Breath

Behind the Bleachers (Slash)

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Slash x Original Female Character.

May 7th, 1982

"Hey, Frankie," a passerby called.

The girl jerked her gaze up from the floor to see who had said 'hey', but there were too many students partaking in the hallway rush for her to locate them, so she ignored it and gripped her backpack straps tighter.

Frances Rose Hartman actually liked her name as it was, but nobody else seemed to care. Something about her, whether it was unassuming appearance or quiet nature, lead the other students to believe they could do anything in her presence without consequence. They did not care if they spilled their most embarrassing secrets in earshot of her, or if she saw them cheating, and they certainly didn't give a shit about what she liked. They called her whatever they damn well pleased because she never corrected them. 

She felt peripheral. Like she existed on the edge of everyone's vision. People knew she was there, but they did not bother to truly see her. She wasn't worth more than a short, meaningless conversation or a quick greeting. And that was okay. Really. Most often she wanted to be invisible so no one bothered her and she could observe the world uninterrupted. 

But sometimes Frances did wonder what it would feel like to be the object of another's attention...maybe even their affection. 

She reached seventh period just before the bell rang and hurried to her assigned seat. As she placed her notebook in front of her, her eyes caught a glimpse of bare skin. The curly-haired boy who sat to the left of her a few rows ahead had a rip in his jeans. A big one. It was directly under his right buttock and exposed a patch of brown skin, along with a sliver of black cotton briefs. Frances wondered if he knew.

The boy looked cool, she thought. At least by her standards. 

His jeans were black, although they looked more like a dark grey compared to his underwear. He wore high-tops and a faded t-shirt that once might have passed as white. And his hair. Good God, his hair.

A halo of black curls. Some were coiled tight, others in a loose wave, but all were beautiful to Frances. She would have been mesmerized if she hadn't seen him before.

She had shared one class (freshman biology) with Saul Hudson before their current, which was English II. It was by no means a thrilling course, but she was always ready for the pleasant dullness by the end of the day. Saul did too, she had noticed. He could be counted on to fall asleep every period. 

The teacher's heels clacked across the front of the room and stole Frances's attention. 

"The warm-up is on the chalkboard. We'll go over it in five minutes," she announced.

Frances flew through the questions and reclined in her chair. Her gaze fell to Saul once more. What would it be like to capture his attention?

Most students, besides the jocks and nerds, fled school as soon as they were released. Frances was usually among them. Today, however, she lingered. 

When the final bell of the day rang, she followed Saul as he walked a convoluted route to the vending machine. She fumbled around her backpack for some quarters. When she had successfully scrounged up sixty cents, she mustered up the courage to get closer.

As she approached, she watched him contemplate the choices. It looked like he was debating between Cheez-Its and Doritos. They were on the bottom row, so he was bent over and the rip in his jeans was on full display.