What a Scene
-By Moriganne Rikhter-
Disclaimer: I don't own jean gray, or any of the marvel characters. Their twisted forms are mine, however, so don't take em, or *thinks of something evil* else. Yes, that's it. Don't take them or else. Also, the story and chapter titles are lines from a song by the googoo dolls, the best group ever. Don't own that either. No suing, all yall get is a past due blockbuster fee.
Authors note: well, the twisted ness of jean is for my yahoo RPG group my home girl runs, called the twistedtalesofx. Check it out if ya have time, its well worth it. Anywho, I was writing his history, and got carried away, so it spawned this story
Warning: oh yeah, forgot this. Uhm, he's gay, so if ya don't like him thinking about other guys, or any of that shit, erm-well, yeah. You've been warned. It's not that big a part in the story, and not any yaoi or nothing, but he does reveal his feelings for a fellow male. Thought I'd let ya know.
Rating: pg-13, the first of my stories to actually earn this rating
~Pop radios screaming down the halls~
Chapter one
Jean strolled down the hall to the rhythm of the heavy bassinet coming from one of his neighbor's apartments. He let out a frustrated sigh as the light above him flickered, and he stumbled over a rip in the raggedy carpet. He swore under his breath and grabbed onto the wall to support himself, prevent himself from falling flat on his face and looking like a moron. Not that anybody was watching him. Nobody ever was.
He waited until he recovered his balance and then pushed off the cold concrete, continuing on his way. The light came back on, and jean narrowly managed to avoid stepping on the tale of a stray black cat. He chuckled and ran a hand through his chin-length ruby red hair. He walked a few paces further, reaching the door to the stairs. He shoved it open and ascended them two at a time. Jean always preferred to take the stairs, the elevator making him feel claustrophobic.
He entered the hallway his apartment was on, and was pleased to note that the shattered glass had been swept up, and the bloodstain removed as much as it seemed was possible. His pace slowing remarkably as his apartment door came into view.
The last few paces felt like the green mile, and jean paused outside his door, listening. He hardly dared breathe as he focused in, trying to decipher the slightest noise from within. When all his efforts were met with silence, he began to take in air again with a relieved whoosh. Slowly he tried the handle, pressing the warmth of his hand against the cool metal, only to be stopped short when he discovered it was locked. With a flustered grunt jean plunged his hand into the black messenger bag he carried on him at all times, digging around for his keys.
Victorious he found them and began to flip through the various objects until he found the right one. He inserted it into the slot and twisted, pressing open the door. Jean heard the metal clang of the chain, and it became revealed to him that the door was locked from within, as well. "Damnit," he mumbled, reaching into the slot he had created with one hand, trying to remove it without disturbing his mother. He hated when he had to bother her, she had life hard enough without worrying about jean on top of it all. He stuck his tongue out in concentration, really stretching his arm as far as he was able to. He still hadn't touched the metal, but somehow it fell away. He shrugged it off to his mother not putting it on properly, and entered.
Jean took his keys out and re-chained the door so his mother would never notice he was there. It was best that way, after all. He snuck down the hallway, nerves on edge, and tried to slip as quietly as was humanly possible through the squeaking door to his bedroom.
Sadly, lady luck was not with him today. Before he could shut the door behind him, a slurred curse was heard along with his mothers' soft tone. "Damns that shitsass kid," a man growled from the bedroom across the hall. Jean's heart skipped a beat and he closed his eyes. A moment later his mothers voice rang out. "Jeann, thats you sson?" she asked. It was obvious that she had been drinking as well.
"Yes mom," he called back tentatively. He hovered like a scared butterfly in the doorway, gripping the handle until his knuckles turned white.
"Sson, remember to takes out the trasshh, okays?" she asked, though Jean knew full well it wasn't a question.
"Sure mom. I'll do it in a few, no problem," he responded, his voice containing more certainty then he actually felt.
"Now sshhut uhp ahn-hiccup-hnd leave uss alone, or elsse," his mothers' boyfriend of 3 months threatened him. He was an abusive drunken bastard, but nothing Jean said could get his mother to stop seeing him, so eventually jean just stopped trying. Now all he did was avoid him within an inch of his life.
"Yessir," he answered, totally and completely without conviction. Jean quickly slipped inside his room the rest of the way and bolted it shut behind him. Even though he still had that walking-on-eggshells feeling, he managed to relax enough to lean his back against the door. He heaved a sigh and tried to suppress all the anger and bitter emotions welling up within him.
Jeans sharp ears managed to pick up the loud conversation his mom and that rat Jack were having. "C'mon babys, unh, munh."
"No. Jacks, don't wanna, noo," he heard his mother protesting.
A loud smack of skin against skin caused Jean to wince, and he heard Jack growl, "Don't talk backs to me! You'll do what Is want you to, undersstand?"
A feminine whimper followed, along with a meek and scared, "uhmhm." After that all that followed was his mothers' soft sobs and Jacks groans of satisfaction.
Jean pushed off the door, wiping away the hot tear that had begun its trail down his face, and headed for his bed. Kicking off his sandals, he sat down and removed his messenger bag, setting it down beside him. Following the next step in his daily routine, he put on his headphones and cranked up the music, trying his hardest to drone out Jack's screams and moans. He shivered, body wracked with emotion, and he pulled his knees up to his chest, swiping once more at his ever-flowing tears.
When jean had reached some semblance of calm he dug through his bag, pulling out his sketchbook, and flipped till his current work was staring back at him. It was a picture of a blonde-haired boy named Brock that Jean had been watching. His eyes roamed over the sketch and he noticed with disappointment his inability to capture Brocks beauty on the page. He stared at it, and began to imagine with a faint smile the conversation he would have with him one day. They would talk about the world, and find they had everything in common. And then, they would come to the most important thing of them all. Brock had been watching him, too. And Brock found him absolutely, utterly attractive. And then he would lean in, the heat from his face warming Jeans, and then his soft supple lips would meet jeans rather small ones, and---
Jean was startled from his daydream by a loud and insistent pounding on his door. He looked up and saw plaster drifting down from the ceiling at each blam his door got. Quickly he flung off his headphones, only to have his ears assaulted with slurred words and curses. "God Damnit boys, open thiss doors, or ills---"
"Coming," Jean interrupted loudly. His stomach did a flip-flop and he felt his muscles begin to tighten and tense. He flung open the door quickly, and hopped back, all in one motion. "You banged?" he snapped irritably. Uncomfortable as he was, the minute he saw the man all his hatred always managed to resurface.
A bitch slap managed to reach him, and, as much as Jean wanted to beat the living daylights out of him, he held himself and check. He merely scowled and reached up his hand to cover his stinging cheek and sniffed up the blood in his nose. "Dontchas talk back to Meh!" Jack grunted. "Now takes out that sshhits, and then go sshhopping, wes outs of beer."
Jean just mumbled an okay and squeezed past the man. He felt as though Jack's alcohol scent had penetrated all his clothing, his very essence. He walked to the kitchen and stalled until he was sure that jack had gone. The one thing he HAD managed to do was to convince his mom to hide all the bill money. This way jack couldn't steal it and blow it all on drugs and alcohol like he had the past two months worth of money in a row.
He grabbed the cash from inside the stir fry slow cooker, tore the list off the fridge, and made a mental note to buy something other then just Budweiser and frozen pizzas. He returned to his room long enough to get his sandals and repack his messenger bag. Jean grabbed the trash and left the apartment as quickly as was possible.
He hurried down the steps, his anger turning to despair and back again, his emotions giving him the energy he needed to keep going, despite the shooting pains in his still bleeding nose. He flung open the door and the cold air hit him dead on, sending a chill down his spine. Jean tossed the trash into the large brown bin and turned abruptly towards the side-alley, taking his favorite shortcut to the corner store. He liked it so much because if you followed it long enough, it would come out in the park. When he reached it, Jean fell against the large oak tree, and just cried until he felt the tears would no longer come. Just as he was ready to wipe away the pool of blood mixed with tears and head to the store, he felt a hand clamp onto his shoulder. His emerald eyes widened and Jean spun around quickly, lashing out before he even saw who it was.
When he did, Jean immediately regretted it. "Brock! I-I'm so sorry, I didn't know it was you! I'm sorry, really!" he hurried to apologize away his idiocy. He leaned down to try and help Brock, who feigned a smile and stood up, a grimace causing him to fall against a tree.
"Don't worry about it Jean-o, it's nothing, really," he tried to reassure him. Jean moved forward to help him once more, and Brock waved him off yet again. "I was just worried about you, that's all. You were alone for so long, and--"
He was cut off when a raven-haired boy came running over. "Did he agree? Is he gonna play or not?" The guy seemed to be bouncing on the soles of his feet. Jean blushed and took a step back, made slightly uncomfortable by the abruptness of the boy.
Brock gave Jean a questioning look, sensually blowing his hair out of his face before speaking. "Jean, this is my brother, Eric. Eric, meet Jean Grey," he introduced them. Jean shook, all the while examining the similarities between them. The same gentle nose, supple lips, perfect eyebrows, strong chin, hell, they even had the same build.
"I haven't seen you around," Jean offered simply. He couldn't help himself from wishing the boy hadn't come over, but seeing as how punching Brock in the balls hadn't exactly shown off Jeans poise, perhaps it was a good thing they were interrupted after all.
"That's cause I am in college," Eric informed him, rather amiably. "I go to CC, and have my own apartment on the East side."
Jean nodded his head. "Oh." He continued looking like a bobble-head, for lack of anything better to do or to say.
Brock grinned and punched Jeans shoulder. "So, anyway, us and the fellas," and he paused here to indicate the other guys out in the field, "are playing a game of football. When I saw you there I decided to come on over and ask you to play. Would you like to?"
Jean grinned. He wanted nothing more then to relax and play a game with them, even though he had no idea who any of them were, save Brock and now Eric. However, Jean assumed that if they were Brocks friends they must be alright guys. "Sure," he told him. Brock grinned and flung his arm around Jean, causing him to bite his cheek, hard, to keep from turning red as a tomato. The three then proceeded to walk out to the others.
"Guys, this is my friend from school, Jean Grey. Jean, the guys," he told them, shoving jean forward. Most of the guys moved in to shake hands, grunting an awkward and very male hello. One, a rather large and snooty looking shit, stepped forward and began examining him, circling Jean so he could look at him from every angle.
After a moment he spoke. "Don't you live in those apartments, the shitty ones in the slums?" he asked suspiciously. Jean started, thrown off guard by the question.
His fists balled up, and he took a defensive pose, all barriers flying up sky-high. "Yeah, what about it?" he snapped back. The others stepped back, looking uncomfortable, and watched the confrontation unfold.
"I was just wondering why obvious white trash such as you thought it would be all right to play a game of football with us," he tossed back haughtily.
That was it. All the anger that had been broiling inside of Jean came out at once as he flung himself at the obnoxious brunette, fists flying. However, the kid with hair the color of dirt was twice his size. He flung him off, sending Jean sprawling to the ground. The strap on his messenger bag snapped, and its contents had flown every which way.
The boy wiped the blood from his split lip away with the back of his hand. Maliciously he picked up the object of Jeans that was nearest to him, which just happened to be Jean's sketchbook. Growling, jean hopped up and hurried to get it back, but two of the asses cronies stepped in front of him and blocked his way. Fear held Jeans eyes open wide, and, because of Jeans mind coming up with a blank, he turned to Brock, pleading with him for help without saying a single word. The blonde merely shrugged awkwardly, then moved closer to the brunette, curiosity killing not only the cat, but also any possible friendship with jean.
"Well, what do we have here?" the boy, who Jean heard called Alistair, asked teasingly. He opened the cover and began to flip through it, tearing out the drawings Jean had spent hours, if not days, on, one after the other. A person standing a block away could pinpoint the exact moment when they saw the first picture Jean had drawn of Brock. "What the hell?" he asked, and began speeding through the other pages, all containing different painstakingly drawn poses of the same subject.
Jean panicked, his heart dropping through the bottom of his shoes. He managed to shove past the surprised and horrified 'guards,' and grabbed the book. He hurried to collect the rest of his things, and as he stood to run off, he couldn't help but look at Brocks face. A perfect mixture of disgust, fear, embarrassment, and confusion played for control, and had Jean not just lost all desire to ever draw again, he would have been inspired to try to recreate such a heart-wrenching picture. He turned to face Jean dead-on, and spoke. "Please Jean. Please. Tell me there's a reason, a GOOD reason, for, for, for that!" He spat out the last word, flailing an arm towards the notebook and those staring at it.
*He's gay. How did I miss it?! Gay! * The words appeared in Jeans head, Brock's voice speaking, but his lips weren't moving. Writing it off as paranoia, he simply turned away. "I-erm, I have to leave, I'm supposed to be at the store anyways," he called, barely above a whisper. While it was clear that they didn't want him there, he spoke to convince himself he could care less what they thought of him. It didn't work. He bolted as fast as his legs could carry him.
Tearing down the alleyway, Jean ran, forgetting all about shopping, or maybe never caring enough to go in the first place. Who would notice if he wasted away, after all? Who would care? No one. Tears burned him, but he dug them away from him, fingers tearing into his flesh. He had to remove all trace of his torment. The best he could do, for now, was to run. Run away from their hate and his embarrassment. Away from the pain. Away from those damn hurtful voices, the rich snobs, their perfect lives.
Chapter Two
Disclaimer: I don't own jean gray, or any of the marvel characters. Their twisted forms are mine, however, so don't take em, or *thinks of something evil* else. Yes, that's it. Don't take them or else. Also, the story and chapter titles are lines from a song by the googoo dolls, the best group ever. Don't own that either. No suing, all yall get is a past due blockbuster fee.
Authors note: well, the twisted ness of jean is for my yahoo RPG group my home girl runs, called the twistedtalesofx. Check it out if ya have time, its well worth it. Anywho, I was writing his history, and got carried away, so it spawned this story
Warning: oh yeah, forgot this. Uhm, he's gay, so if ya don't like him thinking about other guys, or any of that shit, erm-well, yeah. You've been warned. It's not that big a part in the story, and not any yaoi or nothing, but he does reveal his feelings for a fellow male. Thought I'd let ya know.
Rating: pg-13, the first of my stories to actually earn this rating
~Pop radios screaming down the halls~
Chapter one
Jean strolled down the hall to the rhythm of the heavy bassinet coming from one of his neighbor's apartments. He let out a frustrated sigh as the light above him flickered, and he stumbled over a rip in the raggedy carpet. He swore under his breath and grabbed onto the wall to support himself, prevent himself from falling flat on his face and looking like a moron. Not that anybody was watching him. Nobody ever was.
He waited until he recovered his balance and then pushed off the cold concrete, continuing on his way. The light came back on, and jean narrowly managed to avoid stepping on the tale of a stray black cat. He chuckled and ran a hand through his chin-length ruby red hair. He walked a few paces further, reaching the door to the stairs. He shoved it open and ascended them two at a time. Jean always preferred to take the stairs, the elevator making him feel claustrophobic.
He entered the hallway his apartment was on, and was pleased to note that the shattered glass had been swept up, and the bloodstain removed as much as it seemed was possible. His pace slowing remarkably as his apartment door came into view.
The last few paces felt like the green mile, and jean paused outside his door, listening. He hardly dared breathe as he focused in, trying to decipher the slightest noise from within. When all his efforts were met with silence, he began to take in air again with a relieved whoosh. Slowly he tried the handle, pressing the warmth of his hand against the cool metal, only to be stopped short when he discovered it was locked. With a flustered grunt jean plunged his hand into the black messenger bag he carried on him at all times, digging around for his keys.
Victorious he found them and began to flip through the various objects until he found the right one. He inserted it into the slot and twisted, pressing open the door. Jean heard the metal clang of the chain, and it became revealed to him that the door was locked from within, as well. "Damnit," he mumbled, reaching into the slot he had created with one hand, trying to remove it without disturbing his mother. He hated when he had to bother her, she had life hard enough without worrying about jean on top of it all. He stuck his tongue out in concentration, really stretching his arm as far as he was able to. He still hadn't touched the metal, but somehow it fell away. He shrugged it off to his mother not putting it on properly, and entered.
Jean took his keys out and re-chained the door so his mother would never notice he was there. It was best that way, after all. He snuck down the hallway, nerves on edge, and tried to slip as quietly as was humanly possible through the squeaking door to his bedroom.
Sadly, lady luck was not with him today. Before he could shut the door behind him, a slurred curse was heard along with his mothers' soft tone. "Damns that shitsass kid," a man growled from the bedroom across the hall. Jean's heart skipped a beat and he closed his eyes. A moment later his mothers voice rang out. "Jeann, thats you sson?" she asked. It was obvious that she had been drinking as well.
"Yes mom," he called back tentatively. He hovered like a scared butterfly in the doorway, gripping the handle until his knuckles turned white.
"Sson, remember to takes out the trasshh, okays?" she asked, though Jean knew full well it wasn't a question.
"Sure mom. I'll do it in a few, no problem," he responded, his voice containing more certainty then he actually felt.
"Now sshhut uhp ahn-hiccup-hnd leave uss alone, or elsse," his mothers' boyfriend of 3 months threatened him. He was an abusive drunken bastard, but nothing Jean said could get his mother to stop seeing him, so eventually jean just stopped trying. Now all he did was avoid him within an inch of his life.
"Yessir," he answered, totally and completely without conviction. Jean quickly slipped inside his room the rest of the way and bolted it shut behind him. Even though he still had that walking-on-eggshells feeling, he managed to relax enough to lean his back against the door. He heaved a sigh and tried to suppress all the anger and bitter emotions welling up within him.
Jeans sharp ears managed to pick up the loud conversation his mom and that rat Jack were having. "C'mon babys, unh, munh."
"No. Jacks, don't wanna, noo," he heard his mother protesting.
A loud smack of skin against skin caused Jean to wince, and he heard Jack growl, "Don't talk backs to me! You'll do what Is want you to, undersstand?"
A feminine whimper followed, along with a meek and scared, "uhmhm." After that all that followed was his mothers' soft sobs and Jacks groans of satisfaction.
Jean pushed off the door, wiping away the hot tear that had begun its trail down his face, and headed for his bed. Kicking off his sandals, he sat down and removed his messenger bag, setting it down beside him. Following the next step in his daily routine, he put on his headphones and cranked up the music, trying his hardest to drone out Jack's screams and moans. He shivered, body wracked with emotion, and he pulled his knees up to his chest, swiping once more at his ever-flowing tears.
When jean had reached some semblance of calm he dug through his bag, pulling out his sketchbook, and flipped till his current work was staring back at him. It was a picture of a blonde-haired boy named Brock that Jean had been watching. His eyes roamed over the sketch and he noticed with disappointment his inability to capture Brocks beauty on the page. He stared at it, and began to imagine with a faint smile the conversation he would have with him one day. They would talk about the world, and find they had everything in common. And then, they would come to the most important thing of them all. Brock had been watching him, too. And Brock found him absolutely, utterly attractive. And then he would lean in, the heat from his face warming Jeans, and then his soft supple lips would meet jeans rather small ones, and---
Jean was startled from his daydream by a loud and insistent pounding on his door. He looked up and saw plaster drifting down from the ceiling at each blam his door got. Quickly he flung off his headphones, only to have his ears assaulted with slurred words and curses. "God Damnit boys, open thiss doors, or ills---"
"Coming," Jean interrupted loudly. His stomach did a flip-flop and he felt his muscles begin to tighten and tense. He flung open the door quickly, and hopped back, all in one motion. "You banged?" he snapped irritably. Uncomfortable as he was, the minute he saw the man all his hatred always managed to resurface.
A bitch slap managed to reach him, and, as much as Jean wanted to beat the living daylights out of him, he held himself and check. He merely scowled and reached up his hand to cover his stinging cheek and sniffed up the blood in his nose. "Dontchas talk back to Meh!" Jack grunted. "Now takes out that sshhits, and then go sshhopping, wes outs of beer."
Jean just mumbled an okay and squeezed past the man. He felt as though Jack's alcohol scent had penetrated all his clothing, his very essence. He walked to the kitchen and stalled until he was sure that jack had gone. The one thing he HAD managed to do was to convince his mom to hide all the bill money. This way jack couldn't steal it and blow it all on drugs and alcohol like he had the past two months worth of money in a row.
He grabbed the cash from inside the stir fry slow cooker, tore the list off the fridge, and made a mental note to buy something other then just Budweiser and frozen pizzas. He returned to his room long enough to get his sandals and repack his messenger bag. Jean grabbed the trash and left the apartment as quickly as was possible.
He hurried down the steps, his anger turning to despair and back again, his emotions giving him the energy he needed to keep going, despite the shooting pains in his still bleeding nose. He flung open the door and the cold air hit him dead on, sending a chill down his spine. Jean tossed the trash into the large brown bin and turned abruptly towards the side-alley, taking his favorite shortcut to the corner store. He liked it so much because if you followed it long enough, it would come out in the park. When he reached it, Jean fell against the large oak tree, and just cried until he felt the tears would no longer come. Just as he was ready to wipe away the pool of blood mixed with tears and head to the store, he felt a hand clamp onto his shoulder. His emerald eyes widened and Jean spun around quickly, lashing out before he even saw who it was.
When he did, Jean immediately regretted it. "Brock! I-I'm so sorry, I didn't know it was you! I'm sorry, really!" he hurried to apologize away his idiocy. He leaned down to try and help Brock, who feigned a smile and stood up, a grimace causing him to fall against a tree.
"Don't worry about it Jean-o, it's nothing, really," he tried to reassure him. Jean moved forward to help him once more, and Brock waved him off yet again. "I was just worried about you, that's all. You were alone for so long, and--"
He was cut off when a raven-haired boy came running over. "Did he agree? Is he gonna play or not?" The guy seemed to be bouncing on the soles of his feet. Jean blushed and took a step back, made slightly uncomfortable by the abruptness of the boy.
Brock gave Jean a questioning look, sensually blowing his hair out of his face before speaking. "Jean, this is my brother, Eric. Eric, meet Jean Grey," he introduced them. Jean shook, all the while examining the similarities between them. The same gentle nose, supple lips, perfect eyebrows, strong chin, hell, they even had the same build.
"I haven't seen you around," Jean offered simply. He couldn't help himself from wishing the boy hadn't come over, but seeing as how punching Brock in the balls hadn't exactly shown off Jeans poise, perhaps it was a good thing they were interrupted after all.
"That's cause I am in college," Eric informed him, rather amiably. "I go to CC, and have my own apartment on the East side."
Jean nodded his head. "Oh." He continued looking like a bobble-head, for lack of anything better to do or to say.
Brock grinned and punched Jeans shoulder. "So, anyway, us and the fellas," and he paused here to indicate the other guys out in the field, "are playing a game of football. When I saw you there I decided to come on over and ask you to play. Would you like to?"
Jean grinned. He wanted nothing more then to relax and play a game with them, even though he had no idea who any of them were, save Brock and now Eric. However, Jean assumed that if they were Brocks friends they must be alright guys. "Sure," he told him. Brock grinned and flung his arm around Jean, causing him to bite his cheek, hard, to keep from turning red as a tomato. The three then proceeded to walk out to the others.
"Guys, this is my friend from school, Jean Grey. Jean, the guys," he told them, shoving jean forward. Most of the guys moved in to shake hands, grunting an awkward and very male hello. One, a rather large and snooty looking shit, stepped forward and began examining him, circling Jean so he could look at him from every angle.
After a moment he spoke. "Don't you live in those apartments, the shitty ones in the slums?" he asked suspiciously. Jean started, thrown off guard by the question.
His fists balled up, and he took a defensive pose, all barriers flying up sky-high. "Yeah, what about it?" he snapped back. The others stepped back, looking uncomfortable, and watched the confrontation unfold.
"I was just wondering why obvious white trash such as you thought it would be all right to play a game of football with us," he tossed back haughtily.
That was it. All the anger that had been broiling inside of Jean came out at once as he flung himself at the obnoxious brunette, fists flying. However, the kid with hair the color of dirt was twice his size. He flung him off, sending Jean sprawling to the ground. The strap on his messenger bag snapped, and its contents had flown every which way.
The boy wiped the blood from his split lip away with the back of his hand. Maliciously he picked up the object of Jeans that was nearest to him, which just happened to be Jean's sketchbook. Growling, jean hopped up and hurried to get it back, but two of the asses cronies stepped in front of him and blocked his way. Fear held Jeans eyes open wide, and, because of Jeans mind coming up with a blank, he turned to Brock, pleading with him for help without saying a single word. The blonde merely shrugged awkwardly, then moved closer to the brunette, curiosity killing not only the cat, but also any possible friendship with jean.
"Well, what do we have here?" the boy, who Jean heard called Alistair, asked teasingly. He opened the cover and began to flip through it, tearing out the drawings Jean had spent hours, if not days, on, one after the other. A person standing a block away could pinpoint the exact moment when they saw the first picture Jean had drawn of Brock. "What the hell?" he asked, and began speeding through the other pages, all containing different painstakingly drawn poses of the same subject.
Jean panicked, his heart dropping through the bottom of his shoes. He managed to shove past the surprised and horrified 'guards,' and grabbed the book. He hurried to collect the rest of his things, and as he stood to run off, he couldn't help but look at Brocks face. A perfect mixture of disgust, fear, embarrassment, and confusion played for control, and had Jean not just lost all desire to ever draw again, he would have been inspired to try to recreate such a heart-wrenching picture. He turned to face Jean dead-on, and spoke. "Please Jean. Please. Tell me there's a reason, a GOOD reason, for, for, for that!" He spat out the last word, flailing an arm towards the notebook and those staring at it.
*He's gay. How did I miss it?! Gay! * The words appeared in Jeans head, Brock's voice speaking, but his lips weren't moving. Writing it off as paranoia, he simply turned away. "I-erm, I have to leave, I'm supposed to be at the store anyways," he called, barely above a whisper. While it was clear that they didn't want him there, he spoke to convince himself he could care less what they thought of him. It didn't work. He bolted as fast as his legs could carry him.
Tearing down the alleyway, Jean ran, forgetting all about shopping, or maybe never caring enough to go in the first place. Who would notice if he wasted away, after all? Who would care? No one. Tears burned him, but he dug them away from him, fingers tearing into his flesh. He had to remove all trace of his torment. The best he could do, for now, was to run. Run away from their hate and his embarrassment. Away from the pain. Away from those damn hurtful voices, the rich snobs, their perfect lives.
Chapter Two