Disclaimer: I don't own Hairspray, or any of its related indicia. I'm not rich.
Author's Note: Thanks for coming inside to read. This was a quick shot, quicker than I usually like to write, but I just wanted to draw some fast scenes and back off. Enjoy, and please review.
As a white teenager, Link Larkin had absolutely no idea how Seaweed Stubbs felt when the egg smashed into the back of his brown blazer.
That didn't stop him from picking the jackass who threw it up by his collar and tossing him into the lockers.
"If I ever see you or your punk friends do that again, I'll shove a hockey stick up your ass. The bent end," Link added.
And then he let go of the moron's bright blue button-up and walked away, grabbing Seaweed's arm as he went. Seaweed stumbled a little, the idiot who'd thrown the egg gibbered a little, and Link smirked a little.
--~~--~~--~~--
As a black teenager, Seaweed Stubbs knew exactly what it felt like to get beaten up for something trivial. So when he couldn't hold it any longer at the little party they had going and barged into Link's bathroom to pee, the bruises he saw were nothing new.
That didn't stop him from holding it for another half-hour while Link stared into the mirror like a zombie, recited what his dad had done to him like a scratchy weather alert message.
"There's always a room with us, man," Seaweed promised, a hand grasping Link's bare, angry bluish shoulder.
He was going to squeeze but thought better of it, had nearly let his hand fall away when Link's reached up and clutched at it. Then Link let go and looked at the hamper in the corner of the room.
"Go ahead and piss already," Link told him, a ghost of a smile running onto his face.
Seaweed laughed.
--~~--~~--~~--
Although the yearbook photograph was in black and white, there was no mistaking the blush on Link's cheeks.
Seaweed had grabbed him at the last moment, dragged him into a picture of him and the other Detention boys doing sexy poses for the camera. Link looked out of place, hands digging into his front pockets for the familiar confidence he never found, that confidence that came so easily singing and twisting and hamming for the television cameras.
That didn't stop Tracy from proclaiming it her favorite picture in the whole yearbook because, as she said, "You look like two little kids!"
One kid looking saucily into the camera, the other gawky and uncomfortable and happy: two kids indeed. Besides, isn't it children who have that remarkable ability to made friends immediately with someone, no matter who or what the other person may be?
Or is that a man?
Author's Note: Please review.