"Mr. and Mrs. Ray, I can assure you that Walter is going to be just fine here," the thin, wiry man across the desk - Dr. Thrasher, head of the agriculture department, as he introduced himself - sounds infinitely more patient with his parents than Walter himself would be, if he'd had to spend the last two hours explaining everything about the school and the work study program to them as if they couldn't have used the internet to look it up (like Walter had).

"Yes, well," his mother's eyes slide over to Walter briefly, and then she grabs his father's hand like a lifeline. "You do seem very well prepared, Dr. Thrasher."

"It's just that Walter didn't fare so well in school," his father continues, and Walter wants to sink into the ground and die. He knows his face is as red as his dad's ostentatious truck parked in the visitor lot. "Not since middle school. He really needs quite the firm hand, you understand, you've seen his record. Are you sure that he shouldn't be housed on campus, where there are more eyes on him?"

"And I really would have liked to meet this Roscoe boy," his mother interjects. "I'm sure there's a lot of advice we could give him about handling Walter."

They're talking about him as if he isn't even there, which isn't new, but never fails to make him feel about two inches tall and humiliated. Dr. Thrasher, on the other hand, has been very different. Polite enough to manage The Rays in all of their glory, but unlike most adults in his life, he's addressed most of the things he's said directly to Walter, and then actually listened to Walter's replies.

His keen eyes are on Walter now, actually, though he can't tell what the man is thinking. He doesn't want to know, actually. His opinion in the eyes of others rarely recovers from his parent's oh-so-lovely reviews of him.

"Mr. Ray, I assure you there is plenty of supervision for students who live on the farm. Half or more of the students who live in the farm dormitory are upperclassmen, often a higher ratio than on campus in the freshman dorms, and students who aren't responsible and hard-working rarely choose to stay on at the farm past their first semester." The man turns to Walter's mother next, and if Walter didn't know any better, he'd say that she'd finally managed to put a crack in the man's otherwise unfailingly pleasant attitude. "I have full confidence in Mr. Middleton to be exactly the Accountability Partner that Walter needs, and you are welcome to return for Family Weekend and meet him. However, we have found that it is ultimately much more beneficial for our students to have a chance to get to know each other organically, and free from the constraints and expectations of their parents, I'm sure you understand."

The man has stood up while he was speaking, making a big show of looking at the clock as he goes on, "Oh, look at the time. I'm sure you need to be on the road, don't you? Walter, say goodbye to your parents so they can be on their way, that's a good lad."

Walter takes a moment to admire the way the man so easily handles The Rays, scrambling to his feet at Dr. Thrasher's gesture to hug his mother and shake his father's hand before the professor has ushered them out his office door, all the way out of the department offices, and down the hall before they realize they've been managed.

He's still standing awkwardly when Thrasher comes back, giving a rueful shake of his head. "Now we can really get down to business, hm Mr. Ray?" he says as he goes back to his seat. "Sit back down, son."

Woodenly, reality crashing down around him hard, Walter more collapses into the chair than sits. He can feel the professor's gaze on him, heavy.

"Walter, I want you to know that you're starting here at Rosie Baughm University with a clean slate. The things your parents have told me and admissions are confidential. Your teachers and fellow students won't know anything more than you decide they need to know." That's enough to jerk Walter's head up, meeting the man's eyes, trying to decide if he's telling the truth. "From here on out, your choices will determine how people view you and how your academic career with us goes."

He takes a folder emblazoned with the University's official seal and lays it on the desk between them. "Now, I have a feeling you didn't really absorb much of what your parents and I talked about today, so I would recommend you read through this information on your own before orientation starts, but I want to hit the highlights."

Flipping it open, the first thing he pulls out is a stack of paper bound by a paperclip; he points to the title. Rosie Baughm University Behavior and Discipline Contract for Freshmen. "Now, since you are only 17, your parents signed this for you. When you turn 18, you'll sign it for yourself if you choose to stay with us; but regardless of whether you agree with it or not, you're bound by it. You should read it, but basically, it says you'll be held accountable for following all of the school's rules. Now I know this is available online, but I've taken the liberty of including a hard copy of the most recently revised Red Book."

He taps a small booklet, softbound in red cardstock. The school logo is printed on the front of it (just as mortifying as it was on the school website all the times Walter had browsed it).

"Believe it or not, you're not the first minor we've had on campus, Walter, so we have policies and procedures for it. There are specific rules for you in that booklet you'll want to familiarize yourself with, but perhaps most important, is that you're assigned a faculty member to be in loco parentis. Anything that requires an adult signature goes through your guardian until you turn 18. We find this much better for everyone, because it gives you a chance to make a clean break from your parents and settle fully in here at RBU. Because you're living at the farm, I'm inclined to give you Mr. Sparks, the farm manager, but I see here you're interested in studying art, so it could just as easily be his husband, Professor Sparks. What do you think?"

"I…I don't know that I have a preference, sir," Walter says quietly when it is clear that Thrasher is waiting for an answer. He hasn't met either of them, how would he possibly decide?

"Hm," the man drums his fingers on the desk a moment before deciding, "Let's start with Professor Sparks, then. I'm sure you'll see plenty of Mr. Sparks, living on the farm. If it doesn't suit after a couple of weeks, we can chat about changing it."

"Orientation schedule, rules specific for housing at the farm, code of conduct for student-athletes," he taps each paper as he rifles through them. "Your new student shopping list at Wear Out, and the information about your appointment for your designation test." He doesn't bother explaining anything else in the packed folder, so Walter assumes he thinks the rest of it is non-essential. The last piece of paper he slides all the way across the table so Walter can read it clearly.

"Even though your parents signed for you officially, I'm going to ask you to sign this, stating that you have read and understand all of the rules and expectations, and consequences for not meeting them," Walter can't help but notice Thrasher doesn't say 'agree to', just 'understand'. Perhaps the man has a better idea of Walter's situation than he thought. "I find that signing this, even though technically unnecessary, will help you take accountability for your behavior and actions. No, I don't want you to sign it now," he pulls it away and puts it into the folder when Walter reaches for a pen. "Take your time to make sure you really do understand first, and bring it back to me at the first orientation session."

Walter nods, slowly accepting the whole folder when it is handed over.

"Alright, chin up, my friend, it won't be as bad as you're thinking. Why don't I drive you back over to the farm, for now? Roscoe should be back by now, I'll introduce you to him and he can help you from here. Professor Sparks may be home as well."

Resting his head against the cool glass of the window as Thrasher drives him to the farm, Walter agrees it won't be as bad as he's thinking - surely it will be worse. It had been clear while the sympathetic man was talking, he thought that Walter would be free to make his own decisions when he turned 18, and that he just had to tough out a single semester if he didn't want to be here, but that just wasn't true.

It was this or no college at all. His parents had been quite clear on two things: they wouldn't pay for him to go anywhere but an Ivory League school, and he would be disowned if he didn't go to college. With no money of his own, that left him with no alternative but to agree to an Ivory League education. The choice of schools was just as limited - only three Ivory League schools had riding programs, only two would let him keep his horse at school, and only one had a competitive Western riding team instead of just English.

No, this was home sweet home for the next four years, no matter how miserable he was. He'd just have to suck it up, keep his head down, and make it work.

Putting his car into park, Roscoe Middleton stares up at the Thrasher Farm Residence Hall for Working Students, more commonly known as Thrasher Hall, and affectionately known by its residents as The Coop. He knows that if his new Accountability Partner isn't waiting inside, he and Dr. Thrasher (of Thrasher Farm Resident Hall for Working Students fame) will arrive soon. Doc Ira, as most of his students called him instead of Dr. Thrasher, had texted Roscoe to let him know when the kid's parents had finally left and it was safe for him to come home and said they'd be by soon.

Grabbing his backpack, he locks his car and trudges inside. He's still not convinced that being an AP is something he's cut out for, but for reasons he's keeping close to the vest, Doc Ira had asked him specifically to take this kid on.

Oh, he'd given plenty of 'reasons' - their shared interest in the new equestrian team, Roscoe's high scores in his top-track classes and recommendations to the AP program from his professors, the fact that he wanted to keep living in The Coop and that's where the kid was getting placed - but Roscoe had been one of Doc's 'kids' for long enough now that he knows none of those reasons were The Reason.

In the end, Roscoe was still ambivalent, but getting to bypass the Junior lottery for one of the few open beds at The Coop for unattached upperclassmen was the winning factor. He didn't think he could bear to be relegated off the farm, away from the horses, back to campus housing. He didn't think he could bear to go back to campus housing and back into the direct sphere of his parents' influence.

To Roscoe, The Coop is freedom. The Coop is three floors of heaven.

The suite is still empty of human beings when he makes it to the third floor and unlocks their door. His fellow Junior Lena and her freshmen AP haven't arrived at all, though if he remembers correctly they are due in this afternoon or early evening. This suite, and the matching two directly below it, are designed for Freshmen and Sophomores and their APs. They have four very small single rooms, two bathrooms (he and Lena have already negotiated a Girls Loo and a Boys Loo), and a living space, and they'll share a kitchen with the rest of the floor.

Across the floor, the mirrored space of the other three suites in the building has a slightly different configuration. Over there, each suite has two double bedrooms instead, and only one bathroom. Technically a little more space in the bedrooms, as long as you like the person you're rooming with.

Rounding out the options, there are the highly coveted six private rooms - two to each floor. Huge if you're by yourself, but still generous if you invite a partner to share them. Private bathrooms. Like the penthouse of dorm housing, but just as hard to get. You have to be a junior or a senior with at least two years of experience as a working student on the farm, and then you have to apply. They're almost always awarded to seniors, with the rare and extremely lucky junior snatching up whatever remains.

One of those seniors will be chosen as The Coop's RA, an announcement that has been the subject of quite a bit of gossip on the hall's group chat of returning students. In a normal year, the RA would have been chosen last May before the end of term, but Doc Ira had chosen to wait and allow the new Farm Manager to make the decision when he arrived.

Rumor has it, at least six different seniors have interviewed with the new boss man. Roscoe thinks two of them probably just interviewed for an excuse to get an early look at Noah Sparks, because their records of un-top-like mischief and naughtiness as sophomores and juniors are unlikely to get them appointed to any leadership position. Of the remaining four, he just hopes it isn't Moody. He and Keith Moody have a history, and he doesn't trust the senior not to abuse his power to make Roscoe's - and maybe even his new AP's - life miserable. Elsie or Daisy would be fine, but he's personally hoping that Sparks will choose Nathaniel.

Curious, he peeks into the kid's room after he tosses his backpack and keys into his own. It hasn't been unpacked at all, just a kind of depressing pile of cardboard moving boxes and well-used suitcases in the center of the room. He lingers for a moment before accepting that he won't learn anything about Walter Ray III from his unpacked belongings.

He flops down on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, and of course that is exactly when they arrive. Roscoe quickly scrambles to his feet as the door opens, admitting Doc Ira and lanky, brown-haired boy who must be Walter. His room key is dangling on a brand-new RBU lanyard, and his eyes are as wide as a spooked horse's.

"Hi," Roscoe says, trying to sound friendly and cheerful but afraid it ends up a bit awkward. "I'm Roscoe Middleton. Your AP for this year." He sticks his hand out.

"Walter Ray," the boy answers very quietly. Walter takes Roscoe's outstretched hand and shakes it firmly enough, though he doesn't look directly at Roscoe while he's doing it. "Nice to meet you."

Dr. Thrasher clears his throat, claps his hands together in a way that would be comical if it weren't just Doc. "Roscoe will make sure you get settled in and have everything you need for orientation on Monday," he said briskly. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

Walter shakes his head. "No, sir. I'm okay."

"Well, if that changes at all, son, you know where to find me." Doc claps a hand on Walter's shoulder and then on Roscoe's. "Roscoe, look for an email from me with some of the details."

And then he's gone, leaving the two of them standing awkwardly in the living room. Walter stares at the floor, and Roscoe rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"The rest of our suitemates should be here this afternoon, so I figured I'd spring for pizza for everyone and we could help them lug their stuff up here and everyone could take time to get unpacked and settled," he offers at last. "Tomorrow I'll take you to Wear Out to pick up your stuff since Lena's AP will need to go too, and we can make a group trip into town for anything anyone forgot. That sound okay?"

Walter shrugs, and still doesn't look at him. Roscoe wants to demand a verbal response, or at least a polite acknowledgment, but he swallows down those urges; he knows he needs to give the kid at least a little time to adjust before they jump off the deep end into negotiating dynamics. Taking a deep breath, he makes himself smile instead of snapping. "Alright, sounds like a plan. Why don't you go get a head start on your unpacking? I'm sure you'll hear the girls arrive when it happens."

A slow nod, and Walter slips past him into his room, which is fine. Less fine is the way the door slams behind him.

He used to think that people were being facetious when they claimed someone's behavior was making their "palm itch", but he could swear that is what happening to him now. He shoves them into his pockets and scowls at the freshman's closed door.

Just what has he gotten himself into?

He's made a good dent in the first few boxes when he hears the commotion out in the living room - a female voice greeting Roscoe exuberantly. Walter sinks down to the floor and leans back against a heavier box, making sure to be completely hidden from the doorway.

The polite thing to do would be to go out there and be social, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to meet them, to be polite, to socialize, because he doesn't want to be here. He was angry at the way that the older boy - his 'accountability partner' had just casually taken authority of Walter's life, but if he's being really honest, he was just as angry with himself for how rude he was.

A knock on the door reverberates through the tiny space and he hunches down a little further behind the box.

"Walter?" Roscoe pauses, but when he doesn't respond, the boy continues. "Lena's here, and she says Quinn is like 15 minutes out. Why don't you come out and let's help them with their stuff."

Walter doesn't move, and he doesn't respond.

"Walter?" series of quiet taps on the door.

"I'm busy," he says, casting an eye on his own chaotically half-set up room.

A short pause, and a whispered conversation that he can't make out; the other upperclassman must have gotten involved. When Roscoe calls through the door, his voice is firmer.

"Come talk to me, please."

Walter closes his eyes, and idly wonders when the panic attack started. His throat feels tight and his hands are already trembling. He's detached right now, but he can feel the dread at the edge of his mind, ready to swoop in.

The door opens, and there is a pause before it shuts quietly. Without opening his eyes, he can still track the intruder by the sound of footsteps across the room.

"Walter?" the rustle of clothing as someone sinks to the ground right in front of him. To his intense relief, his visitor doesn't attempt to touch him. "Oh, kid, alright. Um," Roscoe pauses. "Can you breathe with me? In for four, hold, out for four, hold, okay?"

He starts to demonstrate, breathing deeply and obviously enough that Walter can hear it even though his eyes are still closed. The first minute or so is unproductive until he has the presence of mind to gasp out, "You count?"

"Of course I can," Roscoe transitions comfortably to counting out the breaths instead; "In, two, three, four; hold, two three four. Breathe out, two, three, four. Pause, two, three, four. Breathe in, two, three…"

Walter loses track of time quickly, but it's working. He breathes with Roscoe's quiet count; the Junior's calm, unruffled voice is easy to trust, and when he stops feeling like breathing is a chore he has to concentrate on, he slits his eyes open to look over.

"Hi there," Roscoe stops counting to greet him with a little smile. "Are you back with me?"

Walter shrugs.

"Do you want me to keep counting for you?"

Walter shakes his head, pulling his knees up and burying his face in them.

Roscoe lets him be, and they've been sitting long enough for their shadows to move along the ground as the sun moves across the sky, but seems to know when he's feeling better. Almost as soon as he's feeling a little more solid, he asks, "How often do you have panic attacks?"

"Enough," he mumbles to his knees.

"Okay. When we talk about rules and consequences, we'll talk about how I can best help you with attacks, too."

He makes it sound so…not a problem. But Walter knows it's a problem. It always was for his parents, his teachers, his friends. Everyone except his riding coach, but then again, he rarely has episodes at the barn. Just the mere presence of the horses seems to keep them at bay.

"Can you tell me when and why you started to panic?"

Walter shrugs again.

"I need you to be honest with me," the older boy says slowly. "And I need you to do your best to communicate. I know that this might be new, and it might not be your first choice, but in any sort of power exchange dynamic, communication is the key to safety." Walter turns his head to look over, inspecting Roscoe's face for signs of deceit, but he finds nothing but solemn resolve. "So, I'm going to ask you again, and I need to know. If it's hard to say, we can get you a notebook or something. Do you know why you started to panic?"

Well, in this case, yeah he does know. But to tell this person who is practically a stranger? That's another story entirely. If he wasn't sitting on the ground with Walter, seemingly unhurried and without a care in the world, it would be impossible to do. "I was overwhelmed."

"Hm," Roscoe makes the sound that universally indicates some level of disbelief, and Walter fights not to flush.

"Overwhelmed. I don't want to be here. You're bossy, and I don't know you. I don't want to make friends, because I don't want to like it here," he bites out and then more vulnerably continues, "I didn't think I could be nice if I came out there, so I didn't want to."

"That's a lot," the older boy says ruefully. "I'm sorry I contributed to you being overwhelmed. I forget how overwhelming it can be here for new people. How about this: I'm still going to go make sure the ladies don't need any help, and you can stay in here and work on your space. We'll scrap dinner with everyone and get something just for the two of us, and we can talk about rules, limits, and expectations. We have to make it to Wear Out tomorrow, because you've got to have your stuff before Monday, but everything else we can play by ear."

The complete lack of judgement is…different. The Rays would have told him he needed to suck it up and go be charming and helpful. They would have scolded him about being ungrateful about the family money that was paying for his education. They would have been angry about him calling an authority figure any name, even something as benign as 'bossy'.

Roscoe just…adjusted.

Even as he nods his agreement, Walter wishes he trusted that his AP's attitude wouldn't change after the honeymoon period was over.

"Hey, Walter, you hungry yet?" Roscoe knocks on the kid's door. He'd seen Lena and her freshman, wide-eyed Quinn, off a few minutes ago. He'd successfully avoided any interrogation about what was going on with his AP from his long-time friend by the mercy of the presence of her own. Quinn was friendly, outgoing, and exhilarated to be at college. If she had any reservations about the type of college, she hadn't shown it yet.

Thankfully, unlike earlier, he gets a response to his knock. "Yeah, one second."

Listening with some bemusement to some slamming and rustling, and muffled cursing, he wonders what it is that the freshman doesn't want him to see or know. Somehow, he doesn't think Walter is going to be thrilled to learn that according to the rules - both his and the college's - the privacy to shut his door and keep Roscoe out is mostly an illusion.

The door opens, and the first thing Walter does is look around the living space, not straightening up fully until he seems to accept they're alone.

"How do you feel about Chinese?" Roscoe grabs his keys off the small table by the door that had arrived with Lena. The town around the University is almost by necessity lifestyle-friendly, but not all of them lean as hard into it as Scarlet Moons Palace. The logo and the paddles on display on the walls might be a shock to the younger boy's system, but it'll be quieter than many of the college student hangouts tonight and offer them some privacy if things get heated or dicey.

"I don't care," comes the quiet answer. Sighing, Roscoe ushers him out the down and down to his car. Which is something he suspects he'll be doing not infrequently - the rules for Freshmen regarding cars on campus isn't relaxed for the Freshmen who live in The Coop; there's a shuttle that runs on school days and it's bikeable, as long as you set up your schedule right, but it's also generally expected that APs of Freshmen living out at the farm will help some with transportation.

Walter doesn't speak again on the way, or at all until after they've been settled into a back booth and ordered sodas and food. At that point, he's out of reasons not to start the discussion. If they don't start, they'll never get anywhere.

"So I'm Roscoe. My middle name is Aaron. I'm a Junior, top-track and I never declared a major, though I've been foisted off on the ag department because I work out here and take so many of their classes. My parents both work at the university, so I've been around here since before I can remember," he starts off a little awkwardly, but then he warms up to it by the end. "Your turn."

For a moment, all he receives in return is a pout that he's sure the kid thinks is a scowl, but after looking around at the mostly empty restaurant around them, Walter seems to thaw. Slowly, he says, "My middle name is Joseph. I've been homeschooled since after sixth grade, and I'm here to study art."

Roscoe smiles warmly at him, hoping to encourage him to further openness. "So, Walter Joseph Ray III, earlier you said you don't want to be here. What's up with that?"

"My parents will only pay for me to go to an Ivory League college," he plays with the edges of his paper menu, enough that Roscoe's sure it's going to be torn to shreds by the time they leave. "I want to ride, so here I am."

"That's right, Doc Ira said you were hoping to make the team. Me too," he pauses as the waitress slides their food onto the table, murmuring his thanks and pleased when Walter does so as well. Despite their rocky start, he suspects the Freshman isn't as rude or antisocial as first impressions insinuated. "I haven't met the new coach yet, but anyone who brings us a western team is good in my books."

"She recruited me," Walter offers. "she seems nice. And she complimented Sadie, my mare, so she's good in my books too."

"Well I'll hope she has similarly good things to say about my Timber then," he vaguely remembers that detail, too, from the things Doc had told him when they'd been convincing him to take on an AP - that he was bringing a horse along to board. Another of the 'Reasons' he'd been given as to why they'd suit well to each other. "We should add riding to our weekend schedule, perhaps tomorrow afternoon."

He waits until they've both eaten a few bites. "So, I get that it wasn't your first choice, but, I don't think you're going to be happier if you make yourself miserable by not making any friends."

Walter blushes hot red from his cheeks all the way down below the collar of his shirt. "I'm sorry," he says, after a long wait. "I didn't really mean that. And I didn't really want to be such a rude jerk earlier either. I'm just…."

"Overwhelmed," Roscoe supplies, very quietly when his charge goes silent. "It'll get easier, once you get used to things. It's not that bad, I promise."

Nothing from Walter - but a nervous and uncertain nothing, not the sullen boy from earlier.

"Speaking of getting used to things…there's some things you and I need to talk about before we get much further, hm?" He takes another bite, waits until Walter follows suit. "Did you read the Red Book? Doc Ira said he'd make sure you got one."

"I haven't had a chance to read the one he gave me," Walter says quietly, "but I read a previous version online before I enrolled. And I told him I'd read it before I signed his paper."

"It should be the same, the rules don't change quickly around here," Roscoe says drily. "Well, my job is to help you adjust to life at RBU, and learn to follow those rules. But part of that is also making sure you're happy and healthy, and I take that part pretty seriously." Watching him, Roscoe notices when he stops even pretending to eat, laying down his fork and returning to destroying his menu. "So, I'm obligated to discipline you when you break school rules, but I will also enforce rules about your safety and well-being."

Walter looks furtively around the restaurant again, still bright red. "You can't just…just…say those things out loud," he hisses.

"Of course I can," he arches an eyebrow. "Location won't affect what we are to each other, Walter, nor will it affect rules and consequences. No ass is safe at RBU, kid, and if you don't want to get spanked in public, you better behave in public."

"Roscoe!"

"No hiding from it anymore, unless you're going to give up and go home." He thinks at this point, it's probably better just to rip off the bandaid; tip-toeing around The Way Things Are at RBU is just going to make the kid more anxious. "And anyway, this is a lifestyle-friendly restaurant. Or didn't you notice?" He taps the top of the menu the boy is tearing pieces off of, right on the logo: a bowl and chopsticks, with a pair of naked, spanked red butt cheeks sticking out instead of noodles and the name emblazoned boldly below. Walter's mouth drops open, indicating he had not, in fact, noticed.

"But before we get any farther, remember you can always safeword. You call red, any time, with anyone, and everything stops. If you feel unsafe, you should safeword. And for you, that includes panic attacks, alright?"

They talk a little more, mostly about horses and the classes that it turns out Walter is genuinely excited to be signed up for. Intermittently, though, Roscoe carefully steers them through more dangerous waters. Most importantly: how often Walter gets panic attacks (fairly often, but he won't commit to a solid answer), what some of the warning signs are, ways he does and doesn't like to be helped with them (he admits, to Roscoe's relief, that he doesn't mind being touched during them, and it can help to ground him); and: whether he's been spanked before (yes, both of his parents are Tops who believe in spanking for everyone, but he answered the question in a way that made the hair on Roscoe's arms stand up in warning).

Eventually, Roscoe pays the bill and takes his charge, who he thinks can barely keep his eyes open, back to The Coop. The girls are either not home yet, or already in their beds. He escorts Walter right to his bedroom door, eliciting a promise that Walter will give meeting the girls an honest try in the morning, before he collapses into his own bed.

He's still not altogether sure how he feels about being an AP, but he can admit he's intrigued by Walter, and he feels oddly protective of him already.

The apartment is quiet when Walter rolls out of bed and wanders into the living room, but there's a note on the door letting him know that Roscoe was working the morning shift and won't be long.

The school store, named 'Wear Out' by someone who probably thought they were clever, is buzzing with activity. Freshmen are everywhere with their APs or their parents or their roommates, all clutching the same printed lists of new Student needs. Walter pauses just inside the door, turning to look up at his own AP.

"Can't we just come back tomorrow?"

"It'll be even more crowded tomorrow," Lena says sympathetically on his other side, and he notices that she has a hand on Quinn's shoulder, keeping them close. "When everyone who was putting off getting their stuff or arriving last minute floods in here."

"Best to get it over with. Uniforms first?" At Quinn and Walter's shrug, and Lena's nod, Roscoe slings his arm around Walter's shoulders and guides him towards the counter, the girls trailing right behind. They have to wait in line for a minute, but finally a free student clerk steps up expectantly.

"Name and pants size?"

"Um, Walter Ray," he says, and mumbles his pants size.

"Just the standard kit?" The clerk sets a bag on the counter that matches a dozen more bags lined up on the floor behind her - presumably all of the 'standard kit' items that aren't sized, but Walter can't see what's in there, and the list had just said 'Freshmen Kit'.

"No," Roscoe interrupts from behind him as Walter is nodding 'yes'. "Go ahead and through an extra pairs of shorts in there, and he needs a couple of farm work pants too."

"What's special about the farm pants?" Quinn asks from behind them, giving confident voice to the question that was racing through Walter's head, too.

"When you work on the farm, or take classes on the farm, you're still expected to be in uniform," Lena looks up from her phone. "But it's not safe to have the seat flap just hanging there around machines and equipment and some of the animals, so they designed a set with a fully removable flap."

Of course they did. Walter can see his own horror reflected in Quinn's face.

"The material's a little thicker, too," Roscoe says like it's no big deal. "More work pants than trousers." He takes the bag that the returning clerk slides over the counter before Walter can, grabs an additional shopping basket, and looks down at the list Walter is holding. "Okay check…check…check. Most of that is going to be included in here. Alright, well, why don't you go wait in line to get your books? I've got a couple of things to grab myself, I'll meet you over there by the cardboard mascot if you finish before me."

He's gone before Walter can say anything, taking the bag with him, and obviously just assuming Walter will follow his directions.

Walter wishes that he didn't feel so inclined to follow the older boy's directions. He's always been one to march to the beat of his own drum but, inexplicably, he finds himself wanting to make Roscoe pleased with him. Ergo, he trudges his way over to the book line to wait.

A few minutes later, he has a heavy shopping basket of his own, with his textbooks and class supplies in it. Glancing over, he doesn't see Roscoe waiting by the cardboard cutout of the school mascot, so he detours to the school supply section. He needs a few notebooks…a new set of highlighters…he rounds the end into the next aisle and is greeted by an entire row of art supplies. They're crammed onto every surface and every nook and cranny, like someone was simply determined that they wouldn't take up more than a single aisle.

That's where Roscoe finds him, sometime later. He doesn't know how long it's been, because he lost track of time entirely while he was deliberating what supplies he needed right this minute, and what he could live without. He had an entire room at home dedicated to being his studio space, and only a fraction of those supplies had fit into his packed things to come to his tiny closet of a dorm room.

"I thought we were going to meet by the mascot," his AP says, sounding a little out of breath.

"You said that," Walter tells him, not looking up; he's busy, comparing the sketchbooks that are on the shelf. One is hardbound, which is what he prefers. The other is spiral-bound, but it has perforated pages; is it worth the trade-off? Does he care about the color? "I didn't agree."

"You didn't…hold on," Roscoe takes Walter by the arm, gently pulling him away from the agonizing decision of the sketchbooks and physically turning him around. “Walter, I waited ten minutes at the mascot and then it took me almost fifteen to find you over here. I've been worried something happened to you. If you needed or wanted to do something other than meet me where I asked, you should have communicated that to me, not let me believe you agreed."

Walter flinches, mainly at the intensity in Roscoe’s gaze. "You shouldn't worry about me, I can take care of myself," he tries to turn back to the merchandise display.

"No, sir," Roscoe stops him, giving him a little shake. "I know this isn't what you wanted, but you're here at RBU now, and people worrying about you is part of it." He releases Walter, and Walter immediately averts his eyes, turning back to the sketchbooks.

"I didn't pack this stuff," he says to the floor. "I need it."

His AP sighs. "Then you have to say something. You let me think you'd meet me, and then you didn't. You aren't an island anymore, kid. Nobody here can be an island. You have to communicate - with me, with your teachers, with your coaches."

Walter shrugs, gently brushing his fingers over the different spines, trying to choose one that will work well both inside and outside the studio. He doesn't react to Roscoe's comments, which doesn't seem to comfort his AP, but the Junior looks around the crowded store and seems to decide not to press the issue.

"Did you get what you need?"

No. He can't even begin to replicate his studio at home. Money isn't the issue. He doesn't have the space in his tiny dorm room, for one. And this store doesn't have half of what he's collected at home. He could buy the whole aisle and still be lacking. He's going to have to rely on professors and open studios, and that makes anxiety start to creep in, coiling in his gut. "I need a sketchbook."

"Well, there's a lot of those," Roscoe turns so they're shoulder to shoulder, eyeing the display. Unlike most people, he doesn't act like the number of choices is a good thing, which helps to slow Walter's pulse, which is threatening to take off. "What's the most important feature, for you?"

"I don't like the spiral-bound ones," he ignores those, and the pocket-sized ones, trailing his fingers over the spines of the row of different colored hardbound sketchbooks. "But none of these have perforated pages."

Roscoe hmm's and then pulls down one with a brown faux-leather cover, flipping through it. It is the one Walter was eyeing for himself - a neutral shade, but not harsh black either. "Do you want it to be perforated because you need to turn things in, or because you want to hide when things aren't perfect?"

Staring at him, Walter wonders what gives him any right to be so insightful; to peel back layers of things he refuses to think about and get right to the core of the issue. His non-answer seems to be an answer, because Roscoe puts the sketchbook in his basket.

"We'll talk about that later," the AP says, "here and now isn't the right time. But I also bet someone in the art department has the tool that makes perforated paper, if it comes to that One more thing on the list," Roscoe continues, guiding Walter out of the aisle, "and then we can get out of here. Go ride, maybe."

"I've got everything I need," he argues, going down his mental checklist. "Freshman Kit, uniform, books, school supplies."

"Did you read the list?" Roscoe asks as they round the next corner. "Your paddle doesn't get put in the kit, you have to pick one out."

Walter stops.

"Paddle?"

"Yeah," Roscoe says, and to Walter's mortification, he chuckles. "All Freshmen have to pick up a paddle as their first implement. RBU requires it." He drags Walter the last few steps, and then they are staring at a wall that is just…implement after implement, displayed right out there in the open. Roscoe's hands on his shoulders turn him to the section which is entirely paddles. "Most professors and coaches have their own implements, this one is mainly for me to use, possibly the RA or your team captain if they feel the need. Tradition says you pick it out, it's part of the process."

Walter lets his eyes roam from top to bottom, left to right. It's like some sort of horror curiosity show of paddles. Big, small; long, round; thick, thin; wood, acrylic, leather; solid and with holes. He tries to retreat, and finds himself stepped back directly into Roscoe, who puts both hands on his shoulders to keep him from going any further. Suddenly, it's all too real. He's never been paddled before, and he doesn't want to be.

"They're all the same," he mumbles. "Can't you pick?"

"They're really not," Roscoe chuckles again, and he can feel the rumble of his chest since they're so close. "I won't pick for you, but I can help. You just need something basic. I'd stay away from anything with holes, and nothing too skinny or too big. Your freshman paddle is supposed to be something used over the knee."

"I don't want to," he says, not looking at the wall. Hearing the petulance in his own tone, he swallows against his suddenly dry throat and adds, "There's too many choices."

"Okay, Wally. I hear you." Walter can't remember the last time someone called him Wally and he didn't want to hit them - he hasn't heard it at all since before his parents pulled him out of school. Back then, the kids only used it when they were bullying him. His parents have never used a nickname. Somehow, he doesn't mind Roscoe using it. "I'll narrow it down to five, but then you have to make the final decision."

He thinks he can deal with five. Standing motionless, he watches Roscoe collect several, put a couple back, and then altogether too soon he's back. He lays them out on top of a nearby shelf. They're all somewhere between the size of a man's hand and the size of a ping pong paddle. The smallest is exactly about the size of a hand, and thicker than the others, wood colored a deep matte black. The second is a little narrower and longer than the others, almost a gray-brown; the tag says 'walnut ruler paddle'. He glances back at the first, which says 'ebony hairbrush paddle'. The middle one is of middling size and a rectangular shape, and despite what Roscoe himself had said, has six holes drilled through it; the 'classic stinger - oak'. Number four is the biggest, and round - he's unsurprised to find it called 'ping pong paddle - ash'. The last is clear, about six inches long without the handle and the business end a little more than four inches wide. The tag reads 'small lexan'.

He immediately discards the ebony paddle and the stinger with its holes, simply for how menacing they are. Likewise, he doesn't even consider the ping pong lookalike; despite its innocuous name, it looks capable of inflicting serious damage. He lingers on the ruler paddle, which seems less threatening to him, but Roscoe's warning against anything 'too skinny' is fresh in his mind.

Then there's the 'lexan paddle'. Translucent, transparent even, it looks almost innocent. Plastic, like a toy, not a punishment implement. He takes it in his hands, turning it this way and that; it's light, and feels cool against his skin. Tentatively, he turns back to Roscoe, still holding it.

"That one?" If Walter was hoping to get some sort of clue from his AP, he would have been disappointed by the completely neutral tone in the other young man's voice. It seems he was serious about Walter having to make the decision. "You sure?"

Suddenly, he's not, but he had good reason not to pick any of the others, so despite the butterflies in his stomach, he nods. "It seems…light," he admits.

"Light, durable, it'll get the job done," he agrees, a hint of amusement in his voice. Walter opens his mouth to question his choice, but Roscoe has already slipped the paddle into Walter's basket. "Let's get checked out so we can go find somewhere to have lunch. Lena and Quinn are waiting outside."