Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.
The first time he ever saw her, he didn't think he'd ever seen someone more like him—her dirty blonde hair framing her face and a ratty old sweater that hung from her petite shoulders making her look like the tiniest thing he'd ever seen. She'd glanced at him in the hall and he'd caught a glimpse of her warm brown eyes for just a moment, the way her sly, crooked smile curved upwards the moment she caught him staring at her. It had surprised him how sexy this was, how he had thought about it all day long, all night long until the very next morning when he still couldn't shake the feeling that she was somehow different from everyone else that he had ever met.
He followed her the next day, whenever he could, watching with inquisitive eyes as she went through her day silently. She would walk to the park down the street at lunch, refusing to eat, and smoke a cigarette instead. He'd thought he might join her, but he hadn't been able to work up the courage. After all, who was he anyway? What would make her want him? If anything, she would stay away from him. Yes, if she were smart, if she listened, she would avoid him at all costs. Because who wants to get involved with the mob boss's kid? No one, that's who.
So, instead of trying to meet her, he watched her from a distance, admiring the way she seemed so aloof to all of the ridiculousness that surrounded her. She was so far above the fray and it made him love her just a little bit—not in the romantic sort of way, naturally. But it made him admire her, made him feel less alone even if he knew he'd never be able to have her. Instead, he contented himself to dreaming, and wondering at how amazing this stranger must be, this girl who he had never spoken a word to but who has owned his ass since the day she walked into the building. Maybe it was the mystery behind her or the depth behind her eyes—like she had seen things that had changed her, made her more than all the rest of them—or maybe it was just a lucky characteristic that had him all hyped up. Hell, maybe it was even the drugs. But, regardless of the reasons, all Tate knew was that he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anyone in his life.
From a very young age, nothing was beyond Tate Langdon's reach. His mother—promiscuous ex-showgirl that she was, aside from being a hopeless, raging alcoholic—had hooked Ben Harmon with a great deal of luck and an insurmountable number of plastic surgeries. She'd been nipped and tucked and stuffed, all in preparation for finding a man like him with power and influence and, above all, an endless supply of money and substances to abuse. He'd taken Tate under his wing early on. Or he'd tried to at least. Ben had offered him women and coke and a bottomless bank account and he had taken what he could get for a while. But there came a day when it was all empty and he was so depressed that he couldn't seem to ever come down from his highs without doping himself up again.
The worst were the days when Constance would hit him, or send Ben or one of his guys to do the job for her. On this particular day, his nose slightly more crooked that usual with dried blood encrusting the very tip. He couldn't remember quite what he had done. Overall, he was a great disappointment to his mother and, in truth, she couldn't handle him. This was just another reason why she had chosen Ben. He could control her son to some extent and that was a welcome perk to being a mob wife.
The school hallways were emptying out now but Tate didn't feel the need to hurry to get to class. He was buzzing with artificial energy, though he was starting to crash and he didn't like it. Nothing felt real anymore and he thought he just might go crazy. He didn't want the money or the drugs or the violence. He'd had enough of its effects. He didn't want to be abused. If anything, he wanted to kill Ben and Constance and be done with it. If he did he would die too soon, he knew, because the Harmon family would never let him go. They would never relent until they had delivered to him the same fate.
So he pushed down the murderous emotions and focused on the hallway ahead, on a figure looming in the distance. It was small and leaned up against a locker, hands cupped over its face. He wondered who it was, if something was wrong, though he doubted that he would help even if something was. He wasn't the type. So when he heard the expletives whispered from the unknown person's lips, he did his best to ignore them.
As he got closer, though, he realized who it was standing there. It was her in all of her grungy glory. And as she lifted her head and dropped her hands from where they had rested over her face he saw the reason for her anger.
A pretty little shiner adorned the skin around her left eye, the flesh scraped and bleeding a little over her cheek bone. He didn't mean to stare, yet he couldn't help himself. She was fascinating, just as addictive as anything, and he couldn't stop watching her, not even now when he knew she would notice.
"What are you staring at?" she hissed, glaring daggers at the sad looking blonde boy in front of her, his big brown doe eyes staring back at her in a way that was all his own despite his current status and a Kurt Cobain look alike.
"Sorry." he mouthed, stopping for a moment to stand before her, debating whether he should introduce himself or not. In the end, he decided that if he ever hoped to escape Constance and her nightmare of a husband, he might just need his sanity. "My name's Tate. I think I have some classes with you..."
He expected her to introduce herself with cordial disregard, but she didn't. Instead, she scoffed at him, as though that was the stupidest thing she'd ever heard. "The name's Violet. And do you honestly think I haven't seen you? You're everywhere. You're my stalker. But I guess it's nice to put a name to the face."
And with that, she walked away, leaving him more dumbfounded and more determined than ever to get to know more about this mysterious girl of his.