Draco: Okay...since it seems that my shonen ai/yoai is what people like the best, I'm writing a new one. This one's a bit more normal, and I don't really plan for it to become a full-fledged novel, but...yeah...here goes...
"You do realize they're laughing at you, right?"
"Hmph... That's their problem."
Monty sighed and shook his head as he watched his best friend white-wash the wall. He had trouble believing that Caleb seriously didn't care that most of the school had stayed after just to point and laugh. They all knew Caleb wasn't the one who deserved the punishment, but everyone hated him too much to say so. Unfortunately, the teachers couldn't tell the subtle differences between Caleb's hand and that of a copy cat.
So Monty watched the white paint slather across the hideous, neon orange of graffiti words.
"God..." he sighed. "They can't even pick a color you'd use."
Caleb snorted. "That just makes it a better joke."
Caleb glanced back over his shoulder in disgust at the bared rear-end of a laughing football player, then smirked, dipped his hand in paint, and spun to fling it at the high ass salute.
"Caleb!" Monty howled, eyes wide.
His friend was too busy laughing to respond.
Caleb yawned, leaning back in his chair. A long, bushy, brown ponytail fell over the back, and a streak of neon green fell over his right eye. His left eye was a deep blue orb, looking boredly over mirrored sunglasses. Arms were folded lazily over a black tanktop with an anarchy symbol in red spray paint on the chest, and what looked like an odd arrow was tattooed on his left shoulder. Baggy, denim, skater jeans were held at his wait by a black, studded belt, steel-toed boots peaking out of legs big enough for him to curl up in. Beside him lay a black, canvas backpack, spattered with the same spray paint as his shirt, plus a few specks of white-wash.
People did their typical point-and-laugh routine as they passed the classroom, of which he was the sole occupant. He was used to it, though; it was his routine as well, to sit and stare at the board until his time was up. So there he was, two hours after school, being the Woodhill High mascot for detention. It was a small price to pay for avoiding family.
There was something rather unappealing about going back to a trailer full of rednecks.
So he sat there, staring tiredly at the blank, army green expanse in front of him. He remembered when detention meant filling a board with a repetitive line promising never the do whatever you had done again. They always made you write small, too, in those thin, white letters. Not to mention the necessity of legibility, which tended to slow the process down quite a bit. That was how he spent the majority of his spare time in elementary school. It had always been better than going home.
Yawning, Caleb turned to the young man at the door. Mr. J was an assistant teacher for the shop class, and looked just about fresh out of high school. He gave an understanding smile and hitched his thumb back over his shoulder.
"Ms. Waits had to leave. She said you could join my group if you wanted."
Caleb stared at him for a minute, then dragged himself to his feet, throwing his backpack over his shoulder. Why not? He couldn't imagine Mr. J's detention being any worse than Ms. Waits' silence policy. As he was led across the hall, he was proven correct. The room was silent when the door opened, and everyone, save for those sleeping, turned toward them.
Mr. J laughed as he closed the door. "Alright, guys. Coast is clear."
That was their cue. Everyone started talking like they would between bells all day, except quieter, and Mr. J headed to his desk. Caleb stared around the room for a moment, then found an empty desk in the corner and claimed it. Now this was nice. If only he didn't feel so alone, surrounded by sleeping punks, snobbish goths, and sneering jocks.
"Hey," one of the larger boys, a regional champion wrestler who was apparently trying to compensate for what his spandex uniform had crushed, turned to him. "Well, if it isn't little prince anarchy."
Caleb raised a brow.
"See ya got away without sportin' any battle scars, ya little faggot."
In truth, a few ribs were probably bruised from being tackled by the guy he'd white washed earlier, but Caleb just shrugged.
"What? Not talkin'? Answer me, ass-fucker!"
"Shut the fuck up, Derrik," was the muttered reply, but it hadn't come from Caleb.
A little neo-goth boy sat straddling the back of a chair, head resting on folded arms. One thickly lined, violet eye was open to watch the jock irritatedly through jet-black, chin-length hair. He was curled up in a navy blue, vinyl, trench coat, with British flag Dr. Martens, black rave pants, and a T-shirt reading "Let's get one thing straight: I'M NOT!" in rainbow lettering. Caleb couldn't believe he'd never seen this kid before.
The jock's face turned red. "Whad you say, ya fuckin' fag?"
"Really going for originality, aren't we?" the kid sighed. "I said 'shut...the...fuck...up.'"
Derrik was practically shaking with rage, having just been called by a half-conscious, gay goth, and was about ready to let the kid have it when Mr. J saw him.
"Watch it, chump," the young teacher called.
Defeated, but never willing to admit it, the jocks all moved, leaving Caleb alone with the goth. The kid laughed softly, then sat up and stretched, a small strip of pale belly showing. He smiled at the slightly lost "anarchist" in front of him.
"You're that guy who had to paint over the graffiti, aren't you? Caleb, right?"
"Hi. I'm Gabe."
"Sorry you got tagged for such a rip-off of your real work."
"Thanks. I'm used to it, though."
"Uh...thanks for dealin' with Derrik, by the way."
They stared at each other for a moment, then Gabe lay his head back down and Caleb pulled out a sketch book.
"You deal pretty well with all the name calling," Caleb sighed as he wandered down the sidewalk, giving a sideways glance at his companion.
Gabe smiled up at the sky. "Just used to it, I guess. Been an easy target since before they knew what the words meant."
Caleb nodded. "How long you been out?"
The boy laughed. "Never really was in. I hate dark, little closets. They make me claustrophobic."
Both of them laughed at that.
"So," Caleb continued, "do your parents know?'
"Yeah... My whole family knows."
"Well, they weren't too happy at first, but they've kinda gotten used to it."
"How 'bout you?"
"In or out?"
Gabe gave him a sad, sympathetic smile. "Hey. If I'm being too nosey, just say so."
"I...in...very in... If my family ever found out, I'd be so much roadkill."
Caleb looked at his new friend. "Why?"
"Just curious," the boy's smile softened.
"Not to sound paranoid, but...how curious?"
The smile left, and Gabe looked straight ahead. "How curious can I be without ruining this friendship?"
Caleb looked forward as well. "As curious as you want."
"Well then," Gabe sighed after a moment's silence. "I'm pretty damn curious."