Fandom: AFI, some Rancid
Pairing: None yet, implied Davey/Tim.
Summary: "Who is that little fuck?" I ask once he leaves the room. I'm intrigued. Well, not really. I haven't really been compelled to research anything since I found out what punk rock was. So this is a high point of interest in my day…finding out who the tight ass prick who works in my counselor’s office is.
Disclaimer: Don't own, Don't know, Never happened.
Author notes: Ready for Davey as the punkass kid with bad grammar? Well, you're in for a treat, then! (Title taken from an Apostles song, about being the fucking queer.)
"Well? Are you gonna ask me questions or are ya just gonna sit there and fuckin stare?"
"Shut up. I get enough of that at home."
"So…your parents make fun of your hair?"
"No. They just say 'nice hair' and play with it a lot. They laugh at it and shit."
"How does that make you feel?"
"What do you mean how the fuck does it make me feel? It’s just fuckin there."
"Please refrain from cursing as much, Mr. Marchand…"
"How is limiting the number of words I can say gonna help my psychiatric development any?"
It’s been going on like this for a while. My "Psychiatrist"(cough counselor), Ms. Smith, will say something totally fucking pointless and I’ll give her a totally fucking pointless answer. Of course, I was lying out my ass. I didn’t live with my fucking parents any more. Just lying and playing the "angry kid" card so she thought I had the simple "problems at home", so we don’t have to "discuss" anything deeper. Fun times, yeah?
And he comes in again. This skinny kid(not like I can talk) with his hair all slicked and his glasses tipped on his nose. He’ll come in every once in a while, drop off papers or some shit. I don't know who he is, but I'm suddenly really bored, therefore have to ask her a totally fuckin pointless question.
"Who is that little fuck?" I ask once he leaves the room. I'm intrigued. Well, not really. I haven't really been compelled to research anything since I found out what punk rock was. So this is a high point of interest in my day…finding out who the tight ass prick who works in my counselor’s office is.
"Who?…Oh. him. That's my assistant."
"How come I ain’t seen him around?"
"He's not in high school."
"He's kinda young for a secretary ain't he?" I ask, entertaining the notion that she hired him for fucking purposes. Maybe under all the banana republic shit he had a nice body…
"He’s doing this for college, Mr. Marchand—stop avoiding the subject."
She couldn't beat me there. We had absolutely nothing of any importance being discussed, and her supposed unease on the subject of her "assistant" just made me more interested.
"So what's the dude's name?"
"I see then."
Fifteen minutes in silence, and I start playing with Tim's jacket, which I'm wearing simply to annoy him. He’d taken me in soon after his band, Operation Ivy broke up(and my parents had kicked me out) and he's been tellin me to stay in school, and he'll take care of me. I want to get out of here, start a band or something—but he wants me to stay in at least until I'm done sophomore year. He's eased up on his drinking, and I'm proud of it. And trust me, I've shown him.
"So can I leave?" I ask tiredly, getting up out of my chair.
She sighs. "Sure."
I get out of that room as soon as possible, speeding down the hallway fast as possible. I'm pushing myself to the limit these days.
Outside, I head to the front of the grounds, where the run down bus stop greets me familiarly. I sigh and lean my head on the back of the bench, slumping down in my seat. A good fuck would be nice right about now. I close my eyes and colors flow behind my vision, differentiating as clouds block parts of the California sun. Complete. Silence.
Until a car door has to open up. I whip my head around, back to the parking lot, where I see that little skinny shit loading his crap into a brand new-looking car. He's having a pretty tough time, too. All his books and shit keep tumbling out of his grasp, and falling out of the car. But that's not really what catches my attention. It's the white and black sticker, standing perfectly straightened and alone on his bumper. I'd recognize the fucking thing anywhere. He had a Black Flag sticker on his car. Must be used. I walk—well, more like strut—to his car, just looking at him while he struggles with his shit, crouched on the ground with the car door open.
"Where'd you get this thing man?" I ask, and he turns back suddenly, almost pulling his own feet from under him.
"Uh, uhm," he straightens himself out, I take it not exactly expecting a blue haired leather jacket to sneak up behind him. "Got-got what?"
"The car." I say, nodding to the expensive looking car.
"Uhm. Dan"s Chrysler…"
"They sell used cars?"
"It's new. What makes you think it's used?" He asked, as though genuinely concerned that the state of his vehicle led someone to believe—god forbid—it was less than new.
"Who the fuck stuck the Black Flag sticker on it then?"
"Cause…I like…Black Flag?" he said, as if it were apparent.
I sneered. "No you don't."
"What makes you think that?"
"Look at yourself, you sorry son of a bitch. I didn’t think anyone who listened to good music dressed like a common consumer whore." Tim always said I spoke too much, too soon.
"Well sorry. It's six o clock, shouldn't you be getting home to your parents or something?"
"My parents live across the fucking state."
"Then shouldn't you be getting wherever you’re staying?"
"I live with my ex boyfriend." I always referred to Tim as my ex. He didn't mind it, it was true. Not like we were ever bleeding hearts lovers or anything, but we fucked for a while, yeah. Still do. It's not quite legal, but that never stopped us from doing anything before.
"You’re a queer?" he asked suddenly and abruptly, just daring to give me that 'what the fucking bloody hell?' look.
"If you’ve got something to say about it, I'm sure my friends and I will be happy to debate with you." I said calmly. I vowed never to take any shit for this, and I never will.
"No. No." he shook his head. Ha. Change your mind, pighead? "Just. Surprised me."
"You like following stereotypes, don't ya?" I asked smugly, doing my best to be the most annoying bastard he’d ever come in contact with.
"I wouldn't say that. Though, I suppose you do, seeing as you didn’'t exactly take that fact that I liked a good band and dressed like this lightly." Oo. Burn. Maybe he's not as much of a dumbshit as I give him credit for. Intriguing. I smiled and crossed my arms before replying.
"Ha. Yeah. I gotta get to the bus. Seeya 'round, Jadey." I turned before he could get a last word in.
The bus smelled. Plain and simple, just reeked. Just one reason why I was happy to get off of it, and trail into the broken down apartment building in which Tim and Matt lived. Where I had taken residence.
Even if the building looked huge on the outside, it was crammed with hundreds of tiny apartments. We were lucky to get one on the side of the building, we had a window in the kitchen. Slash living room. Slash bedroom. Tim was sitting on the edge of the red couch, playing cards with Matt.
"Where've ya been, Dave?" he asked, continuing to look at his cards, concentrating.
"The school wanted me to attend 'counseling'. So I did. I forged my mom's signature on the form so they wouldn’t ask questions."
"Why didn't ya just blow it off?" he asked. He knew I hated that school—more particularly the administrators.
"Cause they’d call here and want an explanation, then want my mom to come in. So unless you wanna dress in drag I have ta go."
"I see. Ha. Go fucking fish, Matty!"
He was nine years older than I, but never ceased to act like he was nine years old alone. After making a fruitless search for some leftover food(or pills, whatever) I knelt beside the couch, leaning my head into Tim's leg.
"I hate the fucking place." I indirectly complained about the fact he won't let me drop out—for the fortieth time.
"I know, Davey." He said, rubbing my shoulder affectionately. "You'll get outta there soon enough. You’re too smart to give up on it now. Sides, you got that band to take your mind off it."
He was right. I'd just compiled AFI with a few sorry sods from school, and we were pretty shitty as of right now. But hell, that's how it's supposed to be, right? This is fucking punk rock.
I sat next to Tim like this for a while, just resting my head on his thigh comfortably, until Matt looked and the clock, and raised his eyebrows.
"Tim?" he asked, pointing to the door. Why was he always so quiet?
"Oh. Right!" Tim said, put his cards down. I stood up to let them climb off of the couch—Band practice.
Tim was so excited about this new band he was starting, and I was so happy for him. If this is what would keep him from drinking as much, that was definitely a plus. I smiled as I watched Matt head out the door, expecting Tim to follow right after.
But he waited for Matt to leave, and turned back, looked at me for a second. He leaned forward, across the couch, and pressed a kiss to my lips silently.
"Get something to eat, all right?" he warned me. I'd found being protective of people was just Tim's way of showing them he cared about 'em.
"Yeah. I will."
With that he trailed out the door, and I sighed, falling back on the couch. I like kissing him way too much.
I sighed. Waiting for something you dread is never any fun. Especially when that something involves a brown haired, middle aged, quack who thought she could understand you simply because she was certified by this piece of shit institution—otherwise known as school.
"Ah. We meet again." I turn to see Mr. Ralph Lauren looking down at me. I straighten up in my chair.
Then, he does something I didn't exactly expect. Sits down.
"Y-You mind if I ask you a question?" he says, cradling his papers and books in his hand.
"Shoot." I say, putting my hands in my pockets. I'm not wearing Tim's jacket today, so I’m left with this shit sweater, and it's cold. I always liked talking, if you haven’t noticed.
"Uh, erm. How did you—you find out that…you were…" That was the voice of an insecure little denying bitch if I've ever heard it. I snorted.
"You mean how'd I figure out I wanted to fuck guys?" I asked with a smile. This was such a scared-gay-boy question.
"erm…yeah…" he said quietly, almost timidly. I could tell he was kind of scared. I imagine it would be a frightening thing, though—specially if all his friends were just like I'd first perceived him to be. I had no problem answering this of course. Telling stories was my area of expertise.
"I was just sitting around with my friends one day man, they were talking eating out pussies. Heh. I was disgusted. I hated the thought of sticking my face in one of—those. Then, y'know, I realized it wasn't just the thought of doing anything orally. It was anything. I don’t hate chicks or anything. But the thought of being romantic with any of them, or fucking them, just—bleh." I stuck out my tongue and shivered. "So while my friends and me were just sitting in that circle, all fucked up, I just said it. Y'know. Hey guys, I don't like girls. They got what I meant."
"What'd they say?" Jade asked, looking really interested. I suppose he didn’t think anything would be that simple. I smirked.
"Whaddaya mean, What'd they say?"
"They didn’t, like, freak out or anything?" he asked, furrowing his eyebrows. Shit. He had big eyebrows.
"Nah. Punks can be real civilized and open minded if you find the right kind, man."
He looked stunned. I just fucking told him how it was.
"Shit don't have to be tough if you don't let it be, man."
"And nobody's ever—"
"Nope." I shook my head. Unity was important around here. Nobody messed with me—Every punk around here knew me as "Tim's little kid". I was a part of it all. Any one of them would fight someone who tried to get at me, and I did the same for them. It was just another part of the punk culture that I loved.
I guess Jade didn't think it got any easier than his little prissy friends down the lane. I guess he didn't know things didn't have to be so hateful, regulated, monitored, as perfect. Maybe he just thought everyone on the outside was 'vulgar' and spiteful. Whatever it was, I saw Jade's eyes flicker with something when I told him all that wasn’t true, something I implied with one word. I laughed.
"You're gay, aren’t you?" I asked, chuckling. He instantly came back to reality.
"No, I mean, what makes you think that, I'm not—"
"Sure. Ok. Listen—my band is playing this weekend. You want a part of the punk culture, you fucking show up. Here." I say, handing him half an orange piece of paper. A flyer for our show.
With that, I decided I wasn't going to await my fate any longer, and trailed out of the office. There's no fucking way I'm gonna receive "mental help", right after giving some of it to someone else.