|Punks, Goths, and Jocks
Author: FMAvatard PM
Arthur Kirkland is sick of all the nonsense around him, especially from that tool of a quarterback. Punk/High School AU. Language, suggestive themesRated: Fiction M - English - Romance/Humor - America & England/Britain - Chapters: 22 - Words: 48,765 - Reviews: 459 - Favs: 324 - Follows: 468 - Updated: 04-18-13 - Published: 06-03-12 - id: 8181201
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
"That's bad for you, ya know."
"And why the fuck do you care?"
"I don't...I mean, what's your name?"
"Okay. Arthur, smoking is bad for you."
"...piss off! I don't need you telling me what to do!"
. . .
. . .
The stern voice brought Arthur out of his nap. The professor's voice, in the middle of class. As far as Arthur was concerned, he might as well have skipped. It had been that dream again...
Stupid...fucking...God, again? He hated that dream...
"Mr. Kirkland. Are you going to answer or aren't you?"
. . .
"Mr. Kirkland, this is Spanish."
...right. He'd slept through Arithmetic. Oh well. This country's measurements were fucking insane anyway. Arthur had learnt all he needed to in grade school.
The bell rang, an instant signal for every student in the room to gather their books and pens and leave as quickly as possible. Arthur was no different, sweeping his one pencil into his backpack and standing up, cracking his back. That had been a decent nap. Thank God for these longer classes.
"Mr. Kirkland, may I speak to you a moment?"
. . .
"Of course, Mr. Carriedo."
Arthur turned on a heel, wearing a sickly sweet smile that didn't look quite right on his pale face. He sat down in the front row, back straight, hands folded together, appearing to be an exceptional student. All he'd need was a shiny red apple to complete the ensemble.
The professor rubbed his temples, getting up to stand in front of the desk.
"Mr. Kirkland, I'm beginning to question why you even bother coming into school."
Arthur kept up the smile, gesturing his fingers outward and shrugging his shoulders.
"Better late than never."
"I'm being serious, Mr. Kirkland. I've spoken with your advisor; your grades are an absolute wreck. Do you want to repeat senior year? Don't you want to graduate with your peers?"
Arthur scoffed, leaning back as he was accustomed to.
"You're joking, right? I don't give a crap about my peers. Or this school. This place is-"
"It's exactly that kind of attitude that I'm growing quite sick of, Kirkland."
"Ooh, we've dropped the 'Mr.' Getting serious now."
The professor grit his teeth for a moment before calming down. Arthur smirked; losing it, are we now?
"...Mr. Kirkland. Until you are ready to be an active participant in this community, and stop with this rebel nonsense you've chosen to latch onto, you're unwelcome in this classroom. Do we understand each other?"
Arthur smirked harder. Well. Now it was Spanish, English, and Economics he'd been formally booted from. All he had left was Math and Science and the set would be complete. Now if he could just get that bastard Yao on a bad day, Math would be a shoe-in.
Arthur got up and left, holding back laughter at the mumbled Spanish ramblings behind him. Now, if the professor had taught them words like that, maybe he'd have paid more attention.
. . .
"Arthur? Is that you?"
A young woman's voice called through the small house the Brit had walked into. Christ, this had been a long day. The pep rally had him worn down. Why the middle of the day?
"How was school?"
The blonde poked her head out from the kitchen, wiping off a dish with a cloth. Her smile was gentle, small wrinkles creasing her eyes and lips. Suddenly the smile was gone, and her nose joined in wrinkling as she sniffed the air. With an exasperated sigh, she went to the bottom of the stairs.
"Colin! What have I told you about smoking in the house?"
She shook her head, smiling back at Arthur and ruffling his hair.
"I swear, those get stronger by the day, don't they?"
"Sure do...anyway...lotsa homework, you know how it is."
"Of course, dear."
Arthur quickly started up the stairs, avoiding anymore mentions of cigarettes.
Arthur turned, looking down to the tired woman.
"I love you, dear."
"Love you, too, Mum."
. . .
"The fuck do ya mean ya need more?"
"What part of that don't you get, dumbass?"
Arthur glared down at his older brother Colin. The college dropout was laying in bed (had he just woken up?), his rusty hair disheveled as all hell. He'd been living here for the past six months. Just when Arthur thought he'd left for good...
"Look...I ain't got no more money. Gotta wait for Mum's paycheck. Now get the fuck out."
"For what? You're not doin' shit in here. How 'bout gettin' a job instead of bummin' off Mum for every damn thing like a deadbeat?"
Colin sprang up, grabbing Arthur by the collar and shoving him to the wall.
"Say that again, ya little shit."
"I'm sayin' at least Dad sends checks."
Colin clocked his younger brother, sending the punk down to the floor with a grunt.
"Fuck you, ya little-"
"Boys? Is everything alright? I heard a bang."
"Fine, Mum, don't worry."
Arthur answered their mother calmly, a hand on his jaw. Shit. That had been harder than usual. He picked himself up, glaring daggers at Colin as he opened the door to leave.
"Never mind. Those things are disgusting, anyway. Keep 'em."
"Good. 'Cause I'm sick o' getting 'em for ya. You smell like shit."
Arthur shut the door behind him, taking this moment of solitude to truly deal with the pain throbbing in his cheek. He darted to the bathroom, wetting a cloth and placing it on his face. He'd have to fix the makeup later. In fact, might as well just wash off all of today's foundati-ah, shit, that hurt like hell.
After washing up, the punk locked himself in his room, already feeling the withdrawal symptoms from the lack of nicotine kicking in.
...might as well sleep.
. . .
"Arthur. You look more crestfallen than usual. Did the dark ones speak to you last night as well?"
"...no, Dem...they didn't."
Tuesday. Arthur was wearing even more makeup than usual, mostly to cover the bruise on his face, among other reasons. Kiku sat beside him in the grass. The trio had decided to skip English, the one class they all had had before being ushered out. Except Kiku, of course.
"Christ, I haven't had a fag since yesterday...I'm losing my fuckin' mind. Do either of you-?"
...oh. Oh! He still had one left! Arthur jumped up, sprinting to the east end of the school where the parking lot was without so much as an explanation to his friends. His lighter, that's all he needed. One more, then he'd...he'd find a way. Somehow.
Arthur must've looked frantic, rummaging through his vehicle, mumbling and cursing to himself. Finally he found it, fumbling with the switch for a moment as well as the last stick between his fingers. In one inhale, Arthur Kirkland found total peace...Jesus, what a relief.
"Again? Dude, you're asking for lung cancer."
The Brit nearly dropped the precious cigarette, whirling around at the sound of another voice.
...Jones? The fuck? Why the hell was he here?
"Like you give a shit."
His eyes ran down the quarterback's body. Long, firm-looking legs, leading to a torso that he could easily discern as 'chiseled' through the teen's thin t-shirt. Broad shoulders with muscular biceps and triceps; no doubt from all the training the team did. Worthless prats. And of course his face. Those big blue eyes and perfect white teeth and tan skin, God, it made Arthur wanna just puke.
"Maybe I do give a shit."
"Ooh, someone said a swear. Look, what are you doing here? Don't you have weights to be lifting or some shit like that?"
Alfred shrugged, unlocking the car directly next to Arthur's; a Chevrolet GMC next to beat-up old Subaru.
"Forgot my Spanish book. You should really quit that. It smells awful, and it'll kill ya."
"...and nothing. Just...ya know what, screw it. God, ya try to be nice..."
Alfred huffed and grabbed his book, locking the car and storming off. Arthur waved goodbye, wearing that same sick smile from yesterday's Spanish session.
"And it got you nowhere, didn't it?"
The Brit smirked, calming down as he examined the cigarette. His eyes flicked to the retreating quarterback, then back to his hardly smoked stick.
. . .
"...eh..shit's robbin' me blind, anyway..."
Arthur decided that perhaps nicotine patches would be a better alternative.