Hello all! This is my first story on Fictionpress so read and enjoy chapter 1. It is a shounen ai/ boy's love story so if you're not into that kind of thing, do yourself a favor and click the back button. It's usually in the shape of a little left-pointing arrow at the top of your browser? Yeah. That one. Anyways. Please write a review if you have the time and let me know if you see spelling errors or if something reads badly.

I guess the first thing I notice about Tristan O'Keefe is his hair: platinum blonde and long (for a guy at least). His hair is straight and whitish and ends a little below his chin. I wonder if it's as soft as it looks but I don't have the courage to touch it. What guy just reaches out and touches another guy's hair? Another thing I notice about Tristan is that he has these really surprising eyes. They're a dark, boring brown, just like mine. You'd kind of expect the blonde kid to have ice-blue eyes but his aren't. They're just plain-old-brown. And he has these crazy freckles all across his nose and cheeks and a few on his arms. They aren't the kind that seem like some kind of tiny man walked across your face with muddy shoes on, but they're small and orange-y and there's a bunch of them. Also, he dresses well, layering an un-tucked collared shirt with rolled up sleeves over a long-sleeved cotton shirt and baggy jeans. To someone like me, he looks comfortable within himself.

Within himself is a good way of describing Tristan's personality too. This whole math class he hasn't said one word. He's drawing something in the margin of his worksheet, but I can't see it because he's blocking it strategically with his arm. He hasn't answered one question or taken down one note. It's like he's not even on the same planet as the rest of us who are busily copying down key points for tomorrow's quiz. I check the clock. We have 15 more minutes. Then I'll continue my secret analysis of Tristan O'Keefe.

The only time I've heard him speak is in History, which he seems pretty into. Personally, I couldn't care less about aqueducts and Victorian farming techniques or whatever, but Tristan east it all up. He had his hand in the air for almost every question and got the right answer 75 of the time. I would say my favorite class is English but I don't have that with Tristan so I have no idea if he reads and writes as much as I do. I'm an honors English student. He isn't.

He flipped over his paper just now and I saw what he was drawing. It was some kind of strange face with the tongue hanging out and a bunch of hair on top of its head, wearing a- Wait. I know who that's supposed to be! I almost can't keep myself from cracking up because Tristan O'Keefe has just drawn a fairly accurate caricature of our math teacher.

He leans back in his chair so that it balances precariously on two legs and stretches. The pencil he holds in his right hand almost hits Tori Gorrhen in the eye. Now she's glaring a hole into the back of his neck. I guess he hasn't been here long enough to know not to screw with Tori. I almost glare back at her before I realize I'm not supposed to be watching him anyway. I bite my lip and check the clock again. 10 minutes left. Yes. Sweet.

Tristan eats by himself every lunch, runs the track by himself every gym class, walks the halls by himself between every class, and walks home by himself after school every day. It's kind of weird that he hasn't made any friends because at our school, usually if you've been new here five minutes, some clique has invited you in. I guess he's too much of an introvert to attract any of their attention. I would let him sit with us at the "Weird Honors-English, Art-Club, Anime-Loving, Goth-Kids-and-Emos Clique" table, but I don't think he'd like it very much. I, myself, am not a goth or an emo, but I'm nerdy enough to be friends with all those guys. We get along pretty well. Seriously, they're pretty nice and almost all of them are in Mr. Fielding's honors English with me, so we couldn't help but become friends. I think if Tristan sat with us, he'd feel overwhelmed by our discussion of Saturday night Anime and weird books no one but us would ever read.

I turn my attention back to math class, and Tristan. He's blazing his pencil around his hand in circles, something I could never do. I almost try it under my desk, but then I remember that I'm not supposed to be watching him and copying something the kid in the next desk over is doing would be too obvious. I crack my knuckles instead. Two minutes.

"Okay kids. So that about wraps that up. Any questions?" There are never any questions. Put the freaking homework on the board! As she does that, Tristan finally seems to notice that he's in a math class on planet Earth and gets his assignment notebook out. I grab mine from the depths of my courier bag and, as soon as I have the assignment down, the bell rings.

I'm right on Tristan's heels as we file out the door. He turns the corner towards the English department. I'm on my way to Gym so we're headed in opposite directions. I can't help but notice that he's significantly shorter than I am (not that that's hard), but I don't really have time to take note of anything else when we go separate ways.

The gym is a fantastical land that always smells like rubber balls and waxed floors. There're the hoops on every wall, the net dividers that can split the gym down the middle for class division purposes, there's the track-of-hell right outside the door, and there's my fat, short, pimply, wrinkly, not-unlike-an-ogre gym teacher Ms. Sweet (Real name. Not joking). Yes, you could say that it's one of my least favorite places to be. Especially D-block, which is right before lunch on Thursdays. Obviously the only reason anyone gets put in this class is if they are juvenile delinquents or nerds who need some boot camp because Gym before lunch provides the world's best kind of torture: starvation. Then again, maybe the lunch ladies are low on business so they jam as much gym before lunch as possible. Whatever the reason may be, I hate D-Block on Thursdays.

I enter the locker room, which radiates a warm, humid, sweaty stench about 40-feet from the door, and get into my gym clothes as quickly as possible. I occupy a tiny corner in one of the less-used locker sections. I stow my day-clothes in locker 42 (The answer to the question of life. How could I not take it?), and tug on the hem of my shorts. They're getting even shorter on me now after my growth spurt over the summer. I went from 5'9 to 6' during vacation and I can't help but find myself looking down at the crowns of people's heads. I'm not into my height. As if I weren't skinny and weird-looking enough already.

Before I go out, I have a habit of checking myself in the mirror. I don't know why, it's a girly habit of mine that everyone chooses to ignore. Besides, it's not like I look any different today than I usually do. But today, I look at my eyes. They're virtually the same color as Tristan's and it's weird to see them now after realizing that. I mean, the vast majority of people in this school have brown eyes but ours are the same coppery-brown color. No interesting flecks. None of that weird color-changing stuff. Just brown, through-and-through. My shirt is extremely wrinkly from being in my bag all day and my short, brown hair is sticking up in the back from sleeping on it weird. I wanna fix it, but I know if anyone catches me smoothing it down, they'll think I'm weirder than I look. Okay, I'll pat it a little while no one's around. There. That's a bit better. I nod at myself in the mirror, then turn and exit the locker room without looking back.

Thanks for reading. More soon, I promise! ;D