TITLE: Flying Kites
CHARACTERS: Peter Bishop, Walter Bishop (mention), Peter's Mother (mention), Peter's Maternal Aunt, Peter's Maternal Uncle
SUMMARY: Peter tries not to think of certain people during his high school graduation
WORD COUNT: 471
WARNINGS: language, suggested adult themes
DISCLAIMER: not mine
Peter sat in the bleachers the high school janitors had put up on the auditorium stage. He was sandwiched between Trevor Davis and Maggie Green, one of whom smelled like provolone and the other smelled like too much warm amber. He was in a very sour mood this evening, though he didn't expect anything different for his graduation. Honestly, anything in his life that was supposed to be important always ended up bunk, falling flat on its face.
His gown was a stuffy polyester, slippery material that was supposed to look like satin, but ended up just feeling cheap and stupid.
'What a waste of money,' he thought bitterly, wishing he had spent the sixty bucks on that fake ID he'd needed.
Oh well, there were going to be plenty of drunk kids at Ray's party tonight and none of them would be watching their wallets, so that sixty bucks would be easily recovered. Not that he planned on being a career criminal.
There was a blonde in the front, Blanca, who kept glancing back up at him. She was pretty and he gave her a quick smile before returning his attention back to the crowd. He liked girls that could have a good time, ones that knew how to hold their alcohol. Blanca was that kind of girl. Sure, she had made it clear she was willing to do a lot of nasty things with him on her living room couch, but she could hold a decent conversation. Maybe it wasn't as intellectual as he might have hoped, but at least she used proper grammar. Yeah, you could call the kinds of girls he picked "whores", he supposed. But the smart, down to earth woman he truly searched for didn't exist. They simply didn't!
He scanned the crowd and believed he had spotted his aunt and uncle, but he couldn't be one hundred percent sure. As expected, Mom wasn't here and obviously Walter wasn't either.
Even when he thought of the name it came out as a sneer, an oily, mordant utterance that he wished he'd never known. Peter outright, blatently hated the man—Walter could rot in St. Claire's for all he cared. Which he didn't.
He was tired, hungry, and bored. The gown was hot and under these lights he felt like one of the cafeteria's mystery meats sitting under a heat lamp. His chest and stomach were perspiring and he could feel the rivets of sweat rolling down his back. Gross.
The grey shirt he was wearing underneath was a present he'd bought himself at the local print shop—he'd had a large "FUCK YOU" emblazoned on the front in blood red. It was nice to have it on, a secret message that he wished he could say to everyone here.
And especially to the people that weren't.