Disclaimer: Don't own EW. THIS IS NOT FROM LACK OF TRYING.
Author's Notes: One-sided slash between Jalil and Christopher, but this is very short. I was watching too much anime involving those high-school confessions under the sakura trees, and suddenly couldn't stop snickering when trying to imagine it with my two favorite boys (well, three, sorry David). Naturally, it's a terrible attempt and didn't turn out half as funny as I originally intended (actually, not at all), but it's a waste to sit on my hard drive. Hope someone enjoys it. :D
As always, thank you so much for any feedback. Seriously, the people who keep reading this stuff, it's so wonderful. Thank you! If you ever have a request, I'm all ears of gratitude. :)
It happens on Christopher Hitchcock's high school graduation day, standing in an abandoned classroom and watching the rain smear against the glass panes of the windows. He is alone, for now. The ceremony starts in less than an hour and his gown is still crumpled his arm, forgotten because the storm makes him moody, more melancholy than he'd originally have thought.
It feels weird to think he's leaving all of this behind.
The graffiti he marked all over the underside of the desk, about Senna Wales' rack or how David Levin was a pussy, will be washed away. Or forgotten. Or at least, it won't be his anymore. He won't be able to skip classes or goof off or elbow people into lockers if they're really ticking him off. He won't be able to drink the crappy, watery milk every lunch period. No more science classes in Greek. No more friends. No more late night parties by the lake, throwing beer cans into the bonfire and watching them explode.
Things are about to get serious now. Christopher, as a rule, doesn't do serious.
He's thinking about all this stuff, some of it meaningless, some of it touching a little deeper than he'd like, when it happens. It happens when Jalil Sherman, the valedictorian and student body present, opens the classroom door and pauses. Christopher doesn't look behind him; whoever it is, either they'll leave him the hell alone because they know Christopher's no pushover or they'll come in and annoy him, anyway. Jalil doesn't do either of these things. He just stands in the threshold, studying Christopher in a way that he could feel even if he were blind and suffering from a badly-done lobotomy.
"Raining," is what Christopher finally says. He turns around because the game is getting old; he's irritated. He's even more pissed off when he sees Jalil Sherman standing there, some scrawny black kid who hasn't gotten anything less than a perfect score since they were in kindergarten together, also someone he's never spoken more than two words to in the entirety of their school career. (Those two words were, "Move it," and Jalil has responded with the equally short, "Screw you.") Jalil isn't dressed in his gown, either, though it's probably stashed neatly in the satchel swinging loosely in his hands.
"Your powers of observation astound me," Jalil replies. He finally enters and closes the door behind him politely. Jalil does everything politely, or maybe a more apt way of saying is that he does things like it's not worth making a fuss over. It's sickening to Christopher. "It's better to rain on a day like this."
It's not like Jalil to be sentimental. Christopher smirks. "Fit the mood?"
Jalil lifts his satchel, raising an eyebrow. "Less smothering in the gowns."
He doesn't need to feel stupid, but he does. "The hell."
Jalil makes a noncommittal sound. "I was hoping to find you alone."
"Whatever you want, I don't—"
It happens on Christopher Hitchcock's high school graduation day, standing in an abandoned classroom and watching the rain smear against the glass panes of the windows. Jalil Sherman steps forward and Christopher can feel the back of his thighs hit a desk when he automatically retreats, but this is a game he's not been prepared for and Jalil is the master tactician, and Jalil kisses him just like that with the rain pitter-pattering against the walls and his fingers knotted in Christopher's gown, still held like a shield against his chest.
He's never been kissed by a guy. It's sort of like kissing a girl, but not.
"I like you," is what Jalil says after he's stepped back, looking so unruffled and unreadable that Christopher wants to kill him. "I have since sixth grade. I'm sorry to approach you so suddenly, but I have no time to waste on regrets. Excuse me."
And then he leaves.
For a long time, Christopher stays there against the desk, knuckles pressed tightly to his lips and eyes wide. He wonders why he didn't punch Sherman. He wonders who the hell does something like that and walks away without finishing it. He wonders—
The bell starts ringing; it's almost time. Signal to get in line. Rest of his life ahead of him, right. Time to get serious. Time to get… whatever. Christopher shakes it off, forgets, and moves on the only way he knows how—forward, at an angle. He could tell everyone, of course. Valedictorian, gay as Christmas. But that would be admitting to… yeah, forget it, just brush it off. Doesn't matter anymore.
Jalil doesn't look at him once during the ceremony. Christopher doesn't care in the slightest because seven years from now, it will only be a funny story, that kid in that classroom on that day.