UNNNNGGGGGG. THIS CHAPTER. HOLY SHIT THIS CHAPTER. THIS TOOK ME SO BLOODY FUCKING LONG I SWEAR TO GOD.
sorry for that! i'm just super super excited about this? also, i've noticed there's been some confusion about me, like "what? where are you from?" because i move around a lot (haha, sorry?) BUT. to keep it simple, i was born in London and lived there for a bit, then moved back and forth from there to New Zealand because of her work. i just recently moved to America, as she was fired from her job and got a new one there. fair enough?
cheers.
disclaimer: JP owns Maximum Ride, not me.
"That's a lot of cigarettes," the cashier at the counter commented, a teenager with a horrifyingly Northern accent, like he'd just escaped Yorkshire. His curly hair whipped at his face; curls twisted over his eyebrows and stopped roughly and unevenly at his jawline - it looked as if someone had sheared off the rest with pliers. He raised his eyebrows at Fang in an unrecognizable way, like Fang only had a few more days left to live with such a large order. It was really only eight assorted colours of Marlboros, yellow and blue and red and green packs, because why the fuck not?
"I'm aware," Fang replied dryly, tapping his fingers impatiently on the rubber conveyor belt, pouring his opaque eyes into the cashier's. He raised his eyebrows back. "I fondly call it an addiction."
The kid rung up the cigarettes without another word, but the look on his face contorted into more of a grimace with each pack of cigarettes that he pressed to the scanner. "It's your life," he said as he dumped the cartons in a plastic bag, pressing the handles into Fang's hand and shaking his head.
"Also aware." Fang tossed him twenty pence as he walked away as an insulting tip, and the flustered teen caught it with much alarm, like he'd expected Fang to throw a grenade.
Fang had just stepped on the pavement outside of Tesco when his mobile rang, blasting "Eucalyptus" by The Deadly Syndrome, a song that faintly reminded him of old reruns of generation one of Skins for some reason. He waited a bit before picking up, listening to the tune of the song until he feared the person on the line would hang up.
"Yeah?" Fang asked, blinking as he realized he'd forgotten to check the caller ID.
"Mate, where are you? I'm bored as hell and need you back at the flat so we can watch some badly done American horror films."
"Cigs," Fang breathed, shaking his head as he opened the door to his car, sliding in the passenger seat and gripping his keys with his other hand. "You're aware of the fact that you're blind, right?"
"So?" Iggy sighed. "I'm in the mood, Fang. I'm in the mood for satanic American horror films, and I know you won't waste your quid on taking me to the cinema, so get your arse over here and we'll watch The Conjuring or maybe Paranormal Activity or something."
"Okay, whatever," Fang said, turning the key, his hand buzzing from the roar of the car while it ignited. "I'm just leaving Tesco, so-"
"Oh, you are?" Iggy asked, and Fang could definitely tell that he'd perked up. "We're out of popcorn, you know, and I can text you some spices I need-"
"Cigs, I'm leaving Tesco," Fang clarified, "all I got were cigarettes."
"Did you get the red carton of Marlboros?"
"Does it matter? You can't see them."
"Fang, when will you ever learn? I live for the experience. Plus, the red cartons are the best quality."
Fang chuckled to himself. "You're like the kid who thinks Froot Loops have different flavours."
"I'm not like that kid. I am that kid. Did you get them or not?"
"Yes, I did. And you're fucking twenty-five, please learn to get a life."
Iggy laughed on the other line, a throaty kind of laugh like he wasn't paying as much attention to the conversation at hand, but wanted to contribute in some way. "Alright, mate. Come back right away, yeah? You've got twenty minutes before I put Texas Chainsaw Massacre in the player."
"If you can find it," Fang said, but Iggy had already hung up.
Fang and Iggy had already smoked two of the cartons of cigarettes, seen seven films, and had ordered Chinese takeout a few hours ago that beginning to taste like cold grease with each lazy bite of lo mein when a faint buzzing in Fang's pocket jumped him out of his stupor. He recognized the tune of the alarm on his phone, "All That We Are" by Creel Commission, which meant that it was his alarm to wake up for work. His fingers fumbled with the lock screen as he turned it off, looking around the room in bewilderment of his and Iggy's foggy night.
The Chinese food that they had ordered eons ago was sprawled across the coffee table, some of the rice pouring out of the sides and onto the carpet. Noodles dangled precariously off the edge of the table, and pairs of chopsticks littered the ground, sauce mixing into papers that Fang was positive belonged to students at one point. The copies of DVDs were out of their case, and films that Fang didn't even remember watching sat on countertops and on top of the television set.
Iggy was curled up in a ball on the couch, face half submerged in a bowl of popcorn, smelling oddly of strawberries, his hair stuck on end like he had been electrocuted.
"Mate," Fang hissed, hitting Iggy squarely on the shoulder. Iggy bounced up, causing the popcorn to fly everywhere, and squinted harshly at Fang like he was adjusting to the light, but Fang knew it was a glare more than anything else. "We've got to get to the school."
"But it's Sunday?" Iggy yawned, stretching, popcorn crunching as he did so.
"No, it's Monday, and I've got that class trip in Kent, and you've got to teach some hungry and hormonal teenagers the importance of nutrition."
And at that note, the two of them stood abruptly, rushing to get ready for the day, Iggy yelling obscenities as he fumbled with his jumper, Fang mixing dry shampoo in his hair and brushing his teeth, lathering cologne on to rid the smell of cigarettes and stale Chinese food.
"What about the sitting room?" Fang asked, throwing on a simple black shirt and jeans - this was a class trip, and volunteering meant he could wear something far more casual than his usual collared shirt and khaki jeans - and stuffing money into his jeans pocket when he realized he hadn't packed any food for the trip.
Fang heard Iggy hopping in the other room, no doubt attempting to put on a pair of socks on one foot, as he said, "We'll do it later!"
Once they arrived at the school, it was five to eight, and Fang was ten minutes late. The students in his class looked bewildered at his no doubt casual appearance; he tried to look as classy as he could, smoothing down his tousled hair with a jittery hand, and gave a caffeinated smile to the class.
"Everyone ready for Kent?" He asked, breaking the awkward silence. "Lunches packed? Money, if you want to buy something?" He cleared his throat. "Anyone know why we're going to Deal?"
Most of the students continued to whisper to each other until Ari, a rather tall rugby player, raised his hand. He was a notorious tosser with the memory of a peanut from all the weed he smoked, but had an aptitude for literature. "Well, didn't Julius Caesar set foot there?"
"And why is this important?"
"Um," he stuttered, "can I phone a friend?" The class erupted in stifled laughter. Fang let out a small chuckle.
"Why not? Pick on someone to finish for you."
Ari looked around for a while until his eyes settled on Max's, who shook her head and gave him a menacing glare, even though the smile toying at her lips gave out her real intentions. The two were like brother and sister, always close, or so Fang had heard. "Max," Ari said, pointing in her direction.
"Well, um," Max started, "we're supposed to be looking at modern connections to Hamlet, right? And I'm sure all of us can think of times when we've felt forced to have responsibilities we don't want. Caesar and Alexander the Great were forced into their positions at an early age because of their fathers - Alexander was thirteen and Caesar was sixteen. I mean, Hamlet was what, in his early twenties? But his father's death gave him responsibilities he wasn't prepared for. And Caesar was killed by people who were supposed to be his friends, like Hamlet's father was killed by his brother. We've all been lied to. Cheated. Beaten up. Forced to do something we didn't want to. We've been backstabbed before, Caesar just was backstabbed literally." The class laughed at her comment.
"Good," Fang said, feeling a smile spread onto his cheeks, and he was so mesmerized in her insight that he didn't think to cover his mouth, just smiled and let it happen. It was so impressive, the way she could connect things to herself and make it so real, so fucking real that he forgot that it was a play. "Then let's go to Kent! We'll be in Deal in about two hours."
So they boarded onto a chartered bus, students pairing up in seats. Another smile spread to his face as he watched Max interact with Ari, but that same feeling tugged at his chest as he looked at the way Ari looked at Max. He forced himself to look away from the laughing pair, hating that he didn't know why it made him sick to look at her. He was supposed to be glad she was getting over everything, right?
It was midday and typical England weather by the time Fang and his class arrived at Deal Beach. Clouds were spreading over the vast sky, and wind was lapping at Fang's unevenly brushed hair as he stepped off the bus and onto the pier.
The pier was lined with benches and stretched over fifteen kilometers long. Dim lampposts lighted the cloudy afternoon, and the light wind enabled the salty water to infiltrate Fang's nose, salty and smelling like seaweed and sweets, almost, due to the café at the end of the pier mixing with the ocean. He'd told the class that they could explore the pier, but if they so much as left, the teachers - including Olivier, who was more than happy to throw them in detention - would catch them.
Fang walked for a while down the pier before coming to a stop, leaning against the yellow railing. He looked back at the students, and once certain he was at a safe enough distance, took out a carton of Marlboros he'd yet to open. He flipped two upside down for good luck and lit the tip with his Zippo, taking a long drag, easing his nerves quickly.
"Hey, Mr. Walker," he heard someone shout out. Fang blew out smoke as he turned to see who it was, finding Max standing next to him in a jumper and deep black leggings and leg warmers. Fang automatically felt subconscious and was about to stamp out his cigarette when Max rushed next to him and assured him he could smoke. He took another drag.
"Yes, Max?" he responded, figuring it was obligatory. The wind made it difficult to look at her, so he signaled her to stand next to him. The two looked at the ocean for a while.
"Ask me how deep the ocean is," she said after a while.
"Shut up," he replied playfully.
"Come on," she said, nudging his arm. His cigarette hit him in the side of the face. "Just ask me."
"Why?" He said, turning to look at her. Her hair was being buffeted by the wind, but the way her eyes lit up made him laugh lightly.
"'Cause I know the answer," she said matter-of-factly.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, feigning surprise, "do you?"
"Yes, I do."
"How deep is the ocean?" Fang asked, playing along.
Her tongue poked out of her teeth in a smile, then she said loud enough to beat the wind, "I'm not gonna say."
"I'm brokenhearted."
She nudged him again. "The ocean is six miles deep."
"Good."
They gave each other sideways glances for moments that felt like minutes, until Max started to chuckle. And that one bit of laughter was enough to get them both going, until they were laughing for minutes, laughter that didn't seem to die down. It was so ridiculous, but whenever he'd look over to see Max trying to stop laughing, that would erupt another round of laughter. Fang just let it happen, because after a while trying in vein to cover his toothy grin was impossible, and it made laughing easier, more enjoyable.
They stood in a comfortable silence for a while longer, looking at the waves collapse against the side of the pier. It was quiet even in the loudness that was behind them, students playing games and sitting on the benches just to talk. Fang was on his second cigarette and was enjoying Max's company.
"So how are you?" Fang asked, sneaking a glance towards Max. Her eyes flickered towards the clouds, like she was seriously contemplating this simple question, before saying that she was fine with the confidence of a traffic light.
"Seriously," Fang continued, "are you ever going to tell me the truth?"
"I don't think so. Maybe if you get a terminal illness."
Fang took an over-exaggeratedly long drag from his cigarette before puffing a stream of smoke into the air, staring at Max the entire time to emphasize her 'terminal illness' statement. "Fair enough."
"You're a twat, you know that?" she said dryly, like she was complimenting his shoes, almost.
"Eh, whatever."
"No, really," she said, "you're like, the ultimate twat," she said in a deep voice, like she was impersonating Darth Vader or something.
"Well, at least I don't lie, even when the question is 'how are you,'" Fang retorted, stamping out his second cigarette. He was half-hoping for a reaction, half-hoping she'd tell him the truth.
He just wasn't expecting what she actually said.
"Well, I'm a girl who has been tamping down on her emotions and keeping them tightly guarded her whole life, and that worked really well for me." She sighed. "And after what Dylan did to me, I just feel like that shell has a dangerous crack in it. Without much effort on his part, it split wide open, and my enormous river of emotions just gushed out - the bad and the good. And I thought, 'I don't know if I can do this,' because I just don't know. It was just the scariest thing I'd ever thought of."
"But that's life. You can't just go through life like that. There's so many things to see, and living your life in monotony just makes it boring," Fang winced at his own words. How boring was his life? Just an English teacher stuck in London, staying up all night just to watch horrible films with his blind best friend, describing scenes as they happened, laughing at jokes before Iggy could even understand them. Fang shook his head. "You're so smart, and amazing, and it's horrible what they did to you."
Max just laughed, an empty laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "He's already found another girlfriend, too - she's got an incredibly long neck. Just looking at giraffes makes me angry."
"Thank god you don't have that issue." Fang said, toying with his Zippo. He lit it on and off, on and off, looking at Max and imagining her with a giraffe's neck. A smile escaped from his mouth and he covered it quickly.
"Why do you do that?" she asked suddenly, watching him put his hand back into the pocket of his jumper.
"Do what?"
"Cover your mouth when you smile."
"Does it bother you?" Fang asked her, raising an eyebrow. He hadn't really thought about that, to be honest.
"Well, I just think it's a waste," she said, filing a hand through her wind-whipped hair. "You've got the most beautiful smile, you know," she said, and then smiled widely, putting her index fingers on the corners of her mouth to emphasize her point. "It's vibrant."
Fang pushed the blush that was already beginning to creep onto his face down before swallowing thickly. That aching in his chest was becoming unbearable. He was extremely aware of her in that moment, the way she smelt like lavender detergent mixed with pepper and old pages of a book, that the colours of her eyes were almost like honey when they poured into his, and the way the bottom of her front tooth was chipped - her imperfections, no matter what they were, were still lovely.
He hated how gorgeous she was, how much she didn't think she was. He hated it, and for a moment, he hated her for it, hated the way she could make him smile as easily as he did. Hated her way of speaking, how simple sarcasm could drip from her voice just as easily as beautifully crafted words could.
Fang swallowed again, not sure what to say. He bit his tongue to force impulsive words and tangents out of his mouth, yet still so sure that he was about to say something he would regret-
Olivier's whistle blew loudly over the pier in a signal that it was time to go back to the bus. Fang blinked a few times, shaking himself out of his trance. He answered her question simply before walking down the maroon floored pier:
"We've all got our insecurities."
The smell of lavender detergent clogged his sinuses the entire way back to the school.
Guys, I worked SO hard on this chapter for you all! I hope you liked it! Please give me a review if you think something should be a certain way, or if you have any suggestions!
-SOCIALLYOBSCENE