Mateusz

Mateusz found Yolanda behind the arts building, exactly where she said she'd be.

She was sitting on the low brick wall that bordered the pathway, legs swinging, scrolling through her phone. When she saw him coming, she looked up and grinned.

"There you are. Thought you got lost."

"Nie." Mateusz dropped his bag at her feet and pulled out his cigarettes. "Just slow. Long day."

"Mm." Yolanda watched him light up, her expression shifting into something sharper. "You look pissed."

"I'm fine."

"You're smoking."

"I always smoke."

"Not at three-thirty on a Tuesday."

Mateusz exhaled, letting the smoke curl up into the cold air. He didn't answer right away. The nicotine hit his bloodstream and he felt his shoulders drop, just a little.

Yolanda waited. She was good at that—waiting him out. She didn't push, didn't pry. She just sat there, patient and steady, until he was ready.

Finally, Mateusz said, "Sebastian Linwood's a kurwa." [whore]

Yolanda's grin came back, sharp as a blade. "Yeah, he is. What'd he do?"

"Chemistry. Mrs. Donald asked a question. I didn't hear it right the first time, so I asked her to repeat." He took another drag, slower this time. "Sebastian made sure everyone knew I didn't understand."

"What'd he say?"

"'He's asking what the question was.'" Mateusz mimicked Sebastian's tone—helpful, patient, like he was translating for a child. "In front of the whole class. Like I'm stupid."

Yolanda's face went flat. "Fuck him."

"Yeah."

"Did Mrs. Donald say anything?"

"She just repeated the question. Moved on." Mateusz flicked ash onto the pavement. "It's fine. It's not—it's not a big deal."

"It's a dick move."

"It's Sebastian. He's always a dick."

"Doesn't make it okay."

Mateusz shrugged. He didn't disagree. But what was he supposed to do? Make a scene? Get angry in the middle of class and prove everyone right about him being too loud, too much, too foreign?

He'd learned a long time ago that the best thing to do was laugh it off. Let it slide. Don't give them the satisfaction of knowing it landed.

Even if it did.

Edmund showed up a few minutes later, Piper trailing behind him. Edmund took one look at Mateusz and said, "Oh, we're smoking. What happened?"

"Linwood happened," Yolanda said.

"Ah." Edmund leaned against the wall beside her, pulling his jacket tighter. "Say no more."

Piper frowned. "What'd he do?"

Mateusz waved her off. "Nothing. It's fine."

"He was a dick in Chemistry," Yolanda clarified. "Made a thing out of Mat asking a question."

Piper's frown deepened. "Seriously?"

"It's not a big deal," Mateusz said again, but even he could hear how unconvincing it sounded.

Edmund gave him a look—dry, knowing. "You're allowed to be pissed, you know."

"I am pissed."

"Good. You should be."

Mateusz took another drag and didn't answer. He was pissed. He was pissed at Sebastian for being a smug asshole. He was pissed at the way the room had gone quiet, the way people had laughed. He was pissed at himself for not saying something sharper, something that would've shut Sebastian down.

But mostly—and this was the part that stuck in his chest like a splinter—he was pissed at Declan.

Declan, who'd been sitting right there. Who'd heard the whole thing. Who'd answered Mrs. Donald's question perfectly, easily, like it was nothing.

Declan, who hadn't said a single fucking word.

Yolanda nudged his knee with hers. "You okay?"

Mateusz glanced at her. She was watching him carefully, her dark eyes sharp and steady.

He sighed. "Yeah. I'm fine."

"You're thinking about something."

"I'm always thinking about something."

"You're thinking about someone," she corrected, and her grin came back, sly this time. "Let me guess. Tall, Canadian, plays center?"

Mateusz groaned. "Zamknij się." [Shut up.]

"I'm right!"

"You're annoying."

"I'm right."

Edmund perked up. "Wait, are we talking about Dawson?"

"We're not talking about anyone," Mateusz said firmly.

"We're definitely talking about Dawson," Yolanda said.

Piper looked delighted. "Oh my god, are you into him?"

Mateusz stubbed out his cigarette on the brick wall and immediately lit another one. "I'm not into him."

"You're totally into him."

"I'm not—" He stopped. Sighed. "Okay. Fine. He's hot. Happy?"

"Very," Yolanda said.

"But he's also—" Mateusz gestured vaguely with his cigarette. "He's nothing. You know? He just—he sits there. He doesn't do anything."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he's—" Mateusz struggled to find the words. "He's polite. He's nice. He says the right things. But he doesn't—he doesn't say anything. Not really. He just... watches."

Yolanda tilted her head. "He was in Chemistry today, wasn't he?"

"Yeah."

"Did he say anything? When Linwood was being a dick?"

Mateusz didn't answer.

Yolanda's expression shifted. "Mat."

"He didn't say anything," Mateusz said quietly. "He just sat there."

"Fuck him too, then."

"It's not—" Mateusz stopped. Took a breath. "It's not his job to defend me."

"Maybe not. But it wouldn't kill him to say something."

"He doesn't owe me anything."

"No," Yolanda agreed. "But silence isn't neutral. You know that, right?"

Mateusz did know that. He knew it better than most people.

Silence wasn't neutral. Silence was a choice.

And Declan had chosen it.

They stayed outside for another twenty minutes, talking about nothing—homework, practice, the upcoming game against Crestwood. Piper leaned into Mateusz's side and he slung an arm around her shoulders, easy and warm. Edmund made some dry comment about the dining hall's latest crime against food, and Yolanda laughed so hard she nearly fell off the wall.

This was easy. This was good.

These were his people.

But even as he laughed with them, even as he felt the warmth of Piper against his side and the steady presence of Yolanda beside him, Mateusz couldn't stop thinking about Declan.

About the way Declan had looked at him during practice—sharp, focused, like he was trying to figure Mateusz out.

About the way Declan had sat two rows ahead of him in Chemistry, close enough that Mateusz could see the back of his neck, the way his hair curled just slightly at the edges.

And about the way Declan had said nothing.

Mateusz wasn't the kind of person who pined. He didn't do longing or wistfulness or any of that romantic bullshit. If he wanted something, he went after it. If he liked someone, he said so.

But Declan—

Declan was complicated.

Declan was the kind of guy who looked at you like he saw you, really saw you, and then turned away like it didn't matter.

And Mateusz didn't know what to do with that.

He didn't know if he wanted to kiss him or yell at him.

Maybe both.

Later, after his friends had gone to dinner and Mateusz was alone again, he stayed outside. He lit one more cigarette and leaned back against the wall, tipping his head up to look at the sky.

The air was cold and sharp, and the smoke tasted bitter on his tongue.

He thought about Declan.

He thought about the way Declan had looked at him in practice—focused, intent, like Mateusz was a problem to solve.

He thought about the way Declan had looked away.

Tchórz, [Coward,] Mateusz thought, but there was no heat in it. Just frustration. Just the dull, persistent ache of wanting something he couldn't have.

Or maybe he could have it.

Maybe Declan wanted him too.

But wanting wasn't enough if you didn't do anything about it.

Mateusz exhaled smoke into the cold air and watched it disappear.

He wasn't going to chase someone who wouldn't even speak up for him.

He wasn't going to waste his time on someone who chose silence.

But god, he wanted to.

He stubbed out the cigarette and picked up his bag.

Pierdolić, he thought. [Fuck.]

This was going to be a long season.