A/N: I'm still kind of nervous about this story, because it's AU and young!Jim. Granted it gives me a bit more freedom in terms of character, but it's still hard. Any constructive criticism is welcomed with open arms and cookies. Any reviews will be given cake, a gold star, and – if you're lucky – a velociraptor. Not to mention my love forever and ever.
Eighteen-year-old Jim Moriarty sat in the back of his first period English class on the first day of his senior year. He stayed silent, headphones in, playing his favourite Rossini overture so loud that the person next to him could hear it. Well, they would have been able to hear it, had anyone been seated next to him. But nobody ever sat within a five desk radius, and Jim liked it that way.
The teacher walked in then; young, no more than twenty-five, well dressed, and hipster glasses. Jim would be lying if he said that this new teacher wasn't hot and very much his type.
The teacher set down his leather bag at his desk and stood with his hands on his hips, clearing his throat and looking expectantly at the classroom full of blazer-clad boys. "Much better," he said when they had all taken their seats and stopped whispering. Jim smirked to himself, genuinely impressed.
The young teacher looked around the room, surveying every student's face until his eyes fell on Jim. "You. Headphones, out," he commanded, making the motion of pulling out an earbud. "My Chemical Romance can wait until after class. Listen to my gorgeous voice for this hour, not Gerard Way's." Jim chuckled and took out his headphones, putting his phone away for now in his blazer pocket. "It was Rossini," he corrected before the teacher could move on. "Not My Chemical Romance. I don't listen to them."
The teacher seemed genuinely surprised and even a bit impressed. "My apologies," he said to Jim, holding his hands up as if in surrender before turning and addressing the class. "My name is Sebastian Moran, but you will all call me Mr. Moran unless you'd like to see if there's a life after this one. My default is to be as nice as possible unless you give me a reason not to be, in which case I can be very unpleasant indeed. You will do exactly what I ask of you, and don't try to give me excuses because I've already used them all before you." This earned him a chuckle from the class and a smile from Jim. So far, Mr. Moran was well on his way to doing what no other teacher had managed to do: earn Jim's respect. "Questions? No? Good. Now, who here has ever heard of The Great Gatsby?"
After class, Jim packed quickly and put his headphones back in, wanting desperately to avoid running into anyone in the corridor. He was almost at the door when Mr. Moran stopped him by standing in front of Jim and putting a hand on the Irish teen's chest. Jim flinched and took a step back, immediately pulling out his headphones on the swell of the violin.
"Was that really Rossini?" he asked, smiling softly down at Jim. Jim nodded silently and held out his phone for his teacher to see, and even offered an earbud so his teacher could hear. Mr. Moran listened and nodded, his smile widening a fraction.
"I'm impressed, James," he said, handing the earbud back.
"It's Jim," he instantly corrected, tugging at the sleeve of his itchy blazer. "Not James."
"Well then, Jim," Mr. Moran said, running a hand through his light hair. "I'm genuinely impressed. And you seem like you're a smart kid."
Jim just shrugged, glancing back at the door. "Can I go to my class now, sir?"
The teacher laughed, waving Jim off. "No Rossini or Bach or whatever tomorrow, okay?" he reminded, waving Jim off with a wink.
Jim managed to keep his head down and avoid any attention throughout the rest of the day, but his mind kept going back to English class, or more specifically, Sebastian Moran. The tiniest detail – from how his bright blue eyes were the exact opposite of Jim's, to how his cufflinks looked like little TARDISes – gave Jim butterflies. All of which was terrible. It was bad enough being the only gay kid at school, but to then have a crush on his probably straight and very much off-limits teacher? Horrid. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn't even notice Carl Powers coming up behind him until he was shoved into the nearest wall.
"Jimmy the fag, welcome back," Carl sneered, pressing Jim's face up against the brick.
"Oh, always a pleasure, Bigfoot," Jim quipped, rolling his eyes. Carl's insults were so unoriginal and the beatings were so routing that he could predict the details of every one. Normally Carl would fire off another insult or two before letting the punches fly, but it was the first day back and he hadn't hit Jim all summer, so he didn't waste any time.
It started off simple enough, spinning Jim around and concentrating most of the hits on the Irish teen's stomach and a few on the shoulders, and gradually the shots got higher and higher until Carl decided he's had enough. "Great to see you again, Jimmy," he said cheerily, patting Jim on the shoulder and sauntering off to swim practise.
Jim stood there, fuming and glaring at Carl's retreating form. One day, he thought to himself. Oh, I'll get you, Powers. He waited a few minutes longer before getting up and starting his walk home.
Jim hated going home. And not in the way most eighteen-year-olds hated going home. Because most eighteen-year-olds didn't live with abusive, alcoholic fathers. So Jim dreaded the inevitable part of every day where he had to return home to the dick he called "Dad" and get the shit beaten out of him.
Jim took a breath and quietly opened the squeaky front door. When his father didn't immediately call out or appear from the kitchen, Jim allowed himself to hope that maybe he had already passed out or was at the pub around the corner, drinking with his mates. So he quickly went to go up the stairs to his room, and his heart fell when he saw his father at the top, beer in hand.
"Hiya, Dad," he mumbled, ducking his head.
His father lumbered down the steps and grabbed Jim's chin, jerking the boy's face up to look at him. "Have more respect when speaking to your elders, James," he slurred, his stale alcohol breath rolling off his lips and onto Jim's face.
Jim winced, but couldn't get out a response, as his jaw was being squeezed too tight. So his father took that as an excuse to hit him, and unlike Carl Powers, he could actually hit. Jim didn't know how his father managed to hit so forcefully and so accurately with a beer bottle in his other hand. All he knew was that at the end of it all he was lying at the foot of the stairs; blood on the cut made by his father's wedding ring slamming into his forehead, new bruises forming all over his pale skin, and a rib that felt close to cracking. He waited until he heard his father shuffle off in search of more alcohol before picking himself up and running to his room, closing and locking the door.
Jim's room was his safe place, the one place where he didn't have to pretend like everything was okay. So he sat on the floor with his back against the wall and thought over everything that had gone wrong that day, every bad thing he had felt, and what he could have done to deserve it all. He felt a single tear slide down his cheek and he sat up, reaching for the Swiss army knife he kept in the front pocket of his backpack and flicked open the blade. He rolled up his sleeve to reveal row upon row of cuts and scars in various stages of healing. He bit his lip and pressed the blade to an unmarked patch of skin, feeling the relief flood him as the blood slowly trickled out of the new wound. So he cut again, and again, and again, feeling better and better each time until he was emotionally drained.
He stood and went to the loo adjoined to his bedroom, rinsing the cuts and the blood stained blade in hydrogen peroxide. Cleaning up after himself and making sure that his cuts and knife were sterilised were the only ways he hadn't gotten caught yet, and hopefully never would.
He showered and changed into pyjamas immediately afterward and easily finished all of his assignments. He went to bed early, not wanting to risk going downstairs in search of food to quell his growling stomach in case his father was down there and decided to hit him again. So he fell into bed with his copy of The Great Gatsby, breezing through the first couple chapters, which they had been assigned as homework. He set the book down next to the photo of his Mam and him at the zoo in Dublin when he was four and looked at the photo for a few minutes, having to bite down on his lip to keep it from trembling. He reached up and flicked off the light before he could start crying, whispering a soft "Love you, Mam. Miss you," before falling asleep.