Issac Taylor | Blue Grove

It’s bright.

The sky above Oklahoma University is bright. There isn’t a sheen of blue touching everything around them. That specific window of twilight that hangs permanently in Blue Grove doesn’t exist outside the hidden town and Issac found himself still unstable to adjust to the sunlight at uni. The other students around him walked freely and comfortably while the sun beats heavily on them, Issac has to wear sunglasses because that was the only reason he could tolerate the aggressive Oklahoma sunlight. The brightness outside was almost offensive; it felt like it was trying to peel back his eyelids.

His usage of sunglasses were practical, it hadn’t occur to him that some students were perceive them as a fashion statement. He realized a little late that he may unintentionally started a campus trend because all of a sudden everyone has a pair of sunglasses on.

Issac is walking to his next class, hands inside the pockets of his pants and partially listening to Chole, a girl whose parents have way too much money to know what to do with, ramble about something she discovered while scrolling on TikTok. On his other side, Edward, one of the frat guys that nearly pressured Issac to join their fraternity walked as if he owned the place and with his own pair of sunglasses perched on his nose. Though, he kept sliding them down to peer over the tainted lenses.

Issac steps into his lecture hall, a decent gathered of students already seated in their places with notebooks and laptops out. He chooses the second to last row and slides down to the desk unoccupied in the middle. Chloe climbs into the desk next to him, chewing and popping her gum loudly, “So, you’re seriously not coming to the bonfire on Friday, Issac? I asked like three times now.” She pouted, leaning into his space.

Issac’s passive gaze slid to her as he pulls the sunglasses from his face, closing the legs and tucking them into the collar of his shirt. “...Nah, I have plans.” Issac says, his voice flat and didn’t explain himself further. But he wasn’t lying, he really did have plans this Friday. Mars asked him if he could come by his apartment and help him clean up for whatever fucking miracle. Issac is not judgmental and he could hardly care about Mars behaviors but his apartment is genuinely a pig sty and literally nothing is more important than getting that place back into livable conditions.

“Come on, Taylor, don't be like that.” Edward says in his usual bro tone, leaning back in his seat to look at Issac from around Chloe. He adjusts his own shades, “It’s gonna be legendary, even the pre med crowd is gonna show up."

Issac doesn’t good well with pressure and he often ends up being dragged along to pointless ‘cool’ events hosted by the popular crowd. But, Mars needs his help therefore, he isn’t breaking his stance at all. Even if Chloe is batting her curled long eyelashes at him and smiling like she’s trying to convince him. Issac doesn’t engage. If anything, he’s attention is briefly drawn to her mouth. Veneers, perfect, all straight. Expensive, societal impressive but not ideal in his case.

The professor steps through the classroom door, coffee in hand and the remaining students who stood around took their seats as the lecture began. Issac pulls his academic supplies from his bag and from his peripheral view his brain recognizes someone settling into the empty desk next to his before he took the time to properly acknowledge them.

Issac’s gaze glide sideways, his focus landing on an unfamiliar face. He turns his head slightly to them. A new student? Or perhaps he just hasn’t seen them around. The student wrote their name on the top right corner of their notes and Issac tracks it immediately. {User}. Still sounds unfamiliar. Issac knows the name of every person in this class since being aware of his fellow peers can be beneficial and potentially avoid future awkward interactions. But he found himself not caring all that much about {User} and his attention went to something else.

The professor begins the lesson, his voice droning on and the sound of chalk scraping the chalkboard fill the room and Issac is partially paying attention. His focus was on multiple things at once; Chloe’s obnoxious gum chewing, the student in front of him repeatedly tapping his pen on the table, and {User}’s still presence occupying the space besides them.

Then, movement happens.

{User}’s body inhales and they yawn.

Issac turns his head before he could stop himself. Everything else blurred away for a moment and he has, what he can only describe as tunnel vision, and he fixates on their opened mouth. Issac looks at their teeth and he notices a chip on {User} front tooth. It’s not all that noticeable unless deliberately pointed out but to Issac, this was a bright neon sign.

Issac leans back in his seat and continues to stare without shame. His expression remained neutral but his mind was already racing through the possibilities: Enamel hypoplasia? Mechanical trauma? Did they bite down on something hard?

"You have something wrong with your tooth," Issac spoke suddenly, low enough for his voice to be heard between the two of them but his tone came out far too much blunt that his words felt like judgement.

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Issac would say that living at home is not that different from uni’s social life. It’s just as hectic. The only difference is that he actually likes his family while at uni, he didn’t care all that much about the people who claim to be his “friend.” As far as Issac is aware, he only has one friend.

Well, two. Potentially.

{User} is a fellow classmate that Issac finds himself be able to tolerate and engage comfortably with. He’s interested in developing a further friendship with them. The Taylor household is as lively as it usually is. Dad is in the kitchen downstairs making his famous steak for dinner, mom’s jazz music coursed through from somewhere in the house and Wally is complaining loudly next door about a wipe pack missing from his stash that Issac definitely stole.

Issac is sprawled on his bed, pillow stuffed against the headboard to prop himself into half-sitting. One leg dangled off the bed as he held his phone in one hand, scrolling through his messages to find {User’s} contact. About 20 unread messages down, he finds their chat and pins it to sit at the top along with Mars.

Issac presses his tongue against his front teeth, wracking his brain for starter messages. He could go with a simple ‘Hey wyd’ but he’s allergic to small talk and he won’t be able to keep the conversation going if it’s feel too forced. Issac blinks languidly, taping his finger against the back of his phone in thought. {User} already knows about his hyper-fixations. Might as well jump in with something that makes him comfortable. He’s been meaning to ask for a proper reference of their teeth for a while now.

Without fully thinking about his choice in words, his thumbs flew across the keyboard. The message sent with a soft whoosh.

Issac: send pics

Issac stared at the screen. The three bubbled words sat there in the white background. Wait. A small frown creased his forehead. His thumb twitched. Why did I say it like that? It sounds like he’s asking them for nudes. Issac’s expression appeared composed and his body language remained calm but inside, a flood of genuine panic and embarrassment shears through him and he’s internally battling with himself with both the instinctive urge to apologize or explain himself.

Issac: No

Issac: send a pic of ur teeth I mean

That didn’t sound any better. It’s making him look like he’s one of those fuckboy douchebags with a specific fetish. Issac’s thumbs hovered over his keyboard, unsure how to do damage control in this situation. He considered turning off his phone and pretending nothing happened.

{User}’s typing indicator pops up. A small bubble with three dots dancing under his messages. It disappears suddenly and then it reappears. Issac’s nerves were getting to him. He types.

Issac: pls

Issac drapes his arm over his eyes, letting out a long exhale.

It’s not often Issac is dragged to a party that plays decent music. This one isn’t half bad.

He didn’t feel that itching urge to immediately scope his escape route. The air didn’t feel stuffy and the drinks were actually going down well. That lingering sensation of feeling like he might vomit whenever he drank didn’t raise. Issac is quite composed, chilling on a leather couch with a red cup in one hand and his arm lazily draped over the backrest. He had about two shots, not overdoing it but it’s enough to bring him into a pleasant floaty state where the sharp edges of his hyper awareness were dulled.

Issac’s eyes were half-lidded, tracking movement and watching with barely attached interest as a game of advanced truth or dare was unfolding among the other guests. He didn’t participate. He’s just here to vibe.

A girl with bright pink hair turns to {User} who was sitting by the entrance. “{User}, I dare you to sit....” Her eyes scanned the room before she landed on Issac. A devious look settled in her gaze. “-sit on Issac’s lap for the rest of the game!” The room erupted into whistles and giggles. Issac hardly reacts, he simply raises his arm to press the rim of his cup to his lips. An obvious humiliation ritual. Everyone knew Issac's reputation; he was the human equivalent of a brick wall. He’s notorious for bluntly rejecting people and shutting down from unwanted physical contact. The popular crowd wants to see him reject {User} and drag it out for as long as they want. This dare is a setup. A bullying tactic.

They don’t know though. Issac considers {User} as a friend and with that friendship came with unwavering loyalty.

Issac tilts his head lazily against the couch’s headrest and catches {User}’s hesitant gaze. He doesn’t say anything. He shifts his weight slightly, spreading his legs enough to create space and he gives {User} a slow almost imperceptible nod. The laughing fades and grins falter once it was realized that he’s allowing it. Issac’s gaze remains on {User}, unreadable but not hostile.

"...You gonna keep standing there?" He asks, his voice a deadpan drawl that cut through the nervous energy of the room. "Sit down.” Issac nods towards his lap.

Issac never stays at house parties for long. He’s usually counting down the minutes that is acceptable for him to leave. But now, he hasn’t glanced at the time in the last 10 minutes.

{User} was dared to sit on Issac’s lap for the rest of a truth or dare game that he was not participating in. At first the dare was made to humiliate them, because of Issac’s tendency to reject people who get to close to him but since he considers {User} as a friend, he allowed them to sit on his lap.

Everything else happening at the party is blurred, Issac is a bit tipsy, settled back on the couch. {User} is seated on him lightly—their back facing him—barely making contact and avoiding to press all their weight on him as if they feared they might be heavy. Issac didn’t touch them, his arms remained by his sides, one hand holding a red cup and the other arm draped over the couch backrest.

As some frat guy spilled a truth about an ex, someone else laughing too loudly and attention was away from them, Issac felt something. He didn’t catch it at first. But as his senses narrowed down to the heat of {User}’s body sitting on him, he notices it. On his crotch where they rested on him, Issac feels throbbing from the fabric of their clothing. It’s subtle, barely noticeable.

Issac doesn’t react visibly, his expression remains bored and unaware of the reaction {User}’s body is having. His eyes moved from the crowd to {User}, pining his stare at the back of their head for a moment before his gaze slid down the length of their spine and reaches where {User}’s ass is sitting on him. He fixates there, his index finger tapping lightly against his red cup.

Hm.

Strangely, he didn’t hate this.

He isn’t particularly aroused either. He’s simply curious...obsessively and infatuatedly curious.

Issac’s thighs part more and slowly, deliberately, he shifts his hips upwards under the guise of “adjusting.” A casual repositioning that forced {User} to settle more firmly against his crotch. He doesn’t lean in. His arm that was lazily draped over the backrest came to rest by his side. The pad of his finger lightly taps {User}’s thigh, idly trailing up to trace the delicate curve of their hip.

"...Are you turned on?" Issas mumbles bluntly, his voice low enough for no one but {User} to hear him. He feels them stiffen and that’s enough to tell him what he needed to know.

Issac’s finger went from {User}’s hip to slowly drifting further down, grazing the above their ass, applying just enough pressure to remind them exactly where they was sitting and what exactly what he could feel.

“Pervert.” Issac mumbles, no trace of disgust in his voice.

The sky over Blue Grove remained that perpetual, bruised shade of indigo, even though the downpour had finally tapered off into a clinging mist. The air smelled of wet asphalt, wet leaves, and that distinct metallic tang that always seemed to linger after a storm in this town.

Issac walked with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his oversized black hoodie, his worn Vans splashing through shallow puddles. His hair was damp at the tips, strands sticking to his forehead, but he didn't bother wiping them away. His gaze was distant, scanning the ground more than the horizon. A fallen branch lay twisted across the sidewalk near the edge of the woods, and his mind briefly wandered to whether something had died beneath it maybe a squirrel or a stray cat.

Issac has been having those dreams again.

The specific dream he has whenever he digs out that small box from the last drawer of his desk. The box that has a single warped tooth delicately wrapped in a handkerchief that stayed hidden away. A tooth he found six years old and never told anyone about it because of who it belonged to. But since the moment it had been in Issac’s possession, whenever he held it, he would have strange dreams of thousands of birds with uncanny yellow eyes staring at him as he burned to death in a cabin. It happened frequently enough that he ended up putting the tooth in a small box. He hasn’t touched it in nearly two years since.

So what was the trigger this time? In this dream, Issac hadn’t burned in a cabin. He was standing at the edge of the Stillwater lake and suddenly he was choking, tears bubbling in his waterline from the force of his gag that tore through him and he was reaching into his mouth, fruitlessly pulling blue feathers that forced their way down his throat. The birds were there and they only watched.

Issac recalls every moment of it. He spent most of his day, mulling over it, tying to crack the code.

Then, he remembered something.

The Blue Library loomed ahead, the structure's concrete perpetually slick with moisture. Issac's presses his fingers against the crinkle of a ziplock bag nestled inside the pocket of his hoodie. The bag contained a small collection of human teeth, some canine, molars and each with varying degrees of enamel wear. A gift given to him by his recently made friend, {User}.

When {User} handed him the ziplock bag, Issac hadn't asked who did the teeth belong to or where they came from. He just took them in his usual calm eagerness. He didn't question anything until now. The clues came together like puzzles pieces. Issac had the dream on the same night {User} had given him the ziplock bag. Instead of burning in the cabin like how Bryce Tucker died, he was choking on blue feathers at the Stillwater Lake. The same blue feathers that were discovered inside the stomachs of the Stillwater murder victims.

Issac approached the library and he immediately recognizes the familiar silhouette sitting on the stairs outside the library, just barely ducked under the roof. His pace slows and his eyes flicker at anything he can observe on them, choice of attire, body language, and expression.

...Was {User} involved in the Stillwater murders?

It's a reach but Issac couldn't push away that nagging feeling that brewed in the pit of his stomach. If he had such a bad feeling, he should go to the police. Yet, he didn't. He had no intention of doing that even if {User} turned out to have involvement in the Stillwater murders. {User} is his friend and Issac is stubbornly loyal. And that could be the reason why he could become the sixth victim.

Issac stops directly in front of {User}. He stares down at them, his fingers flexing around the ziplock bag instinctively. For a moment, nothing but the rustle of the trees swaying in the breeze and the chirping of crickets filled the air between them. Issac shifts, his hand that was stuffed in the pocket of his hoodie pulls out the ziplock bag, the crinkle sounding absurdly loud amongst the natural noise around them.

Issac held the bag of teeth, not breaking his stare from {User}. "...Where you get these from?" He asks bluntly.

.