Fluent Freshman - Part 23
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There were a few reasons that Andrew and Neil could not get past reception to go see FF or get updates on his current condition.
The first reason was that visiting hours were long over by the time they had arrived a little after midnight.
The second reason was that hospitals, in general, don’t just give out information on their patients to any random person that walks in and asks for an update on their condition. They are ESPECIALLY hesitant to give out updates on patients when the people who are asking can’t give you anything other than a first name, general description, and the reason that the patient is in the hospital.
Somehow “Completely average looking guy with the last name Smith who was stabbed in the stomach” is not enough for the receptionist to go off of.
“There are multiple people here that fit that description. I would need at least a first and last name before I could even begin to start seeing if you were someone who we even could give updates to. No, I will not continue to play your fun little game of guess the first name.” She says when Andrew opens his mouth to start listing off names alphabetically again.
So now Andrew and Neil found themselves under the watchful eye of a security guard as they sat in the back corner of the front reception area.
“I can’t believe we still don’t know what Smith’s first name is.” Neil says his face is buried in his hands as he and Andrew sit in the uncomfortable chairs trying to figure out where to go from here.
“I think she knows exactly who we want to see.” Andrew scowls towards the receptionist who, long used to the ire of the public, pays him no mind. Andrew just refused to believe that there were that many brown haired, brown eyed, average height and weight guys who had suffered a stab wound to the stomach that would have been admitted in the last two hours.
“I just hope they actually are looking after him and that no one went and forgot about him in an hallway somewhere.” Neil says hands sliding up into his hair to grip.
“That wouldn’t happen.” Andrew dismisses despite knowing that Wymack had ABSOLUTELY forgotten FF at a stadium once during the period where FF had been low presence to keep his family from bothering him.
The U-turn he had pulled had definitely been illegal when FF called and asked where the bus was when they had been on the road for five minutes. Wymack had felt terrible about it but FF had just seemed relieved that the bus had come back for him.
Wymack.
Andrew pulls out his phone and dials a familiar number. Wymack, reliable as always, picks up on the fourth ring with the sound of cursing as he got the phone up to his ear. “What.” He asks and Andrew can hear the sounds of driving and Kevin’s infamously train-like snoring in the background.
“What’s Smith first name. You know it.” Andrew demands.
“Classified.” Wymack clips back immediately.
“I need to know it so that we can get updates.” Andrew hisses.
“He isn’t interested in people knowing it and you wouldn’t be able to get updates anyways.” Wymack dismisses.
“We want to be able to head back to see him.” Neil tries.
“Visiting hours are long over Josten. You know that I’m not settling that bet that you little fuckers have floating around about this.” Wymack responds back.
Andrew grits his teeth and then forces himself to relax his jaw, “It’s not about the bet.” Andrew shuts his eyes in irritation.
That stupid bet.
The betting culture within the Palmetto State Foxes Exy team that Reynold’s had cultivated held strong even after her graduation with the remaining Foxes. The Bet had started when one of the other freshmen had mentioned that it was funny that FF went around like Cher or Madonna. The realization that none of them knew FF’s first name was one that had them placing bets on a multitude of things. Things like: “Do you wanna bet it’s a super normal boring name?”, “Do you wanna bet that it’s a weird foreign name?”, and “Is FF intentionally not giving it out to people or since he goes by his last name normally he has no idea that anything is amiss?” Had lower pools since you were betting on a spectrum. The bet with the highest pool is: “What is FF’s first name”.
Wymack had categorically refused to answer it and all other attempts to discover FF’s first name had been met with frustration. There was a solemn agreement that no one could just go and outright ask him since that would ruin all of the fun. Andrew had agreed to not ask when the team had collectively filled his freezer with ice cream cake and he was a man of his word.
The general belief (after the revelation of his major and the number of languages FF spoke) was that FF’s name was just not easy to pronounce for English speakers.
Andrew hadn’t participated but he know that the Foxes do have a running list of names they know it’s not. (Greg, Will, Smith (again), Matt, Kevin, Neil, Andrew, Aaron, Nathaniel, Jack, Beyonce (Sheena’s drunken guess), Nicholas, John, Fred, Garfield, Frank, Alfred, Augustus, Adam, etc. (Andrew had been trying to guess with the receptionist for a while))
“You’re coming here aren’t you? We can get updates when you get them.” Neil says.
“He’s in emergency surgery right now and will remain there for the next few hours most likely. There’s not going to be any updates hopefully.” Wymack says with a sigh loud enough that they can hear it over Kevin’s snoring.
“Surgery? He needs surgery?” Neil asks sounding surprised s if FF hadn’t been stabbed to the hilt into his stomach with one of Andrew’s knives. He’s about to give Neil some shit for the question before remembering that if there was any person who would think that a stab wound to the stomach wouldn’t necessitate surgery it would be Neil “I’m Fine” Josten.
“Yes Josten, he needs surgery. They have to stitch up his stomach and the surgeons are also going to be dealing with some of the ulcers that were ruptured by the knife.” Wymack explains likely coming to the same conclusion that Andrew had on Neil’s stupid question. “They were a bit worried about him bleeding out but he stabilized before the surgery.” Wymack sighs.
“I’m going the hospital since I’m Smith’s medical proxy. If anything goes wrong with the surgery I want to be there so I can make an informed decision on his care.” Wymack says and… Andrew figured there’d be surgery but to hear it and the possibility that something could go wrong, that the last thing FF had said to him had been something non-sensical about “Gracie Hart wouldn’t have gotten stabbed. I’m Cheryl at best.”as he’d started succumbing to all the blood loss. “If you could stick around long enough for me to drop Kevin off with you I would appreciate it.” Wymack says.
“What if he needs a blood transfusion?” Andrew says.
“Smith is AB-, it’s the second easiest blood type to transfuse into. Go home Andrew.” Wymack repeats.
Andrew works his jaw irritated that there didn’t seem to be a path to getting his way.
“We’ll stay here until you get here.” Andrew agrees, “But you’ll get an update before we leave.” He adds.
Wymack sighs, “Fair enough.” He says before hanging up.
It’s 45 minutes of waiting and tossing a few more name possibilities at the receptionist who seems more amused than anything at their continued attempts to guess their friend’s first name (Neil goes through the entire list of names that he’s gone by and none of them get the thumbs up).
Wymack comes through the doors with a half awake Kevin Day following his steps. “I have another favor to ask you.” Wymack says instead of any form of greeting.
“I’m not going to leave Kevin in the car overnight again. It was just that one time.” Andrew says with a roll of his eyes and honestly he’d been punished enough listening to Kevin bitch, moan, and sneeze for the following week while talking about all the supplements he was taking.
“Not that,” Wymack pauses, “I have two favors to ask you. First don’t do that. Second, would you be able to pick up Smith’s grandma from the airport tomorrow?” He asks.
Andrew blinks.
“She’s coming here?” He asks.
“I updated her on my way here. She booked a flight and will be arriving around noon tomorrow.” Wymack says and Andrew doesn’t know why he’s confused by this. FF’s grandma got him two still warm pies to cheer him up on Thanksgiving.
He’d stabbed that woman’s grandson.
“I’ll pick her up.” He agrees.
Shorter one today
NEXT
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modern clarence | an appropriate staring distance
While at the beach, you take a moment to appreciate your handsome boyfriend while he's taking a nap—and also when he's not.
1.2k, fluff + established relationship, reader is mc, series: none
NAVY BLUE STICKS OUT TO you the moment you open your eyes.
Your aching shoulder protests your decision to stay as you are, on your side, facing a still sleeping Clarence. Like this, he looks much younger—you're reminded of the time you had to force him to take a nap. Like this, he's simply the cute guy you managed to score not one but multiple dates with, just Clarence, instead of the incredibly smart and wonderful and kind Student Council President.
You glance at the circular table set between your two beach chairs, taking note of his glasses resting primly upon its surface. With him often having to juggle two different kinds of glasses, you'd offered to put them in your bag so that he could pack lighter. Or, as light as he can.
Right now, it's awkwardly squished behind you, miraculously still on the chair only because it's too big to fall out the gap under the armrest.
Filling in the blanks comes as easily to you as the smile on your face when you get to see your boyfriend, nearly the same one on your face right now—and the expression that goes with it is so endlessly fond that you find yourself with the urge to hit something.
Simply put, your boyfriend is a handsome man—the most handsome one, of all the men your keen eyes have gazed upon. And gazed, they certainly have. But even if they didn't have to pick, then they would gaze at only Clarence for the rest of their life..
You almost giggle at the thought, but think against it at the last minute.
But pressing your lips firmly into a thin line has the opposite effect on your budding smile. You imagine you look rather strange to anyone who passes by—what with your mockery of a wide smile and the silent scream building up in your throat, paired with the quiet thumping of your feet against the legrest.
If you were in a more private space, you would resort to kicking instead.
A proper squish to your still warm cheeks as you begin to sit up helps ease up the passion swirling chaotically across your body. You exhale, then allow your hands to slide off your face. One side of it bears the consequences of your actions more than the other.
With a one last longing at the sleeping Clarence, you start to dig through your bag for the only thing in your arsenal that could substitute for a sketchbook.
There are a few miscellaneous promotion emails waiting for you on the lockscreen. A message from Cael asking about dinner tomorrow too. Somewhere between them, there's a notice about the weather, with the temperature from an almost hour ago listed uselessly.
You swipe past them all and hurriedly slip into the camera app.
The hand holding your phone steadies itself against the armrest as you swing your legs over the edge of your chair. A thumb hovers over the capture button, vigilantly awaiting your command. The fingers of your other hand, meanwhile, busy themselves with zooming in on the captivating scenery.
With each pinch, the focus grows ever narrow—until all that remains is Clarence and nothing else.
At one point, you try to zoom into the mole under his eye, but it doesn't make for a very compelling photo. After a few attempts, quite a few of which involve staring at your screen for prolonged periods of time, you reluctantly give up.
Your pout is soon covered up by your phone. When its front camera presses against your upper lip, your gaze is free to wander back to the sleeping beauty beside you once more.
A healing effect, exclusive to him, takes hold of you instantaneously.
Eyes brimming with fondness narrow slightly. You slide off your beach chair, hands on your bent knees as you take a closer look. You can make out the shadows cast by his long lashes and the drool dribbling past his chin.
He's perfect.
You're content to stay there until your knees begin to ache, reminding you insistently that this isn't a very comfortable position to be in. As a compromise of some kind, you adjust your arms atop the nearby armrest.
It really would be better if you'd brought your sketchbook along—but, you think, remembering his workaholic tendencies, would he even bother to take a nap then?
You scrunch your nose up at the thought.
In that moment, Clarence seems sense to your presence. When you look back at him, you're greeted with the sight of confusion in his now opened, but still drowsy gaze. He blinks, and it earns him an amused grin from you.
"Morning," you say, though it's well into afternoon.
That seems to wake him up. His cheeks flush a warm pink, and he hurriedly wipes away the drool on his face, as though you haven't already committed the sight to your memory.
Clearing his throat, he responds in kind, careful to sit up in such a way that he avoids looking at you.
"You don't have to be so close...I can see you just fine."
You laugh, not unkindly. "What if I'm the one who's having trouble?"
For a moment, when he turns back to look at you, he looks alarmed. Then, his shoulders relax to the tune of a sigh, his groggy mind apparently having caught onto the fact that you were joking.
Without breaking eye contact, you reach for his glasses. But as with the issue of walking into a cave without a flashlight, even if you vaguely recall where your destination is, there's no guarantee you'll actually reach it.
"Give me a second," you mutter, your annoyance making your tone a bit too sharp.
You follow your words up with an apology. His glasses held are carefully by the frames as your sheepish gaze connects with his faintly amused one. Clarence reaches out, getting as far as grasping the slanted tips of the frame before the two of you reach a mutual agreement.
"Well." His cheeks return to being a rosy hue. He coughs politely. "If you would."
Cute. Biting your lip giddily, you shake his grip off. A quick once-over of your surroundings before you stand up shows that no one seems to be paying attention to you. And unless your friends and acquaintences have come to together to unlock the secrets of invisibility, no one you know seems to be present either.
Leaning over, you line his glasses up against his face, the tips of his frame brushing against his cheek. It takes only a moment to slot them into place—and you have enough experience with doing so that they don't snag against his ears.
It takes only a moment longer to give him an innocent peck on the lips.
"There," you murmur, not entirely satisfied with the kiss.
His Adam's apple bobs. Clarence adjusts his glasses with an awkward look that suggests he has some kind of solution to your dilemma. You, of course, beat him to the punch.
"Why—" Your voice cracks a little. "—don't we go find a different spot?"
He smiles, narrowed eyes watching you fondly. "I was about to suggest the same thing."
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