Also written for "seblaine week", the prompt being that of an Alternative Universe.
Note: I tried to keep this as far away from "Go Your Own Way" as I could, but if there are parallels (in Blaine's badboy-esque bit), know that I did not intend for them.
You flick your tongue ring obscenely against your front row of pearly whites, drawing quick attention to the students around you. You don't care. You don't even glance away.
Your eyes have been drawn to the neck of the boy in front of you, his lettermen jacket shrugging lightly over his slight frame, the classic black Converse peeking out from under his legs and into your line of sight.
You click the ring again. He twitches slightly but continues reading the passage on the American Revolution.
You pass a hand through those thick curls that always get you dirty looks from your mother - the ones that had been perfect for your adorable, private schoolboy image until you grew up and decided you utterly did not give a fuck about anything.
Click. Twitch. Click. He scratches the back of his head with his hand, shifting through the brown strands. Click.
You feel the smirk tugging against your lips as you lean forward, stretching your short legs out, donned in dark black skin tight can't breathe tug tug tug just how he likes it.
Your eyes shift to the clock on the left side of the room, past the balding woman behind the desk who seems to have fallen asleep. The three eyebrow rings over the hazel orb that is surrounded by bruised skin flings up causually as you notice the time - or rather lack of time - left in the class.
Three minutes til the weekend. Three minutes til freedom.
Three minutes til Sebastian.
Sebastian, who's got the lacrosse muscles and the fancy car and the big house with a pool and the arrogant smirk and the blue tinged fingers (from the 99 cent slushies) and the tongue like a whore and the obsession with the spacer in your ear.
You think back to an hour before, halfway through lunch, when he had you up against the brick wall by the bleachers, biting that same ear. He managed to coax the joint out of your hands -those things are bad for you, you know- and get you the hardest boner -was just tossing a ball around with the boys so I might be a bit sweaty- in a minute, a new record.
The bell rings. The old woman at the front wakes up with a start. The asshole student body vice president next to you gets up immediately, shooting you a dirty look.
You stand quietly, knocking the textbook you hadn't peeked at once all class into your dirty, dark bag, and shrugging your beat up leather jacket over your shoulder - black boots kicking your chair in.
You circle to where Sebastian is packing up his shoulder slung backpack, sliding it quickly over the red jacket as he nodded at another jock leaving the classroom. He pockets the horribly bitten pen he'd been writing with (and god, do you know how much he likes to bite things) and looks up at you with a grin, green eyes sparkling with all kinds of mischief.
He reaches his hand out to flick your nose and you wrinkle it slightly as you narrow your eyes. He just laughs at that, "Do you ever stop it with your tongue?"
"You love my tongue."
"Yes, but it makes quite a racket. I was trying to learn about Madison and tea taxes and-"
"Yours or mine tonight?" You have subconsciously stepped closer to him, something that happens quite a lot when you're within a three feet radius of the taller boy. You hate it hate it hate it, how much you like looking up at him, how much you enjoy how his eyes sweep over your tight red shirt, the dark tattoos that contrast against the white of your forearms.
"I was thinking Wendy's." At your curious eyebrow lift he elaborates, eyes darkening as he stares at the green hoop pierced in the skin, "after the movie of course.."
"No. No, I'm not going to go see The Muppets. That isn't happening."
Sebastian laughs at your expression, you know how you must look - petulant, with that look he calls the 'no-nonsense' look - but you don't care.
"Jason Segel though," Sebastian is reaching out for your hand, and you try to keep it away from his larger one, try to keep your bloodied knuckles from grazing the smooth skin over his, but he catches it - smiling in triumph.
His thumb presses down lightly over said scraped knuckles but - and this is probably your favourite thing about him - he doesn't say anything, only pulling you out of the classroom by your hand, shooting the teacher a wink as he tugs you out the door.
"Either the Muppets or we go to that Italian place in Westerville," he says, swinging your hands as you walk together down the hallway.
"Either a blow job in the theater or sex in your backseat, you mean." you remind him with a smirk that he returns. You squeeze his hand - a quick squeeze from him follows almost instantly - and deftly pull a cigarette out with your other, slipping it out of the carton and into your lips.
He laughs at it, and shakes his head, not bothering with the usual speech he gives as he drags you to his locker - already started on a story of his biology class and how utterly stupid everyone in it was (excluding himself of course).
You know the two of you must look downright bizarre - the sharpness of you, the brightness of him - his quick charm, your simple snark - dangerous eyes bruised eyes fights smokes joints hatred, smiles athletics sarcasm quick witted smart popular.
You know they shouldn't accept you but at this point it really doesn't matter anyway. You honestly completely and truly do not give a flying leaping jumping fuck what they think.
You clutch his hand tighter as you pass through the front doors.