Chapter Text
It's the early 2000s, and Wish Middle School felt loud in every possible way. The crowded cafeteria buzzed with the chaotic hum of lunchtime chatter, trays clattering, and the faint scent of baked goods drifting from the lunch line. In the middle of it all, three boys sat at their usual table beneath the tall oak mural near the window, a small island of familiarity in the storm of unbearable noise.
Scamp leaned back on the bench, beige suit jacket wrinkling at the shoulders as he slouched. The suit was clearly tailored, clearly expensive, and clearly not something he wanted to be wearing. His tie hung slightly loose around his neck as he flicked a plastic spoon across his tray, restless and bored amidst the commotion.
“Man, I don’t get why they even make us eat meatloaf on Wednesdays,” he muttered, irritable. “It’s like the cafeteria’s trying to punish us for having taste buds. What do you guys think?”
Patch sat across from him, bright sneakers tapping excitedly against the bench. He wore a red-and-blue graphic tee layered over a long-sleeve shirt, baggy jeans, and a pair of colorful high-top sneakers that lit up faintly when he kicked his heels together.
“It’s not that bad! Plus, there’s a secret way to get extra dessert if you trade carrots with the kid at the end of the line.” He leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper, excitement sparkling in his eyes. “I tried it last week. Two chocolate puddings for one carrot!”
Bambi sat quietly across from them, his gaze fixed on the streaks of sunlight slicing through the cafeteria windows. He listened, nodded faintly at Scamp’s complaints and Patch’s chatter, but didn’t say a word. The laughter, the jokes, the endless puppy energy...all of it seemed just slightly out of reach, as if the world had shifted somewhere Bambi couldn’t follow. Food had no taste anymore.
Scamp shot him a sideways glance. “Hey, Bam! You even here, or are you still stuck in your brain again?”
Bambi’s ears twitched, but he didn’t answer.
His dark hoodie hung loosely over his frame, sleeves slightly too long, the fabric worn soft from overuse. He wore simple slacks beneath the table, neat but unremarkable. His hair was disheveled, like he hadn’t bothered to brush it properly that morning, and faint shadows pooled beneath his eyes: heavy, prominent eye bags.
He chewed on the inside of his lip, listening to music from the silver iPod resting in his lap, the scratchy voice of Chester Bennington drumming in his oversized ears, resonating deeply within him.
I've become so numb, I can't feel you there
Become so tired, so much more aware
I'm becoming this, all I want to do
Is be more like me and be less like you…
The table rattled with Patch’s giggles as he recounted some small victory from his latest video game adventure, but the words barely reached him. He stared at the streaks of sunlight cutting across the floor, zoning out. His tray sat mostly untouched. His tail hung in a permanent droop, his mouth set in a quiet frown.
Scamp glanced at him again, goading impatiently. “Hey, earth to Bambi! Hello? You here with us, or are you permanently buffering?”
Patch blinked. “Buffering?”
Scamp gestured vaguely. “Like dial-up internet. He’s loading.”
Bambi didn’t respond, just stared at them with a blank, doe-eyed look on his face. Patch shook his head, not grasping the lingo. "You're too smart for me sometimes, Scamp."
Scamp slammed his paw on the table, startling Bambi out of his stupor. “Dude! Snap out of it! You’re making me feel like I’m sitting here with a ghost or something. What gives?”
Patch, undeterred, leaned over the table and grinned. “Yeah, man! You were out all summer with your mom, right? How did that go? You gotta tell us what’s going on in that big deer brain of yours! Oh, and did you see the new Thunderbolt comic yesterday?”
Bambi’s throat tightened, his heart rate spiking at the mention of this summer. That long, grueling summer. He wanted to speak, wanted to tell them something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. He opened his mouth, then promptly closed it.
Thankfully, Patch kept talking to fill the silence. Bambi nodded faintly at something Patch said about the new Thunderbolt issue, relieved, but the words drifted past him. His chest carried that same hollow weight it had been carrying for months now.
His thoughts drifted to summer again. The hot, sweaty atmosphere. The bugs and mosquitoes. The lake. No one had ever really explained it. Just words like illness and complications. Something about ticks. Infection. It had sounded small when adults said it. Almost natural. As if things just happened for no reason.
Scamp leaned forward suddenly and tugged Bambi’s earbuds out.
The cafeteria roared back to full volume. “Dude,” Scamp said, tapping Patch on the shoulder. The dalmatian pup was too engrossed in his video game to notice his friends' emotional states.
Patch looked up. “What?”
“You’re doing that thing again.”
Patch tilted his head. “What thing?”
“The ‘I’m not emotionally available’ thing.”
“Oh.” Patch nodded, turning back to his video game.
Scamp rolled his eyes. Bambi swallowed thickly.
He wanted to explain. Wanted to say something about how every morning felt heavier than the last. About how sleep didn’t fix anything. About how the house was too quiet now.
Instead, he just said softly, “I’m fine.”
Scamp studied him for a moment. His usual sarcasm dulled slightly. He threw a paw over Bambi’s shoulder, a feeble attempt at comfort. “Fine, fine. Don’t talk. Keep brooding, that’s your style. Just don’t get too lost in there, alright? This school’s a snoozefest.”
Patch waved a paw enthusiastically. “Yeah! We respect you being emo now. And anyway, someone’s gotta help me trade carrots for pudding. You can’t sit this one out, bro.”
Scamp smirked. “Yeah. We need you operational.”
Bambi nodded, noticing Scamp's suit. He cleared his throat and dared to speak, dared to be normal. "Is there a dress code now?"
The scruffy pup adjusted his suffocating blazer with annoyance. “Nah. My dad says I have to ‘present myself properly.’ Like I’m running for office or something.” He grumbled. “He takes being a middle class loser too seriously. It’s freaking middle school!”
Patch laughed. “Ha! At least you look important!”
Scamp growled. “I look like I sell car insurance.”
Bambi forced a small smile, more reflex than feeling. He looked down at his tray and then back at his friends, letting the warmth of their chipper laughter brush at the edges of his gray thoughts.
Outside, a shaft of sunlight glanced off the cafeteria windows, catching the flecks of dust in the air, reminiscent of a meadow.
Bambi watched it and tried to convince himself that maybe…maybe everything was okay. That he’d feel the world like Patch and Scamp did...light and loud again, rather than hollow and empty.
For now, though, he stayed quiet, letting the two boys carry the conversation, their voices a tether to a world he wasn’t living in.