, lingering around Eric's Lamborghini. Eric passed Muffy a bag of fries and a milkshake. Muscle memory kicked in and I readied myself for a downpour of liquid on my shoes. Or, rather, near my shoes. Muffy had terrible aim.

But nothing came. Charles and Eric nodded to Logan, the gentlemen's method of establishing a truce. Muffy said nothing (for once), sipping on her milkshake while her sight snagged on a blond hovering right by me. 

And so, I passed them by, unscathed and milk-stain-free. I couldn't help myself -- I looked over my shoulder, watching as Muffy threw her head back laughing at one of Charles' jokes. Her eyes snapped to mine and her lips curled, but she turned away, her fingers on the milkshake twitching with what I knew had to be the primal urge to launch it right at my face.

Logan put his hand on my lower back and pushed me along. "Keep staring at Muffy like that and she really will throw her drink at you."

"As she should," I protested. "It's a time-honored tradition of ours."

The morning crowd was larger than usual, what with it being the first day of school and all, packed with overzealous first years trekking up to the courtyard gates with their blazers fastened across dress shirts buttoned all the way up to their itty-bitty necks.

A girl ran up to her friend. "How was Barcelona?"

"It's actually pronounced 'Barthelona'."

Every now and then, members of our senior class would wave to Logan and flag him down to say hi. But Logan was a man on a mission, and at one point, had to stop greeting people back entirely to focus on busting through the horde of freshmen congesting the pathway. With just five minutes on the clock, our trio fell into a familiar formation, this time with Logan leading the charge while Darkwood and I clung to the straps of his bookbag.

At long last, the crowd eased up before those ivy-covered gates, which stood open to let the student body swim through. Loitering by the front columns were Priscilla Nakamura and her younger brother, Ethan, both engulfed in a thick cloud of watermelon-scented smoke. At the sight of Logan, a frantic, "Oh, shit," was uttered before the two hastily hid their vape pens and waved away the haze.

After saying a breathy 'good morning' to Logan, Priscilla's gaze drifted over to meet mine. Ah, right. I smiled, bracing myself for her morning insult. And, as usual, I would respond with -- did she just wave?

"What?" Priscilla flipped her hair over her shoulders. "Do I have something on my face?"

"What, no 'aw, Logan, did you find her at the thrift store'?"

She blinked. "Do . . . do you want me to insult you?"

"That's how we've said hello for the past three years."

She took a minute. "Your eyeliner sucks."

"You didn't even try."

Priscilla then straightened her posture, her wispy fingers coming up to straighten the collar of her cardigan. There we go. Now we're back on--

"Look, I'm sorry about what happened at my bonfire. You were being pretty cool up until then, even if you were ripping everyone off for my water." She rolled her eyes. "Either way, I should've stopped Muffy, especially since you got into so much danger after. Are we good?"

What was that?  "Danger?"

"St. Clair's been running a PR campaign all summer long." Priscilla looked between Logan and me. "Haven't you guys been keeping up with that massive group text?"

Logan wrinkled his nose. "I thought it was spam. Left every time anyone added me."

Rolling her eyes, Priscilla pulled up a text on her phone to reveal a heavily Photoshopped picture of my school ID. A hazy gauze of white lilies bordered the image like a vignette, and a block of glittering text stamped across my chest read 'Forever Young.'

"Is that a memorial photo of me?"

"He was shaming everyone in our class, but especially Muffy and those two himbos, saying that had they not chased you away, you would've never been in that freak robbery."

Ah, hence the alarming lack of sneers.

Peering over my shoulder, Darkwood reached out to minimize the photo and began scrolling through the text thread. Priscilla's eyes went wide and she snatched the phone out of his grasp, but not before I saw what the group chat was called.

Well, no wonder I hadn't received any notice about this ridiculous PR stunt.

"To whom should I speak if I want to join this 'Get Finch Expelled!!' group?" Darkwood asked.

"This was from before the bonfire--" Priscilla's eyes flared with indignity, and she squared her shoulders, jutting her chin up. "Who the fuck are you?"

With several flourishes of his wrist and a puffed-up chest, Darkwood swept into an impeccable bow. Right as he lifted his head, mouth poised in a form that did not match with the name 'Rivers Callahan,' a deep gong rang out from the clocktower. Dozens of gasps reverberated around campus. Suddenly, the casual pace at which everyone walked swelled into a rapid tide as students took flight towards the Main Hall with desperate fervor.

"Fuck." Logan scowled, hauling Darkwood upright. "We have five minutes to get to class."

Murder pooled in the newfound depths of Darkwood's eyes. "To get to class? You mean you nearly ran us off the mountains to get here ten minutes before a preliminary bell?"

"Do you know how fast the front row gets filled--"

"There they are! James, I found them!"

Logan's own gaze flared with a rage identical to Darkwood's.

Fighting against the current of students was one giant sign that spelled out "ALEX FINCH" as though I was landing at an airport and needed help identifying my driver. Its owner? Mark St. Clair, who practically slammed a junior to the ground on his way over to us.

"Alex!" Mark cried out. "You didn't text me back all summer!"

"Yeah, what was the point of sending Logan your phone, huh?" chimed in Josh. "Do you know how expensive international postage is?"

Aren't you the son of the CEO of a major fashion company?

"You were with Logan in Cimeria?" The question came from James, who had to elbow several sophomores to make room for himself in our ever-growing circle.

"No," I lied, "I was in Brazil with my father. But Logan held onto my phone for me. That's why I couldn't--"

"Brazil?" James gave me a once over. "You're barely that tan."

"I don't tan easily."

"But then you would burn."

Can't a girl have a bad alibi in peace?

Just as I was about to point out Mayfield's own sunburn, Logan decided to intervene. The irritation blinked out of his features, and he explained, "She was in Brazil, cooped up in her hotel the whole time." Logan smirked. "Something you probably should've done in Greece."

James sneered, turning even more pink than he already was. "And what are you doing, showing up to school so late?"

"Again, we got here before the bell that tells us we're on time rang." Darkwood threw up his arms. "How are we late?"

Three heads whipped in Darkwood's direction, now fully attuned to his presence. Varying degrees of confusion, alarm, and downright hostility were displayed on the boys' faces. Priscilla tuned back into the conversation to finally get her answer, but it never came -- a voice, bright and sweet, rang out above the crowd.

"Logan!"

Everyone turned towards the pathway to identify the owner of the voice. On any normal day, it could've been anyone. Judging by the soprano register, it could've been the academy choir leader, hellbent on recruiting Logan into her collection of pitch-perfect altos.

But no. I wasn't going to get any form of normal today.

Instead, the voice clearly belonged to a girl rushing towards the gates -- a girl completely new to the school. What with the steep tuition and downright Olympian-esque admissions exams, St. Cross had a relatively small student body to begin with, so it was child's play identifying a transfer.

She wore the academy uniform just like Logan did, blazer all buttoned up atop a sweater and dress shirt. Despite the sun not yet fully up, her golden curls seemed to emit their own soft glow as they bounced along her shoulders and chest, the fringe of which was held back by a velvet black headband.

I blinked, and she was in Logan's arms, her knees locked and bent. Logan wrapped his hands around her almost instinctively to hold her up, his eyes wide as the girl pressed her face into the nape of his neck.

"Sophia?" was what he called her as he set her down. She beamed up at him, blue eyes sparkling. As the wave of first years thinned out, the more laidback, senior crew was finally making its migration towards the hallowed halls. A good portion of our graduating class slowed to gape at the scene -- something that, once upon a time, would've made Logan uncomfortable. But he could only stare down at Sophia as if she was the only person who existed in the courtyard.

I glimpsed the way his hands still lingered on her waist. My breath snagged in my ribs.

"Hey, Logan," this Sophia laughed, her hands still holding onto his shoulders. "Miss me?"

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a/n: "oh the next update should be out mid-august" god i hate myself