A/N: So, I heard this thing about the "Red String of Fate" and I kind of wanted to experiment with that idea. I haven't been here in a while, and I'm doing this because of a request. I also thought I might try my hand at short stories. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own the Simpsons. They belong to Fox and Matt Groening.
(Third-Person P.O.V.)
Springfield High School, 1963:
Waylon Smithers adjusted his black reading glasses and attempted to comb down his curly John Travolta hair in the locker mirror. It was no use – the darned thing stuck up like a head of broccoli. He sighed and allowed reality to sink in. Nobody wanted a gawky nerd who wore pink shirts and tied sweaters around his waist – they were all attracted to those British boy bands, the new soda brand, and headlines in the newspaper about recently-assassinated presidents.
He sighed and took out his books, heading to class. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a group of bullies sporting the same quiff-in-front-of-face hairstyle and smoking by the water fountain. Maybe this time he could sneak past – nope. They caught sight of him.
Shite, he thought, taking off at the speed of light.
"Hey!" They pursued him through the hallway. "Come back here, fruit cup!" Smithers couldn't, wouldn't see where he was going. He was too busy trying to get as far away from them as possible. Just then, he felt an immediate excruciating pain as his nose crashed against something and he went tumbling down.
"What the hell?" an irritated voice fumed. "Watch where you're going, kid!" Smithers looked up in fear and met face-to-face with what looked like a high school senior. He had wavy black hair, a small constellation of zits on his face, and angry grey fireballs for eyes. Judging by his muscle mass and overall facial expression, he could easily beat a poor freshman like Smithers into a pulp.
"S-Sorry," Smithers muttered, his face flushing a deep red. He offered to help the older boy up, but he slapped it away and did it himself, as if to protect his manliness.
"You stupid freshmen are always getting in the way! Especially at basketball games! - Oh, and the stairs," he added as an after-thought. Okay, now Smithers was equally angry: how dare he belittle him like that?!
"Well, excuse me! I didn't know you had 'special privileges' around here!" he spat arrogantly, crossing his arms. Everybody gasped: they'd never heard Smithers step up like that, let alone speak more than one word throughout the whole year.
"Who said I did?!" the senior demanded. "Anyway, you can't judge me, you don't even know what it's like!"
"What what's like?! 'Not having someone wait on you hand-and-foot for once'?! Oh yeah, that must be real tough!" Smithers retorted, licking his lips cheekily. For a second, it looked like the other guy was about to throw a punch, but he decided against it.
"Just don't do it again, or I'll beat you up good," he growled, turning away.
"Sure thing, buddy," Smithers hissed, mirroring his movement. Geez, what a grump. Everybody groaned as their hopes for an all-out fist fight were dashed. But just as suddenly, they laughed, for when Smithers and the older guy tried to walk away from each other, they jerked forwards, screeching and face-planting onto the linoleum floor. The disgruntled men were confused as to what exactly happened. It was then, at this moment, that they realized not only they were both wearing white shoes with red shoelaces, but Smithers's right shoelace and the other boy's left one were tied together. It was as if the two strings were one.
Both boys looked up, seeing each other in a curious new light. Short bolts of electricity transferred between their eyes, confirming a mutual connection. Black hair met brown. Grey eyes met hazel. Short met tall. Athletic met nerdy. First, they chortled. Then they snickered to themselves. Finally, they were cackling like a bunch of red-faced mad men.
"The hell were we arguing about again?" the older guy laughed, accepting Smithers's hand this time.
"Beats me," Smithers replied, flashing him a toothy, braces-covered smile. The older guy placed a hand on the younger boy's shoulder.
"I'll see ya 'round, kid," he said before untangling their laces and walking away. Now Smithers stopped to think about it – he sure was good-looking. He noted how soft his hair looked in the yellow patches of sunlight that shone through the school windows. He wondered if he would ever see him again: he certainly seemed to think so. Who knows, perhaps this was some part of his life's destiny...like they were supposed to meet each other. His eyes wandered to the back of the guy's black jersey just above the numbers, revealing his name: Moe.