Javier hadn’t even been expecting or wanting a fight - or so he told himself, when he trudged his way to the detention hall. He’d just been making fun of that weirdo’s hair, which he felt was perfectly within his right. A dyed mohawk? That was so needy, screaming for attention. Which Javier gave in spades (mostly trying to impress the new boy in school, who’d just joined the swim team. Javier couldn’t quite tell if he was queer or not, but he was like 80% sure he saw Jeremiah staring at his ass in the locker room the other day).
Regardless, it was perhaps the second time Javier ever ended up in detention. He wasn’t a bad student - he excelled in his grades, he was a top sportsman, he was courteous to the teachers and the girl students and popular with the boys (so popular). It was just sometimes you had to knock a guy down a few pegs; and in all truth, Javier felt the Principal secretly agreed with Javier’s stance on mohawks. This detention? This was just a wrap on the knuckles.
Looking around at the detention hall after school, it looked full of your typical deadbeats. ‘The Strip club’, his friends liked to call them, because the girls looked like they should be hanging out on the Strip hawking their wares, and the boys looked like they were handing out those ‘exotic dance’ brochures to the tourists on the Strip.
Javier definitely didn’t belong here. And he made it fairly obvious by his smirk as he strolled up the classroom aisle, and settled up in the front.
“Hello, Mrs MacDougal,” Javi politely greeted the teacher, who smiled back at him - oh Javier Diaz, so polite! - before throwing a glare around at the rest of the detention inmates.
@francisco-yanez
It was great that Javier hadn’t wanted a fight, but at this point in Francisco’s life fighting was all he wanted to do. Sometimes you did have to knock a guy down a few pegs, Francisco agreed. Which was why he picked fights with Javier Diaz as much as he could get away with.
Besides preps in cable knit sweaters were the bane of his existence.
This time, however, it technically wasn’t his fault. He didn’t start the brawl, Heather did. It was a crime how the poor bastards drooled over the track star, he didn’t get the appeal. The guy was an arrogant snob.
Francisco was the textbook definition of that kid that had so much potential. What the fuck ever. This deadbeat was not interested in team sports or debate teams. Francisco just wanted to be left alone with a box of cigarettes to play his guitar. Most of all he wanted to go home. Fuck Las Vegas. Fuck this school. Fuck the teachers. Fuck all the wannabes and cliques and jocks that Javier fucking Diaz had in the palm of his sweaty ‘top sportsman’ hand.
He had bored of chipping pieces off the desk with his pocket knife and was leaning back in his chair, heavy boots on the desk’s surface when Javier appeared through the door. Contrary to popular belief, Francisco was capable of showing respect. He just damn sure wasn’t gonna exhibit it here.
Even if Mrs. MacDougal was deaf in one ear and half in the other the vomit sound Francisco made could be heard into the hall.
Oh yes! How polite! Little Javier Diaz! Have a cookie!
Please.
Of course, that got him another detention but eh, add it to the tally. It was really a wonder how he hadn’t been kicked out yet. Probably his grades. Which weren’t bad. At all. But you know, something about how he didn’t apply himself blah blah blah.
He watched Javier move through the space, sitting forward now. And he just sat. And glared right back. And waited patiently until Mrs. MacDougal left the room...
So he could flick whatever he had handy at the back of Javier’s head until he turned around.
“Lemme ask you somethin’, hm?” Oh, the accent was strong with this one, “Don’t you ever get tired? Of kissing so much ass?” He left a comment on Javier’s sexuality out of it for now.
Not that Francisco wasn’t totally straight.
