How A Punk Was Not Expelled [fanfic]
Jun. 17th, 2014 11:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
morriganfearnTitle: How a Punk Was Not Expelled, and the Student Council Vice President Was (Probably) Brought Around to Anotherway of Thinking
Author: MorriganFearn
Rating: M
Characters: Summoner, Dualscar, Darkleer, Mindfang, Grand Highblood, Condesce
Genre: Black Rom, Comedy
Pairings: Summoner ♠ Grand Highblood
Summary: Going to school in a snotzy place that is supposed to prepare you for life is hard. So is the fact you kind of want to do terrible violent things that you would normally never do, but Upperclassman Makara irritates you that much.
Warnings: Blood, humans trying to make sense of troll quadrants, high school AU,
Prompt: Highschool AU where the Summoner is the rebel punk social activist of the school and the Grand Highblood's a religious fanatic of the scary kind
Deviance report
School: Alternia Prep
Principal: Gl'bgolyb, EttHT, TRC, SotVG
Reporting officer: Hallmonitor Ampora, C.
Supervising Teacher's comments: This is all rather inconsequential - Hussie, A.
Also, Student Ampora has been calling himself Dualscar again, if the bathroom graffiti is to be believed. Not that bathroom graffiti is an appropriate source of news. Excuse me. - Student Council Secretary Zahhak, H.
Let the record reflect Dorkleer is being a hypocrite. Also, pirates still rule, and hurry this up, you're late to our tabletop meet up.
MS SERKET STOP TYPING OVER MY SHOULDER
OH NO. LOOK THE SHIFT IS BROKEN NOW. PLEASE, I APOLOGIZE TO ANYONE READING THIS. WHERE IS THE CORRECTION FLUID?
Due to a broken typewriter, the Student Council Treasurer has taken over further writing duties, and is planning to attach the hall monitor's report without (too much) comment.
Report:
On day two of the new term, sophomore Nitram R. spray painted the lavatory with offensive gang related symbols, particularly the one from the incidents last term that the underclassmen are calling the "Summoner's Sign." When I politely warned him of the consequences, he attacked me.
You stare from the note you found in your locker, directing you to this particular bathroom, to the still wet and dripping walls, sinks and urinals. You don't dare to turn around because you're pretty sure that the stalls are also blazing your cool ass activist name, and even more of your plans and petitions for changes to the student council. It even looks like the doodles you make of graffiti art in your notebooks. The ones a certain upperclassman dumped in the trash yesterday when he found out that you had not done your righteous duty and dropped out during the summer holiday.
There is a sticky note on the mirror. You examine it.
The vile trash from where all the greatest ideas flow like honey through the heretic's mind. - Isiah
You tear the sticky note off and dump it where it belongs. Then you notice the sheer number of spray paint cans in the garbage. They all have 'Nitram' written on them in a very passable imitation of your handwriting. You would think you're going mad, but that sticky note taunts you.
"What the watery Hell?!"
And you turn around to see a hall monitor with amazed eyes and a shadow looming just behind him. God. Fucking. Damnit.
This is not the way you wanted to begin your second term.
Secretary's note: Just so we're clear, despite Ampora's ludicrous claims, no one had to go to the nurse's office, and there is no evidence that Nitram hurled a trashcan at his head. Vice President Creepo can attest to that.
Language, Ms. Serket. You should respect Vice President M [squiggling smudge of ink]
Let the record reflect that a scuffle involving the Student Council Treasurer, her favorite cerulean gelpen, and the Student Council Secretary ensued.
Report:
On the first week of the term Nitram, R. attempted to make posters to promote formation of a new club. This illicit operation resulted in a broken copier machine.
You kind of wish you hadn't kicked over the trash can in a fit of rage. The look the Hallmonitor had given you when one of the black spraypaint cans dislodged its last sad burst of color on his shoes promised another enemy. Though probably not as ... resourceful as the Bible misquoting creepo. Honestly, you're sort of impressed by the bathroom stunt in a cynical way. Someone had way too much time on his hands, though.
Still, another enemy in the ranks of hallmonitor kind and the Vice President of the Student council mean that your chances of forming the Activist Club (yeah, yeah, you'll think of a better name later. It's not like your lame-o, maybe, not quite, I'm-sure-we're-just-friends, RPG enthusiast not-girlfriend had a better name for her little tabletop club last year, and she'd been presiding over that for three terms already).
When you trudge into the copier room, ready to make posters, he's there already, leaning against the machine with a book in his hands. You don't need to examine the book because there are only so many books the freak reads.
You could wait five minutes for whatever that light gliding back and forth through the crack between the copier table and lid is doing, but you're still pissed about the bathroom thing, and want him to know that the meek, nervous guy from last year is basically gone, thanks to his pushing.
"Yo, Makara, isn't it a little, well, not to get your greasepaint in a mixed up color splooge, but heretical to be a juggalo? I mean, your family is all, like, ultra Eastern orthodox, as I had understood."
Makara looks up, and you're never, ever, ever, going to figure out how he got voted into office. One look at the cakey greasepaint and the almighty bed head has you wanting to introduce his face to a bar of soap, the hard yellow stuff that takes no prisoners. No one in their right mind would want to vote for him.
You remember the creepy moment in the bathroom when you wondered if maybe you had totally vandalized the place, and just forgotten or something. Maybe that's how he won. He made the school think they had already voted for him or just forget how the election really went down.
"Don't you go questioning my faithful validity, you motherfucking shit," he murmurs, glaring. Okay, so you know he's on his quiet setting right now. It will probably amp up into the loud crashing breaker of well timed anger at any moment, but this is Makara and you know he's more into the performance of the anger for the biggest most important audience, and right now just doesn't feel dramatic enough. "Now, has the sick little scholarship boy gotten his notice for being a vandalous thorn in the side of the good old institution yet?"
"Eh, Serket says that things got tied up, a little, as it were, in the, uh, committee process, she says."
You kind of smile. You know you shouldn't. He is the Vice President, and even if he doesn't actually attend Student Council meetings--one of your points in your declaration for desposition of the higher members--he could probably hurry that process along. Still, it's nice to remind him you've got some friends in high places. Some of which were, until the anti-Summoner campaign started raging down Makara Road full throttle, pretty good friends of his. "Pyrope told me that if you ever want her back as treasurer, by the way, you gotta uh, beat all of her sickest scores, and um, apologize, to me. For last year. And it's got to be a good enough apology that I accept it, which I think you'll agree, is a very good apology."
It's kind of fun, reminding him how close you are to the Pyropes--though it's mostly Ma Pyrope. L-Girl mostly likes you, but you're pretty sure she enjoyed being his powerful right hand Treasurer more. Still, it's an unexploded mine field between them, after the student council elections last year. Maybe even going back earlier. You only know about what he did to Vantas in his sophomore year because of Pyrope, after all.
Something trembles. It might just be a flicker in his eyes, or he might actually, lanky frame and hair and all, have flinched. His holy book, the hard spine first, slams into the copier like a club. He dashes forward, shoulder first, but you know that move from earlier, and you spin away, straight into an office supply cart. The teachers are gonna revoke all your free movement privileges, but it's a rush, you think, ever so guiltily, to fight him in a way you know how to fight, rather than this shadow war with frame jobs and manipulations.
He's more nimble than he was before the summer. Last year he would have crashed into the filing cabinet, and been down for the bruised count. Now he just fetches up against it with a whud, and uses the tall edge to pull himself upright, glaring. You mimic his expression, or he's mirroring yours, it's impossible to tell, from the middle of a cascade of pens and paperclips. Something crackles between you, and you wish you could see blood dripping from his nose to mar the white paint above his lips with dull red. You'd lick it off, and--
As the horrible fantasy grips you, you realize you're probably a lot more messed up than even this grotesque rich kid would give you credit for. You wish you could say it was only the result of endless bullying, but there'd be something satisfying about making him bleed and then--
"What are you doin'? This time?!" the Hall monitor from before stares into the supply room, and you realize you're the only one visible from the doorway, and the copier has been making really distressed sounds since Makara hit it.
From his hidden corner, large eyes surrounded in mascara brighten in delight, and Makara raises a theatrical finger to cruelly curving lips.
Let the record reflect that the only thing in the copier at the time the copier broke was Aradia or Gospel of the Witches, which had been checked out of the library by Makara, K. for use in his American Folklore elective, and as far as the librarians can ascertain, was only handled by Makara, K. An expert on the matter suggests that it was the nature of the text that made the copier start printing Lovecraftian gibberish. The Treasurer would also like to suggest that our expert is boooooooogus, and smokes too much. Either way, there is no proof that Nitram, R. had anything to do with the incident.
Report:
To conclude my report on this delinquent behavior: yesterday, Nitram R stuffed a hallmonitor into the props chest behind the stage, and proceeded to [blackout] with [blackout].
Note from the head of the student council:
No one is motherfucking interested in your poorly spun tales, Ampora. They stopped bringing on the mirth last Saturday when you used up my valuable bible study time on a regular novella of salacious rumors too dull to even interest Serket as an insomnia cure.
Yo, clownfish, since when were you head of the student council? I mean, who bought the freshwater pearl farm and made you king of the sea?
Would you prefer to lay the righteous stripping of rank on Ampora's head with your own inspired verbal venom?
Pfft. Cod no. Too damn bored by the whole thing. Just makin shore we all know where me an you stand in relative position.
Fellow council members this kind of bickering on a report for the principal is unseemly. Also, we should try to adhere to blue or black ink if at all possible. Though I am loathe to order my superiors in these matters, of course, but the rules [a smeared bit of ink indicates there might have been an errant squiggle of paper being jerked from under a pen, before some liquid was spilled across the page.]
C'mon Seahorsey, it's not like Ma doesn't have bigger fish to fry. So, what's the scoop? Scholarship buoy gonna get his ass handed to him or what?
Something of the motherfucking sort.
From what I have been able to make out in the blacked out sections, it was not Nitram who had his bottocks handed to him. Um. Oh dear. Other rumps were, ah, handed around. Mr. Ampora's descriptions are... steamy.
...
why did i just write that on the report?
Oh, continue, farseeing motherfucker? What exactly is all out there in the black, then?
I wish to be e%cused from this discussion entirely. I deeply apologize, Vice President Makara. Good bye.
You're just a guy trying to get a rally going at the school, and you needed one of the canvas sheets the drama club uses as a prop. It's just the right size, and you've been banned from posterboard for a six month period. It's not as though you meant to interrupt Makara while he's doing a dramatic reading of Revelation to his vast audience of no one.
He breaks his stride when the door clangs shut behind you. You have some options. You could slouch down the aisle, hands deep in your tattered pockets, letting your denim and plaid speak for exactly how uninterested you are. You could strut, letting the auditorium lights pick up the earrings you've begun to wear in defiance of a dress code that allows a thug to wear clown make up, but no more than one color aside from black and white, and jewelry is only allowed on students depending on the size of their 401Ks.
Instead you take a deep breath, plan the most annoying thing that you can possibly think of, and smile broadly while waving. "No need, if that is, the reason for your awkward pause, to stop your recitation on my account. There are only so many hours of pontification left, after all, so you're shutting up for once would be a tragedy coated relief."
Makara makes a rude gesture, and sits on the edge of the stage, his long legs swinging idly.
"What's a motherfucker come in to my very domain for, anyhow?"
"Getting some canvas from the set design folks," you shrug, as though it is no concern of anyone's. Serket said it wasn't stealing, really, when you thought about it.
Makara, however, is a possessive jerkwad. He crooks his finger. "Come here, lil' Summoner. I got some pious truth on to tell you about a certain commandment."
You imitate his earlier rude gesture, and walk toward the back of the stage. You hear his feet land on the stage in a thud, and remembering his position, imagine the jump. Then the footsteps overtake yours, a long legged stride stiff with territorial fury. You glance toward him, and grab the hand coming for your shoulder, twisting away and bringing it right around up behind his back. He's off balance in that second, and you shove him into the stage curtains.
For every kid he's ever bullied into thinking they had done something wrong, that they weren't good enough, that they didn't deserve to be at school, and didn't deserve to have people care for them, you want to make his painted face kiss the floor. You know, when he wants to be, he can be funny, and kinda interesting in his weird way. The fact that he uses that to make other sycophants go after his targets makes you want to shake and backhand him into being a better person. You don't even want to get into another fight, or into trouble one more time, but everything about Makara tingles against your skin like the rubble of an earthquake.
He regains his footing as you advance, and when you're this angry, it's hard to see the expression behind the smiling skull he wants everyone to see so badly he blacked out the rest of his brown skin and highlighted it in white. That doesn't matter. The way he grabs your hair says volumes about what sins he wants to commit. You fall with him against a costume chest, and even if you don't get your wish about the bloody nose, you do get the acrid taste of his greasepaint all over your tongue.
You miss the end of study hall. You miss a lot of things. You didn't think your first time at school would be with this guy, drowning in the dust of an unloved auditorium. You also thought it would be more, well, romantic. Not shoving his face against the floor as you bit his shoulder blades, and he thrashed into your grip, calling out holy and unholy mysteries, taunting you to go further, and promising to rip off your own shoulder blades and arms if you didn't motherfucking stop kissing him right there. One thing you're a pro at now, is ignoring Makara orders, whether whispered in rich menace, or shouted for all to hear.
You both end up tangled in an extra curtain and a little dazed. How did you get from trying to make a banner about the mandatory locker searches for contraband, and how they were a bad thing, to hot and sweaty, missing vest and t-shirt and--
"My ever loving god, what did I do in my past life to keep findin you in these situations, sophomore?!"
You look up. The hallmonitor is perched in the shadows near the costume chest you nearly used as a support for your shenanigans. His eyes are round as saucers, and his face is blushing so hard, it looks as though it's turned purple.
"Ampora," on his back, his hair a worse mess than usual, and still breathing quite hard, Makara tilts his head to get a full upsidedown gander of his fellow senior, "what the motherfuck have I told you about using this place for hot and sloppy makeouts with your own motherfucking digital appendages?"
If anything the blossoming skin of the hallmonitor's face manages to find a new hue: violet. "Like you're one to talk. Theaters' not exactly a holy space if you're bein rabbited just behind the scenes."
"Every bit of sacred needs some profane. But if you are still into hanging around before the clock has moved past five more seconds, you can clean up all this motherfucking paint we got grinding into the woodwork."
Ampora leaves, looking over his shoulder once too often for your comfort. You just want to lie where you have fallen, but that would mean cuddling up to Makara, and you two are never going to do cuddles. No one would ever do cuddle piles with that sack of lies.
Report:
It is the recommendation of Hallmonitor Ampora, C. that delinquent Nitram, R. be expelled.
Psychological Evaluation: A little strife never hurt anyone important. - Doc S.
Principal's decision: Petition rejected.
Author: MorriganFearn
Rating: M
Characters: Summoner, Dualscar, Darkleer, Mindfang, Grand Highblood, Condesce
Genre: Black Rom, Comedy
Pairings: Summoner ♠ Grand Highblood
Summary: Going to school in a snotzy place that is supposed to prepare you for life is hard. So is the fact you kind of want to do terrible violent things that you would normally never do, but Upperclassman Makara irritates you that much.
Warnings: Blood, humans trying to make sense of troll quadrants, high school AU,
Prompt: Highschool AU where the Summoner is the rebel punk social activist of the school and the Grand Highblood's a religious fanatic of the scary kind
Deviance report
School: Alternia Prep
Principal: Gl'bgolyb, EttHT, TRC, SotVG
Reporting officer: Hallmonitor Ampora, C.
Supervising Teacher's comments: This is all rather inconsequential - Hussie, A.
Also, Student Ampora has been calling himself Dualscar again, if the bathroom graffiti is to be believed. Not that bathroom graffiti is an appropriate source of news. Excuse me. - Student Council Secretary Zahhak, H.
Let the record reflect Dorkleer is being a hypocrite. Also, pirates still rule, and hurry this up, you're late to our tabletop meet up.
MS SERKET STOP TYPING OVER MY SHOULDER
OH NO. LOOK THE SHIFT IS BROKEN NOW. PLEASE, I APOLOGIZE TO ANYONE READING THIS. WHERE IS THE CORRECTION FLUID?
Due to a broken typewriter, the Student Council Treasurer has taken over further writing duties, and is planning to attach the hall monitor's report without (too much) comment.
Report:
On day two of the new term, sophomore Nitram R. spray painted the lavatory with offensive gang related symbols, particularly the one from the incidents last term that the underclassmen are calling the "Summoner's Sign." When I politely warned him of the consequences, he attacked me.
You stare from the note you found in your locker, directing you to this particular bathroom, to the still wet and dripping walls, sinks and urinals. You don't dare to turn around because you're pretty sure that the stalls are also blazing your cool ass activist name, and even more of your plans and petitions for changes to the student council. It even looks like the doodles you make of graffiti art in your notebooks. The ones a certain upperclassman dumped in the trash yesterday when he found out that you had not done your righteous duty and dropped out during the summer holiday.
There is a sticky note on the mirror. You examine it.
The vile trash from where all the greatest ideas flow like honey through the heretic's mind. - Isiah
You tear the sticky note off and dump it where it belongs. Then you notice the sheer number of spray paint cans in the garbage. They all have 'Nitram' written on them in a very passable imitation of your handwriting. You would think you're going mad, but that sticky note taunts you.
"What the watery Hell?!"
And you turn around to see a hall monitor with amazed eyes and a shadow looming just behind him. God. Fucking. Damnit.
This is not the way you wanted to begin your second term.
Secretary's note: Just so we're clear, despite Ampora's ludicrous claims, no one had to go to the nurse's office, and there is no evidence that Nitram hurled a trashcan at his head. Vice President Creepo can attest to that.
Language, Ms. Serket. You should respect Vice President M [squiggling smudge of ink]
Let the record reflect that a scuffle involving the Student Council Treasurer, her favorite cerulean gelpen, and the Student Council Secretary ensued.
Report:
On the first week of the term Nitram, R. attempted to make posters to promote formation of a new club. This illicit operation resulted in a broken copier machine.
You kind of wish you hadn't kicked over the trash can in a fit of rage. The look the Hallmonitor had given you when one of the black spraypaint cans dislodged its last sad burst of color on his shoes promised another enemy. Though probably not as ... resourceful as the Bible misquoting creepo. Honestly, you're sort of impressed by the bathroom stunt in a cynical way. Someone had way too much time on his hands, though.
Still, another enemy in the ranks of hallmonitor kind and the Vice President of the Student council mean that your chances of forming the Activist Club (yeah, yeah, you'll think of a better name later. It's not like your lame-o, maybe, not quite, I'm-sure-we're-just-friends, RPG enthusiast not-girlfriend had a better name for her little tabletop club last year, and she'd been presiding over that for three terms already).
When you trudge into the copier room, ready to make posters, he's there already, leaning against the machine with a book in his hands. You don't need to examine the book because there are only so many books the freak reads.
You could wait five minutes for whatever that light gliding back and forth through the crack between the copier table and lid is doing, but you're still pissed about the bathroom thing, and want him to know that the meek, nervous guy from last year is basically gone, thanks to his pushing.
"Yo, Makara, isn't it a little, well, not to get your greasepaint in a mixed up color splooge, but heretical to be a juggalo? I mean, your family is all, like, ultra Eastern orthodox, as I had understood."
Makara looks up, and you're never, ever, ever, going to figure out how he got voted into office. One look at the cakey greasepaint and the almighty bed head has you wanting to introduce his face to a bar of soap, the hard yellow stuff that takes no prisoners. No one in their right mind would want to vote for him.
You remember the creepy moment in the bathroom when you wondered if maybe you had totally vandalized the place, and just forgotten or something. Maybe that's how he won. He made the school think they had already voted for him or just forget how the election really went down.
"Don't you go questioning my faithful validity, you motherfucking shit," he murmurs, glaring. Okay, so you know he's on his quiet setting right now. It will probably amp up into the loud crashing breaker of well timed anger at any moment, but this is Makara and you know he's more into the performance of the anger for the biggest most important audience, and right now just doesn't feel dramatic enough. "Now, has the sick little scholarship boy gotten his notice for being a vandalous thorn in the side of the good old institution yet?"
"Eh, Serket says that things got tied up, a little, as it were, in the, uh, committee process, she says."
You kind of smile. You know you shouldn't. He is the Vice President, and even if he doesn't actually attend Student Council meetings--one of your points in your declaration for desposition of the higher members--he could probably hurry that process along. Still, it's nice to remind him you've got some friends in high places. Some of which were, until the anti-Summoner campaign started raging down Makara Road full throttle, pretty good friends of his. "Pyrope told me that if you ever want her back as treasurer, by the way, you gotta uh, beat all of her sickest scores, and um, apologize, to me. For last year. And it's got to be a good enough apology that I accept it, which I think you'll agree, is a very good apology."
It's kind of fun, reminding him how close you are to the Pyropes--though it's mostly Ma Pyrope. L-Girl mostly likes you, but you're pretty sure she enjoyed being his powerful right hand Treasurer more. Still, it's an unexploded mine field between them, after the student council elections last year. Maybe even going back earlier. You only know about what he did to Vantas in his sophomore year because of Pyrope, after all.
Something trembles. It might just be a flicker in his eyes, or he might actually, lanky frame and hair and all, have flinched. His holy book, the hard spine first, slams into the copier like a club. He dashes forward, shoulder first, but you know that move from earlier, and you spin away, straight into an office supply cart. The teachers are gonna revoke all your free movement privileges, but it's a rush, you think, ever so guiltily, to fight him in a way you know how to fight, rather than this shadow war with frame jobs and manipulations.
He's more nimble than he was before the summer. Last year he would have crashed into the filing cabinet, and been down for the bruised count. Now he just fetches up against it with a whud, and uses the tall edge to pull himself upright, glaring. You mimic his expression, or he's mirroring yours, it's impossible to tell, from the middle of a cascade of pens and paperclips. Something crackles between you, and you wish you could see blood dripping from his nose to mar the white paint above his lips with dull red. You'd lick it off, and--
As the horrible fantasy grips you, you realize you're probably a lot more messed up than even this grotesque rich kid would give you credit for. You wish you could say it was only the result of endless bullying, but there'd be something satisfying about making him bleed and then--
"What are you doin'? This time?!" the Hall monitor from before stares into the supply room, and you realize you're the only one visible from the doorway, and the copier has been making really distressed sounds since Makara hit it.
From his hidden corner, large eyes surrounded in mascara brighten in delight, and Makara raises a theatrical finger to cruelly curving lips.
Let the record reflect that the only thing in the copier at the time the copier broke was Aradia or Gospel of the Witches, which had been checked out of the library by Makara, K. for use in his American Folklore elective, and as far as the librarians can ascertain, was only handled by Makara, K. An expert on the matter suggests that it was the nature of the text that made the copier start printing Lovecraftian gibberish. The Treasurer would also like to suggest that our expert is boooooooogus, and smokes too much. Either way, there is no proof that Nitram, R. had anything to do with the incident.
Report:
To conclude my report on this delinquent behavior: yesterday, Nitram R stuffed a hallmonitor into the props chest behind the stage, and proceeded to [blackout] with [blackout].
Note from the head of the student council:
No one is motherfucking interested in your poorly spun tales, Ampora. They stopped bringing on the mirth last Saturday when you used up my valuable bible study time on a regular novella of salacious rumors too dull to even interest Serket as an insomnia cure.
Yo, clownfish, since when were you head of the student council? I mean, who bought the freshwater pearl farm and made you king of the sea?
Would you prefer to lay the righteous stripping of rank on Ampora's head with your own inspired verbal venom?
Pfft. Cod no. Too damn bored by the whole thing. Just makin shore we all know where me an you stand in relative position.
Fellow council members this kind of bickering on a report for the principal is unseemly. Also, we should try to adhere to blue or black ink if at all possible. Though I am loathe to order my superiors in these matters, of course, but the rules [a smeared bit of ink indicates there might have been an errant squiggle of paper being jerked from under a pen, before some liquid was spilled across the page.]
C'mon Seahorsey, it's not like Ma doesn't have bigger fish to fry. So, what's the scoop? Scholarship buoy gonna get his ass handed to him or what?
Something of the motherfucking sort.
From what I have been able to make out in the blacked out sections, it was not Nitram who had his bottocks handed to him. Um. Oh dear. Other rumps were, ah, handed around. Mr. Ampora's descriptions are... steamy.
...
why did i just write that on the report?
Oh, continue, farseeing motherfucker? What exactly is all out there in the black, then?
I wish to be e%cused from this discussion entirely. I deeply apologize, Vice President Makara. Good bye.
You're just a guy trying to get a rally going at the school, and you needed one of the canvas sheets the drama club uses as a prop. It's just the right size, and you've been banned from posterboard for a six month period. It's not as though you meant to interrupt Makara while he's doing a dramatic reading of Revelation to his vast audience of no one.
He breaks his stride when the door clangs shut behind you. You have some options. You could slouch down the aisle, hands deep in your tattered pockets, letting your denim and plaid speak for exactly how uninterested you are. You could strut, letting the auditorium lights pick up the earrings you've begun to wear in defiance of a dress code that allows a thug to wear clown make up, but no more than one color aside from black and white, and jewelry is only allowed on students depending on the size of their 401Ks.
Instead you take a deep breath, plan the most annoying thing that you can possibly think of, and smile broadly while waving. "No need, if that is, the reason for your awkward pause, to stop your recitation on my account. There are only so many hours of pontification left, after all, so you're shutting up for once would be a tragedy coated relief."
Makara makes a rude gesture, and sits on the edge of the stage, his long legs swinging idly.
"What's a motherfucker come in to my very domain for, anyhow?"
"Getting some canvas from the set design folks," you shrug, as though it is no concern of anyone's. Serket said it wasn't stealing, really, when you thought about it.
Makara, however, is a possessive jerkwad. He crooks his finger. "Come here, lil' Summoner. I got some pious truth on to tell you about a certain commandment."
You imitate his earlier rude gesture, and walk toward the back of the stage. You hear his feet land on the stage in a thud, and remembering his position, imagine the jump. Then the footsteps overtake yours, a long legged stride stiff with territorial fury. You glance toward him, and grab the hand coming for your shoulder, twisting away and bringing it right around up behind his back. He's off balance in that second, and you shove him into the stage curtains.
For every kid he's ever bullied into thinking they had done something wrong, that they weren't good enough, that they didn't deserve to be at school, and didn't deserve to have people care for them, you want to make his painted face kiss the floor. You know, when he wants to be, he can be funny, and kinda interesting in his weird way. The fact that he uses that to make other sycophants go after his targets makes you want to shake and backhand him into being a better person. You don't even want to get into another fight, or into trouble one more time, but everything about Makara tingles against your skin like the rubble of an earthquake.
He regains his footing as you advance, and when you're this angry, it's hard to see the expression behind the smiling skull he wants everyone to see so badly he blacked out the rest of his brown skin and highlighted it in white. That doesn't matter. The way he grabs your hair says volumes about what sins he wants to commit. You fall with him against a costume chest, and even if you don't get your wish about the bloody nose, you do get the acrid taste of his greasepaint all over your tongue.
You miss the end of study hall. You miss a lot of things. You didn't think your first time at school would be with this guy, drowning in the dust of an unloved auditorium. You also thought it would be more, well, romantic. Not shoving his face against the floor as you bit his shoulder blades, and he thrashed into your grip, calling out holy and unholy mysteries, taunting you to go further, and promising to rip off your own shoulder blades and arms if you didn't motherfucking stop kissing him right there. One thing you're a pro at now, is ignoring Makara orders, whether whispered in rich menace, or shouted for all to hear.
You both end up tangled in an extra curtain and a little dazed. How did you get from trying to make a banner about the mandatory locker searches for contraband, and how they were a bad thing, to hot and sweaty, missing vest and t-shirt and--
"My ever loving god, what did I do in my past life to keep findin you in these situations, sophomore?!"
You look up. The hallmonitor is perched in the shadows near the costume chest you nearly used as a support for your shenanigans. His eyes are round as saucers, and his face is blushing so hard, it looks as though it's turned purple.
"Ampora," on his back, his hair a worse mess than usual, and still breathing quite hard, Makara tilts his head to get a full upsidedown gander of his fellow senior, "what the motherfuck have I told you about using this place for hot and sloppy makeouts with your own motherfucking digital appendages?"
If anything the blossoming skin of the hallmonitor's face manages to find a new hue: violet. "Like you're one to talk. Theaters' not exactly a holy space if you're bein rabbited just behind the scenes."
"Every bit of sacred needs some profane. But if you are still into hanging around before the clock has moved past five more seconds, you can clean up all this motherfucking paint we got grinding into the woodwork."
Ampora leaves, looking over his shoulder once too often for your comfort. You just want to lie where you have fallen, but that would mean cuddling up to Makara, and you two are never going to do cuddles. No one would ever do cuddle piles with that sack of lies.
Report:
It is the recommendation of Hallmonitor Ampora, C. that delinquent Nitram, R. be expelled.
Psychological Evaluation: A little strife never hurt anyone important. - Doc S.
Principal's decision: Petition rejected.