Author's Note: Hey, everyone. So, I should have had this one-shot finished a long time ago but school and the usual humdrum of life got in the way. Thank you to the anon who requested this because it was a ton of fun to write. I changed the cast around a little bit. Originally, Arthur was supposed to play the role of John Bender, but I just can't picture Arthur as a class clown. He's a delinquent, for sure, but not because he craves attention, if that makes sense. So, I added Gilbert in to take on that role and changed the plot a little for the sake of clarity and being concise.

You don't need to have watched The Breakfast Club to read this fic.

Enjoy, and please leave a review if you can!

Saturday, 7 AM

"Well, well, here we are. I want to congratulate you for being on time," Mr. Roderich Edelstein, assistant principal of New Trier High School, drones as he looks out upon the students sitting in the desks before him with a smug grin. He sees some familiar faces—notably Anya Braginsky and Gilbert Beilschmidt. They often spend more time in detention than in class.

Just last week, Anya Braginsky threw a half-dissected frog at another student during biology lab, and as for Gilbert—well, he's another story entirely.

"Excuse me, sir. I think there has been a mistake. I don't think I belong in here with these…these miscreants!"

Mr. Edelstein quirks a brow at the young man with long blond hair sitting to his left. He glances at the attendance roster to put a name to the boy's face and replaces his grin with a frown. "You must be Francis Bonnefoy. There's no mistake—you have exactly eight hours and fifty-four minutes to think about why you are here. Ponder the err of your ways. You may not talk, and you may not move from these seats."

Gilbert, intent on being a pest, lets out a snort of derision and pretends to snore. "All right, Roddy, take it easy—we get it, you've got a stick up your—"

Mr. Edelstein smacks his hand against Gilbert's desk and narrows his eyes dangerously. "I said, no talking…All right, children, today we are going to try something a little different—we are going to write an essay, but first, let's take attendance…Beilschmidt, Bonnefoy, and Braginsky are present…Alfred Jones?"

"Here," a voice from the other side of the room grumbles.

Alfred Jones…Why does that name sound so very familiar?

Ah, yes. He is the star of the football team—the captain. How'd he wind up here? He should be careful not to make a habit out of this—it could cost him his spot on the team and scholarship opportunities from universities. From what he's heard, the boy has some raw talent.

"Okay…and Matthew Jones?"

A timid hand goes up in the back of the room, right behind Alfred. Isn't Matthew on the honor roll? His brother must be exerting a bad influence over him. Poor thing…The road of delinquency is not a path he recommends anyone take.

"And lastly, Arthur Kirkland…No Kirkland?"

Another frequent flier. What did the boy get caught doing this time? Vandalizing school property? Hitting another student? Smoking in the stairwell? Doing something…worse…in the stairwell? He's surprised the teen hasn't been expelled yet.

And now, he can add evading detention to his list of crimes.

He'll call his parents once he gives the others their assignment.

"Very well. As I was saying, today you're all going to be writing an essay telling me who you think you are," he declares, adjusting his glasses before passing out some paper for the students to write on. "It should be no less than a thousand words."

"Is this a test?" Gilbert asks with a groan.

Mr. Edelstein ignores him and continues handing out the sheets of paper, voice getting sterner the longer he speaks. "And when I say 'essay,' I do not mean you can simply write one word over and over again a thousand times. Is that clear, Mr. Beilschmidt?"

"Crystal," Gilbert replies with feigned cheer, slouching in his chair.

"Good. Maybe you'll all learn something about yourselves from this experience, and maybe, I will not have to see any of you return here next Saturday."

"Absolutely, sir. This will never happen again sir," Matthew squeaks from behind his brother's shoulder, head hanging low in shame.

"I'm glad to hear it," Mr. Edelstein says approvingly. "My office is right across the hall, so if any monkey business goes on in here, I'll be aware of it, and if I have to come in here to scold any of you, I will not be pleased."

As the students shoot him a baleful look (mostly just Gilbert), the door to the classroom suddenly comes bursting wide open with a bang, rattling them.

Mr. Edelstein jumps back a fraction of an inch but quickly recovers, raising his brows when he sees who it is—Arthur Kirkland and a severe, formidable looking man who he assumes is the boy's father.

"Ah, Arthur. Fashionably late? So nice of you to join us."

He's quite a sight to behold. He smells of cigarette smoke and is dressed in a black, studded leather jacket paired with a shirt proudly displaying the symbol of anarchy on it. His jeans look as though they've been torn to shreds by a grizzly bear. His belt is also studded and matches the piercing in his right ear.

It appears as though he hasn't combed his disheveled blond hair in a while and his green eyes are dramatically framed by a thick layer of coal black eyeliner. His fingernails are also painted black.

"This is the last time, Arthur! Do you understand me?" his father shouts, gripping him by his unpierced ear. "Look at me when I'm speaking to you, boy!"

Arthur tries to break free and pointedly keeps his gaze directed in the opposite direction.

This angers his father even more, and so, he grabs Arthur by the shoulders, forcibly spins him around to look at him, and growls, "Do you understand?"

"No."

His father tightens his hold, and Arthur lets out a tiny yelp of complaint.

"Yes," Arthur whispers furiously, surrendering.

Finally, his father releases him. "Take your seat…My apologies, Mr. Edelstein, he won't be any more trouble, or else he'll be in for a strapping."

The rest of the students snort and chortle, but Mr. Edelstein merely glowers and watches as Arthur begrudgingly sinks into one of the desks.

"Have a good day, Mr. Kirkland," Mr. Edelstein says to the boy's father as he nods curtly and storms away.

Gilbert opens his mouth to make another cheeky comment, but then he steals a glance at Arthur and frowns, stopping himself.

The silence in the classroom is suddenly deafening. They could hear a pin drop.

"Arthur, you're going to write a thousand-word essay on who you think you are. Any questions?" Mr. Edelstein asks, regaining his composure, though his tone is much gentler than it was several minutes ago.

"Yeah, I've got a question," Gilbert cuts in, folding his arms atop his desk. "Why are you such a prick, sir?"

And just like that, Mr. Edelstein's tone becomes sharp once more. "I'll give you the answer to that question next Saturday, Mr. Beilschmidt."

Alfred, Arthur, and Anya fight to contain their snickering, disguising them as coughs.

"Does anyone else have any disrespectful questions they'd like to ask? No? Then, I'll be in my office while you all get to work."

He takes one more sweeping glance at the students and walks away, satisfied for now.

"I can't believe this is really happening to me," Francis whines, running a hand through his wavy locks. "I'm too perfect to be here."

"You'd better believe it, princess," Gilbert teases, humming an annoying tune to himself.

Francis looks Gilbert up and down with a scowl and mutters, "Your fashion sense leaves much to be desired."

Gilbert smooths the wrinkles out of his t-shirt and hoodie and laughs. "Me? Look at Mr. Emo over there."

Arthur sends a dark glare Gilbert's way. "Go fuck yourself."

"Oooh, feisty. You're giving her some competition," Gilbert says, gesturing to Anya. "You two would be just perfect together. I can picture it now—you're both painting your nails together and listening to angsty music as you cry about how unfair the world is to social outcasts. I'm tearing up already."

"Shut up," Anya says warningly.

"Wow, look guys, she speaks!"

"Why don't you just leave them alone?" Alfred steps in, clearly irritated by Gilbert's nonstop yapping.

"Just because you play a violent sport doesn't mean I'm scared of you. Football, right?" Gilbert says as he tosses his feet up and onto the empty desk to his left, trying to provoke him.

"Well, you should be scared, asshole."

"Is that a threat?"

"Please, don't fight…Alfred, let it go," Matthew pleads, leaning forward in his seat to put a calming hand on Alfred's shoulder. His blue eyes are wide behind the lenses of his glasses.

"No, if Tough Guy here wants to fight, then let's see what he can do," Alfred continues.

"If Mr. Edelstein hears—!"

"Let me handle this, Mattie."

"No, remember how you got us into this mess in the first place?"

"Yeah, but it's because some people need to be taught a lesson the hard way."

Arthur scoffs and rubs a hand over his eyes, smearing some of his liner. "Don't waste your time. You can't knock the stupidity out of someone."

"At least I don't have daddy issues," Gilbert says.

Something snaps in Arthur at that particular jibe. He springs out of his seat, advances toward Gilbert, grabs him by the collar of his t-shirt, and hisses, "I'll fucking kill you."

"Go ahead and try, chicken shit," Gilbert challenges.

They throw each other to the floor, and Alfred cheers Arthur on while Matthew and France stare at all three of them in complete and utter horror.

Arthur lands the first punch, smashing in Gilbert's nose—but not quite hard enough to break it, it would seem. In retaliation, Gilbert snags Arthur in a chokehold and crushes his neck, leaving him floundering for air.

"Stop it! Stop! Enough!" Matthew begs, rising out of his seat and debating whether it would be safe or not to pull them apart and risk getting caught in the crossfire.

In the end, just as Arthur is about to lose consciousness from oxygen depletion, Anya is the one who intervenes, yanking Gilbert with one hand and Arthur with the other so that they're both standing at a safe distance from one another.

"You're both idiots," she sneers, flaunting her surprising amount of strength as she manages to keep both boys from escaping her clutches.

The ruckus is apparently loud enough to disturb Mr. Edelstein because the man comes marching in a moment later and Anya, Arthur, and Gilbert, rush back to their seats, trying to make it appear as though nothing ever happened.

"I said no one is allowed to leave their seat! What's going on in here?"

"I flung my pen across the room and got up to get it," Gilbert explains lamely.

Mr. Edelstein isn't fooled for even a second, but he doesn't have any eyewitness evidence to prove any wrongdoing, so he gives them all another sharp word of warning and returns to his office, shoulders a little more tense than usual.

"Don't make me come in here again!" he cautions as he's walking away. "I won't be as lenient the next time!"

It's silent once more. Gilbert rubs his sore nose and looks over at Arthur with a devilish glint in his eyes. "You're pretty sexy when you're angry."

Arthur nearly initiates another fight, but Francis reaches across his desk to put a steady hand on his arm and says, "Ignore him."

"So, are you guys dating? Two lovebirds?" Gilbert asks, not backing down just yet.

"Go to hell!" both Francis and Arthur shout at the same time, and their unified response makes their cheeks flush with anger even more.

Gilbert snickers and throws his hands up to signal a ceasefire…for now.

Lunch, 12 PM, Saturday

"I'm going to die in here, aren't I?" Francis moans, banging his head against his desk. He has only written four sentences of his essay thus far.

"I should have never let you stand up to that guy from the lacrosse team," Matthew mumbles at Alfred, having trouble focusing on his essay as well.

"So I was just supposed to let him stuff you in a locker?" Alfred asks rhetorically. "He got what he deserved. No one gets away with bullying my brother."

"But now we're in detention."

"Yeah, and that guy is suspended, so it was worth it," Alfred asserts, pleased with himself.

Matthew simply continues to frown, not totally satisfied or persuaded. He never thought he'd find himself in this position. Detention and his name don't go together at all.

Pausing their grueling misery, Mr. Edelstein comes in for a minute to tell them it's lunchtime and that they can take a 30-minute break from their essay-writing to eat.

"Sweet, I'm starving!" Alfred exclaims, pulling out a large brown bag stuffed to the brim with food—mostly hamburgers and fries. For an athlete, one would think he'd be more conscientious of his diet.

"Umm, excuse me, dick—I mean Roderich—will milk be made available to us?" Gilbert asks. He never seems to run out of ways to annoy everyone. It's a gift.

Mr. Edelstein responds by simply walking out again, choosing to pretend Gilbert no longer exists.

Meanwhile, Francis pulls out a fancy lunch from his backpack, complete with silverware and a glass container filled with a filet of fish and a confetti of colorful vegetables topped with aromatic herbs.

"Dang, princess. Impressive," Gilbert commends as he takes a smooshed sandwich out of his own bag.

Anya and Matthew have fairly standard lunches as well, but Anya chooses to play with her food before consuming it—like a cat toying with its prey. It's oddly unnerving to watch.

Arthur, on the other hand, doesn't seem to have a packed lunch with him at all, and Alfred is quick to notice this.

"Hey, did ya forget your lunch? You can have some of mine if you want. I can share my fries," he offers.

Arthur scowls at the boy's massive mountain of food and shakes his head. "No, thanks."

"We're gonna be here until four o'clock. You should eat something."

"I'm fine."

Alfred directs a glower at Arthur and looks him over carefully before whispering, "You know…I don't get along with my parents either."

"Cause you don't listen," Matthew adds with a mocking grin from behind them.

"Hush, Matthew. You're a parent's wet dream, so you don't get it."

"Hey! Not true."

"Definitely true."

Gilbert chuckles from across the room and says, "Man, I wish my parents didn't treat me like shit. I bet the dork's parents think he's just great."

"Why do you have to be such an asshole? That dork has a name—it's Matthew, and he's my brother, so you'd better treat him with some respect," Alfred snarls before tossing a fry into his mouth and taking a slurp of soda.

"He's a brat," Arthur notes, referring to Gilbert.

"Takes one to know one," Gilbert replies. "Your dad knows that."

Arthur takes a sharp breath to calm himself and hisses, "Do you want to know how conversations go in my family?"

He swivels around in his desk to face everyone and does an impersonation of his father's voice, exaggerating the man's thick Yorkshire accent. "You're a stupid, worthless, ungrateful twit!"

Then, Arthur shifts back to his own voice. "Why, thank you, Father, but you forgot to mention ugly, lazy, and disrespectful."

Back to his father's voice, "Shut up!"

"You shut up, Dad."

"Fuck you—you've ruined my life!"

"No, Dad, fuck you!" Arthur shouts, breathing hard as he clenches his hand into fists.

Then, he collects himself after a long moment, becomes ominously calm, and adds, "You're all welcome to stop by sometime to see for yourselves."

"How exquisite," Francis murmurs sarcastically after several seconds of dead silence. "Then again, at least your father speaks to you. Mine is too busy running the family business."

"Business?" Arthur asks.

"A boutique uptown that I wish someone would burn to the ground," he elaborates.

"I'd offer to do it, but setting fires isn't my forté."

Gilbert snorts with more laughter. "Aww, now you're doing favors for each other? I knew it was love at first sight."

Francis puffs out his chest and crosses his arms hotly. "Oh, grow up."

"Funny stuff coming from a guy who's probably never even felt up a girl or kissed her."

"As if you have," Francis scoffs.

"Sure, I have. I've also met people like you before. You're a tease. Sex is your weapon, or that's what you have people believe, anyway."

Francis rolls his eyes and smirks. "It's the best weapon to have, non?"

And for once, Gilbert doesn't have a snappy response.

They finish their lunches in silence.

Saturday, 2 PM

"I think I'm a person who would rather stay stuffed in a locker than sit in detention with my brother," Matthew whispers to himself, debating whether to add that sentence to his essay.

Midway through his musing, Arthur suddenly gets up from his desk, strolls over to the window, cracks it open, and lights himself a cigarette.

"Hey! You can't smoke in here!" Matthew protests weakly. He looks around to see if the others will have his back on this…They don't.

Arthur raises a brow at him in amusement and lets a stream of smoke pass through his lips and float out the open window. "Excuse me, have you finished your paper, young man?" he teases.

Matthew flushes with anger. "If Mr. Edelstein sees you or one of the fire alarms goes off—!"

The classroom door creaks open, and they all jump in surprise. Except, it's only the janitor, a stocky man with chestnut brown eyes and a mustache.

"You can't smoke here!" the janitor scolds Arthur as he drags in a mop.

Arthur sighs peevishly. "Is there a sign that states I can't?"

"Yes, in the hallway."

"Well, I'm not in the hallway, am I?"

"No smoking on school grounds. Put it out."

Arthur takes one last drag of his cigarette before snuffing it out against the windowsill with a displeased groan. "Happy?"

"Watch the attitude."

Arthur returns to his seat as the janitor starts mopping up the floor, at which point, Gilbert asks, "Hey, how does one become a janitor anyway?"

The janitor frowns. "You want to be a janitor?"

"No, I just want to know how one becomes a janitor. Arthur, here, is very interested in pursuing the custodial arts," Gilbert says seriously.

"Quite," Arthur agrees, playing along. It seems smoking for a minute has put him in a better mood.

"I am the eyes and ears of this institution," the janitor says ominously before focusing on his work once more.

"I think being a janitor is a commendable job. It isn't easy," Anya adds, startling all of them because she hasn't said a word in hours.

Alfred stares at her in a mix of astonishment and newfound admiration before saying, "I think so, too. It's honest work."

Anya hums and looks away. "And playing football isn't?"

"Huh?" Alfred takes a moment to understand and shakes his head. "Umm, I don't think so. It's not like you're contributing to anything…My dad really wants me to get a scholarship and go pro."

"What do you want to do?"

Alfred blushes and rubs the back of his neck. "It's dumb."

Anya just stares at him and waits for a real answer.

She gets it.

"I—I wanna go to law school."

"So go to law school."

"I can't."

"You shouldn't let someone else decide your future for you," Anya explains, gaze still settled away from Alfred's face.

"Yeah, it's not easy though."

"Tell your dad to suck it," Gilbert suggests.

"Or we can just burn down the football field as well as Francis's family boutique. We can use the textiles to fuel the flames," Arthur proposes, and it's hard to tell if he's joking or not.

Alfred laughs, and it's the first genuine smile he has worn in a while. "Might as well, since we've already got detention either way."

"I've got detention for the next two months. I can set up a plan," Gilbert assures.

The janitor gives them a look, finishes mopping up, and leaves, pretending not to have heard anything.

Saturday, 2:30 PM

"I've been thinking…"

Arthur puts down the pen he's been twirling and glowers. "Oh, no."

"Shut up," Francis grumbles, running a hand through his luscious hair. "I'm trying to do you a favor. I was going to offer you a place to stay if you ever need it because of…reasons we don't have to bring up. But I guess I can retract my invitation if you're going to be rude about it."

"Why would you do that? You don't even know me."

"It's called being a considerate person. You may not have heard of the concept before, but you should try it sometime."

"Charming," Arthur harrumphs.

"Forget it."

"…No, that's kind of you…Thanks."

Francis turns pink. "Don't mention it."

The two of them promptly make feeble attempts at continuing their essays to escape the awkward conversation, and no one says anything for a full fifteen minutes before Gilbert swears under his breath and grimaces.

He painfully looks at Arthur and mutters, "Hey, I'm…I'm sorry about the stuff I said earlier. It was wrong."

Thoroughly taken aback, Arthur feels his jaw fall open a little and must think long and hard about a response. "Sorry for punching you in the face."

"Sorry for putting you in a chokehold."

They both nod their heads at one another—effectively declaring a truce, and turn away.

Maybe there's hope for them all.

Saturday, 3 PM

"You have one hour left. I expect everyone to be finishing up, and I hope you've all learned something from this experience," Mr. Edelstein announces the next time he comes in to check on them."

Gilbert shrugs. "I learned how to BS another essay."

"I'll see you next week, young man."

"Can't wait. I'm thrilled."

Mr. Edelstein scans their papers with his austere eyes from a distance and repeats, "One hour. I'll be back to collect your work then. And if it's not complete, you'll be completing it next Saturday."

Then, he heads back to his cushy office one last time.

"So…Are you two related or something?" Alfred asks Gilbert as he adds another sentence to his essay and writes in the largest font he can get away with to fill up more space on his sheet. It seems like he has more words on each page than he really does.

Gilbert pretends to gag and then nods. "He's my gross uncle. Thinks he's the boss of everyone. He acts like he's my fucking dad when he's not."

"I'm sure he just wants what's best for you," Matthew shyly says.

"Hah! Suuuure. Keep thinking that. All adults are just swell, aren't they?"

Matthew frowns. "That's not what I meant. I know there are crappy adults, too, but he doesn't seem like he's one of them."

"You don't know him like I do."

"Fair enough," Matthew concedes, finishing up the last paragraph of his essay. He's the first one to finish, of course.

"I knew it. Like I said earlier, you're a brat," Arthur tells Gilbert, absently rubbing a thumb over a cut on his arm.

"And like I said, it takes one to know one," Gilbert replies.

"You should consider yourself lucky that someone still gives a rat's arse about you."

"Thanks, Dr. Phil. Great advice."

Arthur shakes his tousled head of hair. "You don't know what it's like…You should have more respect for your uncle."
Gilbert chokes on the air in his lungs. "Says the person who doesn't seem to respect anyone himself."

"I have respect for those who earn my respect. Unfortunately, that just happens to be a very short list of people."

"Yeah, clearly."

"Forget it. It's pointless trying to explain anything to you. I should have known better."

The clock keeps ticking in the background, taunting them with the slow pace at which its moving.

Meanwhile, Alfred restlessly rocks back and forth in his chair, counting down the seconds to freedom.

"I've never been to a football game before," Anya informs them, apropos of nothing.

Alfred becomes a little more jittery and says, "Really? Well…You should come to one of my games sometime if you want."

"Okay."

"Cool. Umm…Wanna exchange numbers? J-Just so I can let you know when there's a game coming up."

"Sure."

Anya puts her number into Alfred's phone and gives him a surprisingly gentle smile, which makes Alfred even more flustered.

"How cute," Gilbert teases before he starts singing an off-key rendition of Modern Talking's You're My Heart, You're My Soul, and he doesn't stop until Alfred throws an empty can of soda at him.

Everyone laughs, and just like that, they don't completely loathe each other anymore.

Saturday, 3:55 PM

"Well done, Matthew. You're free to go…Alfred, I'll see you next week because it appears you're 350 words short. Anya and Gilbert, I'll see you both regardless. Francis, though I did not expect to receive an essay on how much you adore your good looks and fashion sense, they do seem to encompass who you think you are, and so, I'll accept what you've produced…As for you, Arthur, I want to have a word with you in my office once I dismiss everyone. You're not in any trouble."

They all start packing up and collecting their things. Gilbert happily prances out the door once the clock strikes four o'clock, and Matthew and Alfred exit shortly after with Anya in tow. Alfred gets awfully chatty with her and seems to be rather excited about having to come back next week.

Francis, on the other hand, hangs back a moment to whisper into Arthur's ear, "My offer still stands." Then, he gives him a slip of paper with his phone number on it.

Arthur feels his heart skip a beat as he watches the boy gracefully saunter away. He's not used to these sudden emotions. He wishes he had more time to process everything.

But then, Mr. Edelstein furrows his brows and instructs, "Follow me, Mr. Kirkland."

They cross the hallway and enter the man's office. His secretary isn't around, so it's silent aside from a radio playing some classical music in the background.

Mr. Edelstein invites him to sit down in a rather comfy looking armchair and then sorts through some papers before finding what he's looking for—Arthur's essay.

"I want to read part of what you wrote aloud to you, if that's all right."

It's not all right, but Arthur nods anyway and swallows against the rock in his throat.

"People often aren't what you expect them to be. I've learned this the hard way. But when it comes to who I am, I'm precisely what you'd expect—problematic. It's a badge I wear well. Otherwise, I'm unremarkable. I'm not the star athlete. I'm not the heir of a well-off family with a successful business. I'm not a top student, nor am I original or mysterious. I'm not the class clown or the center of attention. I am not notable in any way, and perhaps, that's for the best. I see that people are more than the roles they take on."

Mr. Edelstein pauses, peers at Arthur over the rim of his glasses, and continues, "We've all accepted the fact that we had to sacrifice our Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong, but we think it's pointless to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us, in the simplest terms—in the most convenient definitions. But what I've discovered is that we're everything and nothing all at once. It's not a convenient answer. The athlete is a lawyer. The heir to the high-end boutique wants nothing to do with it. The freak is a pacifist. The honors student wound up in detention. Does that answer your question?"

Finally, Mr. Edelstein puts down the essay and smiles. "Yes, Mr. Kirkland, that answers my question, but now, I have another question for you. Why did you earn yourself detention?"

"Because I don't have a brother who would break me out of a locker," Arthur mumbles under his breath, thinking about Alfred and Matthew.

"Sorry? I didn't catch that."

He sighs. "I hit a student in my gym class because he called me a faggot. Is that a sufficient response?"

"And what happened to the other student?"

"Nothing."

"Why didn't they earn detention as well?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that, sir?"

"I see…Okay, Mr. Kirkland. Thank you for your cooperation. I will be investigating this matter further. You don't need to return next Saturday, just mind those new friends of yours."

Friends?

Arthur leaves Mr. Edelstein's office and takes out the piece of paper Francis gave him. When he puts the number into his phone, he's surprised to find he's been invited to a group chat called "The Saturday Morning Detention Club."

Friends…He's never had any before.

Maybe it's worth a try.