Okay, that was a terrible summary. And a terrible title. I'm not happy with either, so if anyone has better suggestions, that would be great.

As stated above, this is a high-school AU. I wanted to explore the idea of Douglas being dyslexic while also included the cute library idea that came up in conversation on tumblr. I've got the plot planned out, mostly, and will be posting as I write the chapters. Any feedback or criticisms would be much appreciated as it's been ages since I've seriously sat down at tried to write in modern language instead of some flowery gothic prose.

Anyways... on with the show, and I hope you enjoy this.

Chapter One

Eighteen wasn't a good age, Douglas thought as his mind spun into cotton wool again. Eighteen was terrible. If he had been seventeen again, he would have a whole year to waste and he could be patient with himself... he could focus and calm down... he wouldn't have to pretend to be calm... he would never have taken up pacing. Douglas was too young to be pacing, and yet there he was, pacing back and forth in the hope that it might aid him.

The school's theatre had a musty air about it. A single breath filled Douglas' lungs with something between the dustiness of a grandparent's house and the inside of Arthur Shappey's kitchen – something best not thought about. It was, however, a haven. There wasn't a single place Douglas would have rather been during his lunch break.

The backstage area was peaceful and quiet as long as he avoided the costume cupboard, the make-up rooms, and the wide room filled with half-constructed pieces of set.

It gave Douglas a chance to learn his lines properly. It was always so difficult to recite the words from the script alone. After a while, the words swam and the length of time it took to work through them grew longer and longer. Here, Douglas could move from one end of the room to the other with an old recording playing in his ears, saying them aloud while matching them to the printed words on the page.

As he paced, Douglas was careful not to step on Arthur. His friend lay on his stomach in the centre of the room with his text-books open under his nose. Essays weren't Arthur's speciality, but Arthur had taken to his Drama A-Level with as much excitement as he approached everything. If Douglas needed company during the lunch break, then Arthur was happy to join him and get some homework done in the meantime.

Arthur's mouth hadn't stopped moving since they had arrived, but Douglas couldn't hear him. Banquo's recorded words filtered into his ears as he turned on his heels and headed back across the room. As he hopped over the other boy, he held the script closer to his nose and shrugged himself more comfortably into his team hoodie.

'The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, And these are of them. Whither are they vanish'd?'

"The earth hath bubbles, as the water does – has – as the water has," Douglas recited, matching his tone to his pace. "Whether they are – Whither are they vanish'd – Oh, damn!"

"What?"

Douglas paused and turned to see Arthur blinking up at him.

"I forgot a bit," Douglas muttered, and waved away his concern. "The earth hath bubbles... as the water has... and these are of them... Whither are they vanish'd? Got it... and again... The earth hath bubbles... as the water has..."

Douglas continued until he reached the end of the scene, pausing and starting again until he could recite his lines without the script. Without the words swimming in front of his eyes – growing worse the more stressed he became – it was easier to summon the words.

The moment Douglas pushed his headphones back to hang around his neck, Arthur took advantage of his silence. He didn't rise from the floor, but he did push one of his text-books away. Douglas saw the tell-tale twitches before he even opened his mouth, and made a point of collecting himself and slowing to a stop when his shadow fell over the other boy.

"You know, you're going to be great," Arthur said brightly.

"Hmm?"

"Because you're always brilliant," Arthur continued. "You always get a round of applause, on stage or on the pitch."

"As grateful as I am that you think I'm brilliant, I'm not sure I quite believe you when you feel the need to tell me that I'm brilliant," Douglas sighed.

"It's just that you seem worried."

"What could I possibly have to be worried about?"

"Not the play – because like I said, you're going to be brilliant. Best Banquo ever," Arthur assured him, raising his hands in surrender. His smile twisted into something sheepish as his eyes darted down to the floor. "But..."

"But what, Arthur?"

"It's just... Mum saw your parents in town the other day, and... she sort of told me about it," Arthur explained, far too quickly. "Not that she told me a lot about it – not that there was a lot to tell. It's just that I spend a lot of time with you, so I can exfoliate-"

"I'm sorry – exfoliate? Douglas arched an eyebrow and buried his hands in his pockets, but remained on his feet.

"Yeah, you know," Arthur nodded. "When you have lots of clues about a person and you pick a few of those clues to get the bigger picture-"

"You mean extrapolate?"

"Yeah, that," Arthur replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. He clumsily twirled his pen between his hands as he continued. "It's just, you remember that workshop we had on understanding people? You know, that one with the scientists from Ipswich?"

"It was a personality test which we all took."

"And now we all know how to read people," Arthur said. "And I've been reading you a lot lately, because I've known you for years and I barely have to try – not like with a stranger. So I know you worry about your grades, and that you find things difficult that you pretend not to find difficult – even though I find some things difficult, but I don't pretend that I don't. I don't understand it, but I can read it – and I don't mention it because you're brilliant at other things. But then Mum saw your parents and I got one more clue and..."

"And what, Arthur?" Douglas felt something twist in his chest. "What did they say?"

"They didn't say anything," Arthur insisted. "It wasn't anything serious – it just built onto stuff I already know."

"And?"

"And they..."

"And they what?"

"They tutted."

"Tutted?" Douglas repeated the word with a touch of derision, even as a pit opened up in his chest.

"Like a sort of tut," Arthur said. Then he seemed to realise his mistake and shook his head. "But it wasn't a bad one... you know how Mum likes to exaggerate. Good old Mum... tutting and... tutting... she probably just heard a tut when there wasn't one at all."

Douglas nodded slowly and sighed, pushing a hand through his hair. There was no use in fighting it – more often than not, Arthur didn't make mistakes. He talked a lot of nonsense, but he very rarely missed what was right in front of his nose. Plastering on a grimace, Douglas sank down on the other side of Arthur's text-books.

"Good old Carolyn," he muttered, shoving the heel of his hand past his knee as he crossed his legs and got comfortable. It took all of his power not to sag as well. "I suppose it was more than their usual brand of 'tut' if your mother thought to mention it?"

"Well, actually she told me not to mention it," Arthur replied, with a guilty half-smile. He nervously tapped his lip with his pen and shrugged. "Actually, what she said was to ask you how your coursework's going – or whatever you do instead of coursework in science. I mostly do essays, but I've never seen you write an essay."

"Psychology's got a fair few, but they're all in the exam," Douglas murmured. Dread trickled through him as he stared down at the words Arthur had written. Then it was gone, forced away when he saw the dramatic doodles that Arthur had drawn of the character he was supposed to be describing. Working his hands inside his sleeves, squeezing the material for comfort, Douglas plastered on a wide smile. "I think what's most important right now is that your mother's heart seems to have grown three sizes. Dare I ask what brought on such a bout of concern?"

"Just the thing with your parents... and the tutting..."

"Well, that's nothing," Douglas replied. "Forget about it, Arthur. Of course they're tutting – they have no idea their son's going to own the stage in the Spring Term."

"You haven't told them about Banquo?"

"Oh, I think it'll make a nice surprise," Douglas replied.

Even as he said it, a lump formed in his throat. It was more likely that his parents would tell him to stop wasting his time in the theatre and actually finish his school-work on time for once. It didn't matter – not really. He would pass his exams. He always did, eventually, by the skin of his teeth. A-Levels were supposed to be more difficult... it wasn't just him.

Arthur nodded, but there was a shrewd glint in his eye as he watched Douglas pick at the threads in his sleeves... well, as shrewd as Arthur ever got. Douglas ignored him for a while, and Arthur went back to scribbling down his drama essay. Unfortunately, it was impossible to ignore Arthur when he broke the silence again.

"So done all those practice papers?"

"Arthur, as grateful as I am for your concern-"

"Alright, sorry..." Arthur raised his hands again. "But if you want to talk..."

"I'll bear that in mind," Douglas replied.

With that, he pulled his headphones back over his ears and skipped back to the start of the scene. He mouthed along with Banquo until the clock brought lunch to a lazy end, and they were forced to surrender the theatre to the eager twelve-year-old actors of Year Eight.

The great thing about free periods, Martin thought, was that he could fit in all the studying that he missed out on during class. Classes were important, obviously – he'd never get into flight-school if he failed all of his modules – but it wasn't often that the teachers gave him anything to work with that he couldn't already find in books. Math, Physics – all good – but if he was going to impress anyone at the end of the year, it would be with his extended knowledge of aviation and aircraft and safety protocol and CAA guidelines.

It never hurt to be prepared.

Which was why, despite everyone else's hatred of the day, Monday's were Martin's favourite. A whole afternoon of free periods in which he could hide away in the library and work through their catalogue. It was a treasure trove of information.

Not that Martin was currently researching aviation. He had done that research during his Maths lesson and been curtly reprimanded for it. Now he was catching up on the statistics homework that he hadn't done because he had been too busy reading about the exact differences between a military pilot and a commercial pilot.

Martin couldn't find it in himself to care. While he set himself up in the corner of the library, Theresa sat up on the desk with her legs hanging over the nearest chair, folding pages from his pad into aeroplanes and tossing them over the shelves. Unlike him, she had actually done her homework and could walk through her free periods with her eyes closed. But, like a good friend she stayed with him... and offloaded her grievances.

"I mean, it's not even like my mother's king of Fitton," Theresa groaned as she flicked back her hair – short as it was – and flicked the edge of her Economics text-book. "At least if she was, there would be some sense in expecting me to take over. She could literally hand me the town and I'd take it, because it would be my responsibility."

"I'm not sure that's how being Mayor works," Martin replied thoughtfully, eyes fixed on the pages of his book as he copied it into his notepad. If it had been his own book, he'd have been underlining bits in red. This was a slower process, but it made sure the numbers stayed in his brain.

"I know that's not how it works," Theresa explained. She flicked another plane into the air, and watched it spiral into the shelves. "But she's always on my back. Have you done it yet, Theresa? Are you working, Theresa? How are you ever going to continue my policies, Theresa? It's a nightmare!"

"Then why are you taking Government and Politics, or Economics?" Martin sighed. "My dad wants me to follow in his footsteps. You don't see me taking electrician classes."

"That's because your dad isn't a dragon," Theresa retorted. She tipped her head back and gazed up at the ceiling. "It's not like I can run away and train to be a pilot with all the money I don't have. The most I can hope for is a long gap-year travelling the world."

"Long enough for your brother to step in?"

"My brother would love that," Theresa replied. "Fitton, maybe not."

Martin failed to hide a laugh as he hastily re-wrote the note he had been taking. He hid the smile on his face by biting his lip and clearing his throat, stealing a glance at her. Theresa flashed him a smile, and then kicked his elbow so that he had to re-write another line.

"I'm sure it's not that bad," Martin remarked after a while.

"It's worse than it was before," Theresa informed him, and fixed him with a playful glare. "At least before you broke up with me, my mother could blame everything on my boyfriend – oh, he's such a bad influence on you, Theresa-"

"Alright, I get it."

They were disturbed by the angry thud of footsteps. A moment later, Martin's younger sister appeared in a flurry of red hair and furiously flushed cheeks. Even in the heat of late September, she was wrapped in multiple layers over her school uniform.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" Caitlin demanded, throwing Martin an irritable glare. "I've been waiting by the gates."

"What? Oh... sorry." Martin blushed and glanced down at his books. Then he looked at his watch and attempted a nonchalant shrug. "You know what, Cat? You could just go... I'm sure Mum wouldn't mind."

Caitlin rolled her eyes and huffed. She turned without another word to him, but as she stormed from the library Martin was sure he heard her muttering 'waste of my time'. All that earned was a snort as Martin turned the page in his book. Martin didn't react again until he saw Theresa slip from the desk and onto her feet.

"Are you not staying?" he asked.

"I have to walk Maxi home," Theresa replied with a reluctant, if not fond shrug. She swung her bag over her shoulder and flicked Martin's book shut as she flitted away from the desk. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, tomorrow," Martin replied, frowning as he found the right page again. "I'll um... I-I'll be in class, probably. I've got a free first thing, so..."

"You'll be locked away in here dreaming of planes," Theresa concluded. "See you later, Martin."

"Bye..."

As soon as he was left alone, Martin set about finishing his homework as quickly as he could. He'd be damned if he was taking Maths home with him. There were more important things there – new magazines and prospectuses, models, an updated simulator – whatever he was in the mood for.

But for now... Maths...

In half an hour, the librarian would march around and kick him off school property. Douglas knew that he didn't have long. The only other person in the library was a ginger boy from his Physics class – Martin, his name was. They weren't friends, even though they had shared classes here and there throughout their school careers. Now he was just one more distraction.

Douglas could see the flickering from the other boy's lamp in his peripheral vision. He could hear the boy humming now and then as he scratched something out in his notepad. It was making it very difficult to focus on the words in front of him. It was only supposed to be a practice paper – something the teacher could mark and then pass along to his parents – but it was taking far too long to read the information and then absorb the information and then write the damned information in the right way – the way the paper required.

It wasn't even difficult. Douglas knew it wasn't difficult – he understood the theories when they were explained out loud. And he could read it. He could and he was and all he needed was to finish it in the next half an hour... then he could do the paper at home and hand it in come morning classes, and voila – nothing to focus on except the play and whichever match was next.

There was the scratching again – and the tapping.

The Martin boy was tapping his pen and whistling through the pen-lid and flicking the pages too fast – annoyingly fast – four for every one of Douglas'.

Hunching lower over his books, Douglas gritted his teeth and concentrated in copying out the important pieces of information in his own hand. That always helped... all he had to do was get it down...