ɪ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ (Gareth x Reader)

V

You played with your nails awkwardly, the tension from yesterday leaking into this one. All of the other groups seemed to be getting on just fine, at least being able to speak to each other. But with the way things were going now, Gareth was going to stand his “silent treatment” ground no matter what. It honestly made this small ball of guilt and sadness pit itself in your stomach. 

Mr. Widgers had allowed for students to take the class period to get a start on their projects, and that’s what everyone did. They were decided books, separating work loads, and genuinely bonding. You’d never expect to see Little Johnny- known for completing all of the basketball team’s homework, to be laughing with the Tammy Thompson. It was a sight to see.

You glanced back upwards, nervously to Gareth, his face tight and hard. You sighed through your nose, before putting on your kindest smile, and picking up the paper with your guys’ options. “So,” you began, “any ideas for what book we should read?” You turned so that you were facing him. 

Gareth scowled, still not looking at you. His face was a mix of annoyance and boredom, as he clearly displayed his dissatisfaction of you speaking to him. His answer was a single syllable, yet held years of resentment for people "like you."

“No.”

You carried on, choosing to ignore the burning hatred in his eyes that seared into you. “Oh, okay… well, have you glanced at the options, at least?” You took on a tone of fake optimism.

He continued to glare at you, his scowl growing harsher, sharper, like a blade. 

“No.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, and you sighed, frustrated. You were getting nowhere with him. “Okay, well, I mean, I found a couple we could-”

Gareth cut you off with a snicker, “and what’s that? Something called ‘16 and Pregnant?’”

You just stared at him, scoffing, completely at a loss for words. You couldn't believe he just... said that. It was like a switch went off in your head as he did, and you decided that you hated this guy. You decided that he was just an impudent asshole who couldn’t stand to be near someone he disagreed with for two minutes and acted like a toddler about it… and he most likely assumed that he was in the right for it. At this point, the thought probably crossed your mind that he deserved how "your crowd" treated him. Maybe he deserved the broken noses and the name-calling, the swirlies and the shoving, the stolen money and broken tools. It was like that sentence just pushed all of your rationale out of the window, and you didn’t stop to think that maybe all of those things are the reason he was such an asshole. 

A smug look set itself on his face, before he dared you to bite back. 

“What? Cat got your tongue?”

Your eyelid twitched. Yeah. Fuck this guy. Fuck any ounce of envy or sympathy or anything that you held to him. You leaned back in your seat, speechless. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” You snapped, and he widened his eyes in response. For a moment he expected you to just take it. Some people glanced over to the two of you, their conversations quieting. 

“‘What the fuck is my problem?’” He repeated. He fell back, looking upwards and pretending to think, before sarcastically responding with, “hm… what the fuck is my problem… Now that is an interesting question.”

Your eyes burned, expectant for any type of explanation. 

“Hm. Well, my fucking problem is that people like you act like you’re better than everyone else. You're so narcissistic that you fucking gut each other for the spotlight. It’s just a rapidly infesting pool of cynicism and affluenza, noses held high. You’re all so fucking generic that the only bit of excitement you have is saying you have the hotter boyfriends and sex. And you all pick on people like me,” he pointed at himself with his thumb, “because we’re actually fucking happy with ourselves.” 

He leaned in, “that’s what my fucking problem is.”

“Well maybe people pick on you because of how much of a dickhead you are.”

The statement hung in the air for a moment, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. He just stared at you, before laughing. He didn’t stop, he just laughed and laughed and laughed.

You paid no mind, “y’know, you are a freak. You’re a fucking freak fuck-up cult-member and you can barf me out for all I care.”

Your anger subsided, and then you were met with guilt. What just came out… what just came out wasn’t you. You’d never stoop so low. You never thought that the people like him were freaks or in a cult. You would never say that… and yet you did. Your anger overtook you. He was just an asshole… that didn’t mean he was a freak. Your eyes wet at your own words before you sucked it up and saved face. 

Gareth’s face fell, a short moment of vulnerability showing, before it hardened once again. 

A sad “fuck you,” was all he could muster, and then the bell rang. 

You both quickly grabbed your things, him furiously, before beginning to step out of class. You stopped him before the door, trying to patch things.

“I was thinking Lord of the Rings,” you said, pretending like you hadn’t grown up reading it, “We could read Lord of the-”

“Like you can read,” he remarked, not having it, and shoving you out of his way.