ɪ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ (Gareth x Reader)

III

"But sir-" Gareth strained for what felt like the hundredth time, before Mr. Widgers raised his hand up to stop him.

"Gareth," He said, dryly, bringing his old tired eyes up to meet the boys'. He leaned forward on his desk, crossing his arms under his chest. Mr. Widgers brought his hand up to stroke his mustache, inspecting Gareth like some sort of lab rat. Gareth was sure that steam was going to blow out of his ears if this kept up.

Mr. Widgers shook his head, leaning back, setting a pile of assignments to the side, "I don't know about you or Y/N's relationship, but I do know this. When you grow up, in... wherever you're going to end up in the future," he looked up into Gareth's eyes, stressing this point to Gareth, "you are going to have to end up working with many, and I mean many people you can't find common ground with. Are you familiar with Mrs. Rosaline, the Algebra One teacher?"

Gareth began to grind his teeth, his frustration boiling over, before nodding. He had her his freshman year. A real mean old bitch, in his books.

Mr. Widgers pointed at him, "I don't really find myself enjoying my time around her... enjoyable, to put it nicely. People of my nature don't really get along with people of her nature. Me? I'm a single guy who barely scraped enough to afford a masters. I don't necessarily like English, but I find comfort in the arts. Mrs. Rosaline, on the other hand? She has... a few more credentials than me, and I think she takes a bit too much pride in that..."

Mr. Widgers shook his head, "to get back on track: Gareth, the reason I'm doing this is so to teach you kids how to work with people you may or may not enjoy the company of. And you're going to have to work with them on important things," he gestured towards the assignment Gareth held in his hands, "like this. Do you understand?"

Gareth just blinked, his mouth slightly ajar. An uncomfortable silence filled the room as the teacher continued eye contact, awaiting his response.

"But-" Gareth stuttered, not knowing how to voice his concern, "but, they're a cheerleader." He said the word with such disdain and hate, it's almost as if it were a slur to him. Mr. Widgers interlocked his fingers, his face calm "and what's wrong with that?"

Gareth scoffed, "what's wrong with that? What's wrong with that?" His voice began to rise, all of the pent up anger pouring out of his mouth like a waterfall, "tell me, do you genuinely think that a cheerleader would get along with me?" He gestured down to himself. To his overabundance of nickel silver necklaces that clumped together over his shirt, and the rings that adorned his fingers. To the worn DND shirt he'd had since he was twelve, advertising the picture on the very first version ever released. To the black jeans that hugged him nicely but bald around his very, very dirty black converse.

Mr. Widgers glanced him over, before staring him back right in the eyes.

"I think that's very prejudiced of a boy like you to say," he stated. Gareth felt his face grow hot in response. Mr. Widgers turned back towards his papers, sighing.

"I am not going to allow you to work alone. Y/N, themselves, have not had any issues with you that they've had to come tell me thus far, so I believe that all of this," he gestured towards Gareth, "is one-sided."

Gareth felt a bit of shock ring out in him. He'd expected you to come crying about it far earlier than him. The fact you've done nothing was, a little surprising, to say the least.

"Now," Mr. Widgers continued, "unless an altercation occurs, and this is no invitation to cause one, then and only then will I consider it. But as of now, Mr. Emerson, you are indeed locked in."

Gareth blinked, taken aback. Most teachers, even Mr. Widgers, didn't care for him to work alone if a situation like this occurred. He sighed, picking up his things, and sarcastically sneered "thanks, then," as he left.

He guessed that he was going to have to accept the situation.

-

Your dad pulled up in the driveway, the awkward silence of the car ride finally subsiding. He put the stick in park, leaning back into his seat. You held onto your duffel bag stuffed with pom-poms, your uniform, and deodorant. Your dad sighed, turning over to you.

"So, practice was good?" He asked, attentively. You nodded, responding with a quiet, "yeah."

He nodded, humming deeply in reply. He took in a deep breath through his nose, "I, uh, I don't have off tomorrow, so you're gonna need to ask a ride from a friend or-"

"I know," you answered. He nodded in response.

"I'm sorry, dad. Last few days have been off," You apologized, briskly. He turned to you and smiled, "ah, no worries, kiddo. I get you can't be lovin' every day of the week." He ruffled your hair, and you laughed, "dad!" You pushed him off of you, opening the car door. He chuckled with you, doing the same and jingling the keys with his hands. As soon as you got inside, you made your way to your room.

Your room was not what anyone, and I mean anyone, would've expected it to be. Not even your best friend Hannah. You see, at school, you took on a bit of a persona. A somewhat bland cheerleader that only cared for rumors and boys. You, in actuality, were, in the nicest words possible, a nerd.

Along the walls were posters for bands you liked, some of which included Kiss, The Runaways, and White Zombie (just to name a few) Others were for cheesy horror movies that you'd watch with your mom when she was around, or sci-fi ones that you and your dad would rewatch over and over. One poster, though, was your most prized possession: a first edition DND poster. Your passion for the game was stronger than anything else, no matter the fact you haven't had the chance to play in years, due to... who you displayed yourself as.

Your dad knocked on your open door, taking a single step inside. “Hey, was wondering- if you don’t have much homework, we can work on that level in your game?” He smiled, a very fatherly smile. 

“Yeah, just let me glance over this stuff,” you said, leaning down towards your backpack. He nodded, walking away and humming some old tune. 

You pulled out the papers for your new project in English, glancing at your options for books. Your eyes fell on some familiar reads, before landing directly on Lord of The Rings. Your dad gave you his old copy from back before you were born. He’d read it in college and it struck a deep chord in him. It did in you, too. Even thinking about it made you remember when everything was magical, and your mom was around more and you’d ask her what words would mean. 

You flipped it over, looking at the “I chose this book because,” side of the paper. You skimmed the words, not caring much, before your eyes landed on the top of the page. “Gareth E,” stared back at you, written in your shaky, quick handwriting. 

You didn’t necessarily hate him as much as other people in your circle did. He kind of was just… another kid who went to your school. But you were supposed to hate him, to act like he was freaky, and weird, and scared you. 

You let out a deep breath through your nose, trying to categorize the boy in your mind. You, unlike a lot of cheerleaders, weren’t necessarily afraid of him. He was just a bit... intimidating, with his record of fights. In reality, you just thought of him as a boy braver than you. He was brave enough to flaunt off his interests to anyone, if they cared to know or not. You were, honestly, a bit jealous of him. 

But you knew what people said. Gareth Emerson hates popular kids. Gareth Emerson hates kids with too expensive cars. Gareth Emerson hates kids who throw parties or go to parties. Gareth Emerson hates jocks. 

And Gareth Emerson hates cheerleaders.