All Apologies. {Kurt Cobain x reader}

One.

You really wouldn't want to say you were one of the most popular girls at your high-school...

But yeah.

You were one of the most popular girls at your school. Not even in a mean girl, catalogue of blonde bitches, self-proclaimed spring-fling prom queen kind-of way, not like that, not at all, but more in a nice, cheerful, bubbly, 'I'll help you with your homework, you don't even have to give me your lunch money' kind-of way.

It was mostly because you were the school's only student photographer. Using your camera had always seemed to be your main talent, since you had been nine years old, polaroid's, and developing the negatives, and trying to get the angle of people's smiles, exactly, exactly right. You captured the trying sports events, which your school always seemed to be futile at, the dysfunctional PTA meetings, which always ended in yelling, along with some tears, and also the spilled food trays in the cafeteria, ranging from expired moose, to moss-covered, disgusting hotdogs...

As the school's only photographer, you knew basically everyone, and everyone basically knew you, as well. You had many friends, and many people that disliked you, because, essentially, you were connected with everyone at school, for better, of for worse. Well. You were connected with almost everyone.

Except this one kid.

His name was Kurt Cobain.

You just really, really, really, couldn't figure him out. Not at all. Not even a little bit. Not when he passed you in the hallways, hanging his head down. Not when you saw him on the opposite side of the bleaches, reserved and shy. Not ever. Not in your entire five years at the hell that was Arbdeen, Washington's worst, almost most chaotic mess of a terityary warzone.

From the school gossip toilet, all you had heard, was the bad things spoken about him. Not the good things. There had never been any good things. His parents were divorced. He had, practically no friends to call his own, none at all. He had to regularly see a therapist. He often rebelled against the system. He was often depressed, maybe even down-right suicidal at times.

And it wasn't like you thought you could magically 'fix' him, or anything stupid crazy like that, but it just bummed you out, that you had never experienced the questionable pleasure of meeting him properly, or talking to him, or offering him a cookie, or maybe even some help with his calculus homework.

Well.

You hadn't met him, yet.

That was of course, until you had to professionally photograph the school's senior rock band. Which included him, playing the guitar, lending in his vocals, maybe even writing some of his own original songs. Of course. Of course. You had to admit, he was definitely the most attractive one in the band, he looked nothing like the average basement dweller who didn't even care to clean their clothes every once in a while, he was actually pretty cute, he seemed more mature than the other boys you had dated in the past...

You had almost wanted to burn each of the school's yearbooks that you had helped edit over the years, but you were actually getting paid to do this, to take these few photographs, so you would be able to gruindgly stomach it; taking snapshots of Kurt's band, however bad the quality of their music probably was.

You were waiting around nervously, in your school's musical department, which was really the only place in the entire school you could actually stand. It didn't have any gum stuck on the walls. The nearby toilets could actually flush, not just gurgle and moan loudly. You could say, sure, the infestucture was bad, but at least they tried their best.

Drums had been set up for the band, along with one electric guitar, and two microphones, on two separate stands for the vocalists, the two vocalists you were actually good friends with. You were glancing at the crooked clock on the wall, nervously, trying and failing to focus on this one specific aggisnent you had due about Eleanor Roosevelt, for the American history lessons you took every other Thursday.