Everything in this story is historically accurate. Want to know why we haven't heard any Elvis in the story? Because his first studio single wasn't recorded and put on the air until 1956, six or seven months after the story starts. Want to know how much sifting I had to do just to learn about POPCORN and if it was commercially available for home preparation in 1955? Like SO MUCH of it. I should have set this in 1957 or '58, for real.
Porrim's living room was a mess of poster board and paint. Newspaper covered most of the floor, where their small group was working. On the coffee table (which had been pushed against the wall to allow them ample room to work) was several foil tins of E-Z Pop popcorn, filling the air with a deliciously salty smell. Kankri was privately jealous that Porrim's mother could afford to buy popcorn for the family for everyday occasions—the last time he'd had popcorn was at a movie with his parents a year before.
Porrim, of course, seemed to think nothing of it—she, Kanaya, and Rose munched happily while they stenciled and painted in letters. Both he and Tavros Nitram, on the other hand, only ate a few pieces here and there.
Kankri could tell that Tavros was even more unused to such luxury than he was. The sophomore's jeans were threadbare and several sizes too big, held up by a ratty belt, and his shirt was loose as well. They were probably hand-me-downs from his older brother. He was pretty well-aware that the Nitrams were practically dirt poor, but couldn't Tavros's mother at least have patched up the hole in the back of his pant leg? He was too polite to say anything, but he did wonder. And anyway, he appreciated the help that the four of them were giving him. Without their assistance, he knew he wouldn't be able to make nearly as many posters as they were churning out. Even with just him and Porrim, it would have been an uphill struggle.
"So, tell me, Kankri," Rose said abruptly, jarring his attention away from the downward stroke of an A, "what's your actual campaign platform going to be like? I know it doesn't really matter to any of us, since you're the only junior here, but I'm curious about the outsider's perspective you plan to bring to our educational institution in general."
"I must admit, I find myself pondering the same," Kanaya agreed. She set down her brush for a moment to stretch her back, raising her arms above her head. Her back audibly cracked when she arched it. "What sets you apart from the other candidates for junior class president—how many?"
"Just two," Kankri replied.
"That's not so bad. So what could you bring to the table that the others couldn't? If you aren't different enough, you won't get the votes you need to win. What issues have you noticed being a problem?"
"And I swear to God, if you say something about your faith being your anchor, I will backhand you," Porrim said sweetly.
"Well, I—I'm diplomatic," he offered. "I can talk to anyone, about anything. And I also find that authority figures, especially the ones at the school, seem to take me more seriously because of my father."
"That may be true, but it will be difficult to bring that point across during your campaign," Rose pointed out, fishing a few pieces of popcorn out of the tin. "If you bandy about the fact that you're a skilled manipulator, people will be less trusting of you." She punctuated her point by tossing the popcorn into her mouth.
He didn't feel like he was a skilled manipulator—Rose was taking his statement grossly out-of-context. But rather than argue, he changed tack. "I may be an outsider, but that's not necessarily a bad thing, since I wouldn't be constrained by the faulty traditions in place."
"Such as?" Kanaya asked. She tilted her head to the side.
"Excuse me?"
"Faulty traditions? What, exactly, are you referring to? What does the school have a tradition of doing that is such an issue?"
"I—well..." He hated to admit that he hadn't thought about it much. But as his mind flew over his last few weeks, he finally landed on something. "Communication. At the risk of sounding like some kind of elitist, at this school, there seems to be a bit of a breakdown in communication between the staff and the students, whereas at my old school, the students were better-informed. So maybe the teachers and principals could give details on upcoming events to the student councils, and then during class meetings, the student council—"
"Class meetings?" Rose asked, her eyebrow raised.
"Yes, when the different grades meet, all seniors and juniors and sophomores and freshmen in different locations, and they discuss upcoming events and issues that affect them, so the student council can relay those concerns to the faculty and staff so they can be appropriately addressed."
The other four exchanged puzzled glances.
"We don't have those," Porrim said.
Horror flooding through Kankri, his eyes widened, even as Tavros said, "It actually sounds like a good idea, though."
Rose and Kanaya both nodded. "That would... actually be hugely beneficial," Kanaya added. "I agree that the communication structure is flawed, but your class meeting idea sounds like an excellent remedy."
"But that wasn't even my idea!" Kankri protested. "But the fact that you don't have class meetings..." His voice trailed off. The school didn't have class meetings. He just assumed that the reason he hadn't heard anything about them was because it was so early in the academic year and the student council hadn't been elected yet. It never occurred to him that there simply were no class meetings to be had. Part of him didn't want to believe it, but... "I could make that part of my campaign platform. If elected, I will ensure a meeting platform for all the grades to address their grievances with their student council representatives and the school faculty."
"Lofty promises," Porrim yawned, "but what happens if you get elected and the principal vetoes your proposal? You can say you'll start those meetings, but if they tell you to fuck off, well, you just have a whole class full of juniors who are pissed that you didn't keep your promise. I'd ask the principal first if she'd be willing to work with something like that."
"I supposed that's fair," Kankri said slowly.
"So what was your actual idea?" Tavros asked. He reached for the popcorn hesitantly, like he wasn't sure it was real.
"Hmm? Oh, right. Well, the morning announcements always seem a bit... clunky, I suppose? Maybe we could do away with them entirely and let—"
"Nope, not happening," Porrim said. "Quentin would never give up her daily speaking platform. Besides, birthdays get announced during those morning soliloquies. Too many people look forward to hearing their names over that speaker to get rid of it."
"And some of us languish in the hell of summer birthdays, never to hear our names announced over a loudspeaker with a cheerfully-wished 'happy birthday' to follow," Kankri grumbled.
"When's your birthday again?"
"July nineteenth. Unless I wound up in summer school, I will literally never have school on my birthday."
"Well, look on the bright side," Kanaya said. "At least you will literally never have school on your birthday! I, on the other hand, have almost always had my birthday fall on a school day. Like just this past Tuesday. And the same with Porrim."
"And me," Rose said. "Early December is the worst."
"And me. But at least May first is usually warm," Tavros added. "I wish I never had to go to school on my birthday."
Maybe they had a point, but Kankri still felt a twinge of jealousy. He and Karkat were both in the same boat with their summer birthdays. In grade school, they'd never gotten to share cupcakes on their birthdays or received tiny decorative erasers from their teachers. The one time Karkat had asked to have a birthday party, only one other person had shown up—everyone else RSVP'd no because their families had taken them out of town for the first month of summer vacation. Most of their old friends had barely registered their birthdays unless they happened to also fall within the eight weeks between the end of one school year and the beginning of another. Just once, he wished he could experience that.
But he seemed to be outnumbered here, so he swallowed it. "Alright. So she won't give up her platform. That's fair. But I wonder if she can be convinced to scale back her announcements—maybe give a brief overview instead of going terribly in-depth—and further details could be disseminated by the student council. After all, I find that even my mind wanders during her announcements. They can get lengthy and tedious, and by the time she says something that I might have found interesting, I have completely lost focus. Or, perhaps, her messages could be corralled to one day a week, with all of the birthdays being announced at once."
"I suppose that doesn't sound too horrible," Porrim said, relenting. "And I admit, if you're able to get Quentin to curb her talking, the whole school will thank you."
"And I would probably pay more attention to a peer than to the principal," Rose agreed. "And, of course, the format of releasing information with the classes instead of over the PA to the whole school also allows for students to ask for clarification in case something has been worded confusingly."
"As it often is," Kanaya mumbled under her breath.
"So that's probably a good start. At least I have some halfway decent ideas and know where to start. I believe tomorrow after church I'll start on my speech. My debate teacher agreed to look it over for me."
"You might just have a leg up on the competition, then. And with these posters? Well..." Porrim held hers up proudly. VOTE FOR VANTAS! A VOTE FOR YOUR FUTURE was painted elegantly across it in Porrim's preferred jade-green. Kankri let the group have free reign with the designs as long as they bounced slogans off him first, but he had to admit that he rather liked Porrim's design. "You're doing well, I think. And with the way you told off Cronus last night, I think this election will be no big deal for you at all."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Her confidence was infectious. He just might win after all.
He lived for weekends.
In his opinion, Saturday afternoons, just like this one, were the best. He was no longer completely exhausted from the night before, the sun was still out, and the promise of another full day stretched out before him. Sundays were spent with his brother and parents and extended family, which he didn't mind, but he was a more solitary sort of person, and Saturday afternoons were his domain. He could be on his own and simply breathe.
So it was odd that, now, he felt a strange twinge of loneliness.
Sitting in the bed of his truck, back against the rear window with his knees drawn up to his chest, he found himself reminiscing about the last time he'd been in the back of this truck, just over a short week ago. Rufioh had been with him, winding up in his arms, and it had been the best thing in the world. His heart had flown and he wondered if Rufioh really knew what he did to Horuss.
Sometimes, it was difficult not to immediately seek out Rufioh in a room. Homecoming had been a particular kind of torture, up on stage with only Dirk Strider separating the two of them. He'd gotten so used to being able to pull Rufioh to him, like he had on Friday, that it was a struggle not to immediately reach for his hand. Judging by how often Rufioh's eyes had found his that night, the feeling was mutual.
And that was something else that Horuss struggled with—the fact that, after three long years, nearly out of nowhere, Rufioh suddenly reciprocated his feelings. Part of him was still convinced he was dreaming, that he'd wake up soon and find his class ring on his nightstand, that it would still be the first week of school and Rufioh and Damara Megido would be draped all over each other.
But every morning, he awoke and realized he didn't have his ring anymore. Rufioh wore it now, on a chain around his neck, like Horuss had daydreamed of since he was a freshman. (Actually, in his daydreams, Rufioh could proudly wear Horuss's class ring on his finger for everyone to see, but he was a realist and understood the need for discretion. Really, the fact that Rufioh even wore the ring at all was more than he'd dared hoped for.) Rufioh wanted him, and even though he was keeping up this charade with Damara, Horuss knew it was just that: an act. Rufioh didn't want her. He wanted him.
Ever since they were freshmen, Horuss had admired the smaller boy, had felt a strange sort of respect for how he carried himself. It wasn't just that he was beautiful—and he was—it was the fact that he didn't seem to know it, that he felt he needed to defend himself from everything, that he seemed fearless when standing up to the seniors who liked to push him and the other two (who would grow to become three of the four Lost Boys) around in the hallways. He seemed so strong, although it wasn't until he heard the whole story a few months later that he saw why. Rufioh had to be strong—there was no other choice for him.
Horuss saw him come to school with black eyes and swollen cheeks and split lips and bruises, so many bruises, and he wished they were friends so he could say something to him, ask him if he needed anything, offer some kind of help, no matter how futile it was, but Rufioh fell in with the greasers and Horuss's skills always lay with athletics, and he never thought there would ever be a way they could just talk like two teenagers instead of slipping into "greaser" and "jock" roles that would put them at-odds. Not that Rufioh was ever rude to him—they just never got the chance to get to know each other.
So he'd swallowed it back, tamping it down to keep himself from interfering, hoping he could eventually move on while suspecting he wouldn't, not during high school, not while he had to see Rufioh nearly every day. Sure, he'd flash an occasional smile in his direction during school hours, but Rufioh never seemed to notice, and why would he? Girls constantly giggled over him and he never seemed to notice that, so it was no surprise that subtlety flew past him.
But then, just a few weeks ago, he'd been passing by the gas station and he noticed a familiar figure walking along as a violet New Yorker peeled away, and he couldn't help but stop and offer him a ride. Horuss fully expected Rufioh to tell him to fuck off, but, miraculously, against his expectations, Rufioh had accepted. And then there had been the ride itself, where Rufioh opened up to him, implying he liked boys, he didn't like girls at all, and Horuss's subtle remark about his cousin, and the next thing he knew, he had Rufioh pinned to the door of the truck and Rufioh wanted to be there, kissing him.
As he watched Rufioh walk up to his house and disappear inside that night, he knew he'd never be the same. There was no way you remained the same person after discovering your three-year-old unrequited crush was no longer unrequited.
His fingers twitched and he tightened them, wishing Rufioh's hand was in his right now. He promised himself that he'd give Rufioh space, for both their benefit—he couldn't afford to completely lose himself in Rufioh, and he was afraid that the smaller boy would grow bored of him soon if they spent too much time together. Besides, Rufioh had to make it seem like he was still giving Damara attention—and he understood the necessity of their relationship as well. If Rufioh started floating around school like an idiot in love, well, that would make sense if he had a girlfriend. If he was single, though, his behavior might become suspicious. As for him...
He was contemplating asking Meulin to pretend to be his girlfriend, just in case. Maybe...
But the sun was beating down on him, and the crossbreeze in these woods was so cool, and even though he really wasn't that tired, he felt himself slipping into a nap. He hoped he dreamed of Rufioh.
I've wanted to do a little "getting into Horuss's head" thing for awhile so you all know that he is absolutely bonkers over Rufioh AND THESE IDIOTS ARE GOING TO KILL ME.