a/n: hiiii. welcome to a new story, which i'll (hopefully) write alongside with 'all this time i've known you'. basically taking turns to update those two. it's going to be difficult, transitioning from one story to the next, but i'll try. now all the boring stuff's done and be explained, let's get on with this story. high school au. this should be fuun. (sorry for the overuse of commas). ps. as cry has stated, he doesn't like his real name being used in fanfiction. so i decided to respect his wish and just call him cry.
Cry's hands fumble with his rucksack straps as he struggles to adjust them, slipping off his shoulders easily. He can feel whispers and stares boring into his skull from the opposite direction. First day at his new school, and already he's attracted unwanted attention. In the past, keeping his head down and his mouth shut has always worked. Here, it looks like it's going to be even more of a challenge to stay in the shadows.
This school is different. This school screams big, bold, bright. It screams everything Cry's not. Even the people here have a certain quality to them; in the way they walk, there's a bounce in their step, in the way they talk, not bothering to keep their voices down, loud chatter that buzzes in his ears. He can already tell it's going to be difficult to fit in. Cry is quiet, he speaks low and softly. He's shy, finds it hard to make friends. He has few friends back home.
'Back home' being Florida. St. Petersburg. Where days are long and sunny, he can remember the burning warmth of sunlight on his face, and hear the loud shrieks of seagulls as they soared past. He remembers the smell of salt, the smell of the sea. Inland, Cry doesn't feel safe. He feels too far away from home for comfort. Inland where skyscrapers stretch high, all he can see is concrete and shades of grey; the smell of burning petrol in his nose.
Two days after they move, his mother announces he's going to a public school. Cry chokes on the hot coffee he'd been sipping, and burns his mouth. He refuses to go to a school brimming with people. The thought terrifies him. The evening ends in long, tired arguments and worn-out voices. It ends with his mother slamming the door aggressively and hollering through the thin wood, "You're going whether you like it or not!" And with Cry snapping back he'll never go, muttering curses under his breath.
Yet here he is, a week later. Standing in front of a large building swimming with people. Trying to keep his back straight and not hunched, a natural position he often finds himself falling into. He's kept his head ducked down for so long, forcing it upwards to meet people's incriminating stares is harder than you'd think. Nigh impossible for him. His hands find his straps again, tugging and twisting it to keep him occupied as he walks up to the front entrance, sliding glass doors.
They open with a 'hiss', like they're proclaiming his arrival. Eyes flicker to him, but only briefly. He silently breathes a sigh of relief. Forcing his legs that feel heavier than lead to walk up to the front desk, to a receptionist with bubble-pink lips and an overly friendly smile, exposing her razor sharp teeth. "What can I do for you today, honey?" She asks in a voice sweeter than sugar. She'd be pretty, if bright colours that hurt your eyes were your thing, soft blonde hair curled in waves past her shoulders.
"I-I, er need a sign in sheet." Cry tries not to stutter, but his voice still trembles, a tremour in his throat.
"New student?" She questions, reaching for a neatly marked timetable. He catches flashes of words: English. Maths. Double Science. Nothing unfamiliar, and that's a relief to him. He sees her manicured nails grip a pen, poised to scribble a name across it. He nods, throat dry. "Name?" She prompts, drawn in eyebrows raised ever so slightly. It's barely noticeable, but Cry notices. He's become good at perceiving emotions, seeing the small things on people's faces nobody else seems to notice. Cry can see what her face is saying, loud and clear: she's laughing at him, judging from the corner of her lip quivering.
Cry considers giving her his real name, but shakes the notion off. "Cry," he answers, waiting to see it flicker across her face. A few more seconds, and...there. There it is. The disbelief. The receptionist is quicker to conceal it than others he's met in the past, but not quick enough. At least she doesn't ask why, pen wiggling across the page as she scribbles in sloppy letters, 'Cry'. Simple as that. No surname. He likes it.
"Here you go, Cry," she puts emphasis on his unusual name, tongue peeking out between her bubblegum lips, "here's your timetable for the week. Five lessons a day, break and lunch. I'm sure you know the score by now. We've got four major buildings: New, Old, Centenary and Scott. Here's a map"- she hands him an elaborate scrap of paper, lines and letters that blur the more he stares at it-"to help you find your way around. If you ever got lost, ask one of the old years. I'm sure they'd be more than happy to help."
Cry highly doubts that. He's had more than his fair share of schools, and each one was like the previous. Nobody gave a shit about him, or spared any time in their day to help him. He doesn't hold it against them, it's just the way school works. Every man for himself. How else would Cry have survived all these years. But he silently nods in agreement, it's the only way to escape her sharp grin and sweet voice. "Okay honey, well I hope you have a good day." She smiles widely. Her eyes don't meet the smile.
As he turns to go he hears he mutter, "odd boy. Did you see him? Almost deathly silent. Creeped the fuck out of me." And her bark of a laugh. His ears also catch another voice, much younger and deeper: "He's new. I'd give him a break. Looked pretty cute, too." Cry's glad he's almost out the door when he hears it, so the receptionist and other voice don't see him blush to the tips of his ears. "Your type, then?" The receptionist sounds amused. The other voice murmurs something he can't hear, inducing a loud bark from her.
Cry scuttles out of the door as quickly as he can.
Maths and Double Science prove to be easier than he anticipates. They revise balancing chemical word formulas in Science, experiment with combining elements to find unusual compounds. Cry opts to combine mag nesium and zinc, which earns him an approving look from his teacher. He may not be good with socialising, and can't always think of the right words to say, but he can do Science. It's a strength of his.
But throughout both lessons people point, and whisper behind cupped hands. He knows it's mostly curiosity, all in human nature. He just wishes they were more discrete about it, so he doesn't feel like a walking portrait, there purely for people's interest. Cry does what he's always done, keeps his head down and focuses on his work. More than a couple of times his vision goes haywire, blurring. His glasses stay snugly in his bag, he refuses to bring them out just yet. He hates them, heavy frames that don't sit on the bridge of his nose well enough, unbalanced.
When the school bell rings, high and long Cry's never been more relieved. He's out of there in a flash, slinging his rucksack up onto his shoulders, grabbing his pile of heavy hardbacks. Extra reading books he's brought along bounce around inside his bag as he moves. He likes to read during lunchtimes, undisturbed, usually in small corners of libraries- and if the school doesn't have one- in the playground, back leaning against the passes the time. And Cry needs a good way to pass long school days.
"Hey, new kid." Cry looks up, before his eyes drop down. To see a shorter redhead, with a small build and lips as red as her hair. Sparkling green eyes and an amused smile. She wears big glasses, magnifying her green eyes, framed by thick eyelashes- but they suit her. They suit her face. "Thought someone should give you a shitty introduction at some point," she says coyly. Her harsh words don't match her voice: soft and sweet. She stretches a hand out. "I'm Red."
When Cry doesn't shake her hand, she drops it down, shrugs. "Not the talking type? I can roll with that. Russ isn't either. He's my boyfriend, before you ask." She chatters on, while Cry remains happy being quiet and listening. He's good at listening. He finds out more about Red in fifteen minutes, than someone would ever find out about him in two weeks. She's seventeen- same age as him- loves to play video games- again, same as him- has been dating Russ for six months now, and dyes her hair crazy colours. There's no invitation of friendship, only Cry feels it in her welcome and the positive energy he gets from her.
Next is English, which he 'coincidentally' happens to be in the same lesson as him. Cry's beginning to suspect like she planned this all- not that he minds. It's a nice change from being alone. English isn't a strong point of is, and he struggles with pronouns and constructing 'correct' sentences, as the teacher shouts at him multiple times. Red helps him with clauses, surprisingly gentle and patient. By the end of the lesson, he has a new kind of respect towards her.
As they walk out of the lesson, Cry spots a younger year being dragged by the side by someone who looks roughly his age, hand clutching the boy's shirt. "You little shirt," the guy growls, "think it's funny to make fun of me? Make me look like an idiot. You think that's funny, huh?" Each word is emphasised with a shake, and Cry's about to step in, do something- but Red holds him back with a hand.
"Don't," she says quietly. "Just leave him be, he'll be fine." She obviously can see Cry wants to say something, to protest it's not right and shouldn't happen. She shakes her head. "That's just Felix," her voice is less than a whisper, casting glances towards the guy. She must be afraid of him too. "It's no use trying to stop it, you'll just make things worse for yourself."
"Who is he?" Cry makes sure to ask quietly, eyes glued on the small boy, wriggling in the Felix's grasp. He's sweating. People pass them without a glance, it's amazing how easily they can pretend it isn't happening and walk on by. The guy must have some authority, from the way people give him a wide gap as they pass, avoid eye contact. Cry sees a few more linger in the back, smiling. Henchman. He recognises it all, it's not uncommon. Cry also guesses people worship the ground he walks on.
"Felix Kjellberg? Just some dickhead who happens to walk around the school like he owns it," Red replies bitterly. Sounds like she doesn't worship him. That makes Cry relieved; shows some people have common sense and don't just follow the pack. "His favourite hobbies include beating up younger years and intimidating people as a way of control."
The sight is all too familiar, for Cry. He's been the target, in the past. But it never fails to leave a sour taste in his mouth, forcing himself to stand back and watch, helpless, too afraid to help another. "Can't we help him? Somehow?" He tries, weakly. Red shakes her head, lips pursed. She seemed like the kind who would be able to stand up to Felix, know exactly what to say to put him in his place and make him feel like shit. Apparently not.
Couple of minutes, 'Felix' is done. According to Red, the boy gets off lightly. Bruises on his face and a dribble of blood from his nose. "He's done worse," she mutters, anger in undertones. "Let's go." She tugs at his arm, urgently. Felix is coming their way. "Come on, Cry." Another tug. But it's too late, Felix has reached them, and up this close, Cry didn't realise how tall he is, how he towers over him by a few inches. It intimidates him.
"He's new, Red," is the first thing Felix says, casually. "What are you doing with the new kid?" It's odd, because he says it all so calmly, yet Cry knows his mocking tone is intended. He notices the accent straight away, but can't single it out.
"Fuck off, Felix," Red scowls. She sounds so defensive, shoulders tensed up. 'Not the time to ask her if she's okay,' Cry reminds himself.
"Ouch. I'm hurt." Felix presses a hand to his chest, Cry's eyes follow it up to his face. It strikes him that he's good looking. Bullies in the past have been six foot two, heavy breathing, gap-toothed idiots with small minds and even smaller maturity levels. Felix is different. He's got an angular face, pouting pink lips- pierced by a ring- and dirty blonde hair that curls in the nape of his neck, fringe swept across his forehead. His eyes are ice blue, cold ice blue. There's no warmth there. "Guess I'd better find out for myself, then," he grins, and steps forward. Tattoos inked on his arm, piercings, he's every cliche of a 'bad boy' ever.
His mouth opens, but Red shouts, "No!" Her face scrunches up, like she's cursing herself for ever speaking. She smooths her face out, sighs. "No, Felix. You're not going anywhere near him."
"Sorry, but I do believe that's up to me, isn't it?" His grin is dangerous. His grin reminds Cry of all the boys he's ever warned to stay away from, the wild, reckless ones. The ones who stay out all night and smoke, who have tattoos and hurt people like it doesn't affect their conscience. That kind. "So what's your name?"
"Cry." He swallows. Felix is really close now, he can smell his cologne. It makes him want to cough. Badly. His eyes water.
"Just Cry?" Felix leans down to whisper in his ear, "I could call you something else if you'd want, baby." His stubble scratches against the skin on Cry's neck, it hurts. Cry can't help it, he flushes red, all over his entire body.
"Get the fuck away from him. Now." Red orders, teeth gritted. Luckily for Cry he obliges, straightening back up. He's grinning. Grinning at Cry's flushed exterior, how easily he manages to make him blush, despite the fact that Cry already feels like he hates this guy. Hates him to his bones.
"Guess I'll be seeing you around, 'Cry'." And he's gone. Strolling down the corridor, followed by his henchman, who laugh and nudge each other. Cry wants to throw up. He turns to Red, questions in his eyes. She looks exhausted, weary.
"Let's go. I'll introduce you to the crew."