Endless solo of solitude | Lookism various x reader

Let the people rejoice.

School is no longer daunting to attend.

The holidays arrive, and suddenly, a weight lifts itself from your shoulders. Months pass by fast; a memory of the first time you ever spoke up, the first time you fought, and the first time you truly felt like a worthy person. People would ignore you as usual, but they wouldn't forget to throw a dirty look or two. And there isn't anything you can do about it. You can't change your looks, strength, or wealth.

Having to attend an elitist school, meant for only the richest children, hurts. It isn't easy for those who get in for the sole purpose of welfare equality.

You're reminded of the fact everyday.

But, it isn't as bad anymore. And you quite like it.

Creases line your under eyes, though they aren't a dark shade at all. In fact, the sun reflects them. Duke tells you over and over, he loves it when you laugh. He says his earth revolves around you, and he can't help but smile when looking in your direction. His cheeks are always a blushed brown, and you know he's being honest. Your heart beats a bit, just a bit faster. And it's so easy, he makes you feel like the only girl in the world. The point of your existence isn't a question anymore; Duke loves to tell you.

"[Name], my grandma wants you to come over today," Duke says happily. He grins. It makes the classroom light up.

Your hand darts to cover your mouth, flustered at the sight. The impact results in a loud sound which silences your classmates. Some glare at you for the interruption, whilst others give blinks of surprise.

Duke seems the most concerned. He raises a hand to your face, uncovering the bottom half.

You avert your eyes for an instance, meeting him in a flustered stare. "Well then?"

Duke's eyes widen a bit, and he takes a step back. He exclaims, "Sorry! You don't have to come— I'll just tell her you were busy..."

His immediate response is to tremble, almost urging you to take action. He bows his head towards you. It reminds you of his need to surrender any, and all, self respect he has at the expense of pleasing others. You don't like it. You don't like it, because he hasn't don't anything wrong. He's your friend. Why should one friend feel inferior towards the other? Why should he bow his head towards you?

Snickers play comedically in the background.

You're annoyed. Not at him, no, even if the world pit you against each other, you'd never be mad at him. A glare gets them to mind their own business, but you don't miss the brief ups and downs that size you up.

"Don't apologise," you mumble out, "I didn't mean it like that. I meant it in a, 'let's get going' way."

"Oh," Duke gasps. His face relaxes. "Okay!"

A blaring sound rings out. It's time to go home.

You stand up from the wooden chair and outstretch a hand. He gives you a confused stare, his cheeks turning a flush velvet.

"Come on," you say with a cheer, wearing a small, sunny smile to gently urge him.

He still doesn't grab your hand. It isn't his fault. You notice the weird little things thrown at the both of you. Pieces of paper. Leftover gum. Pencil shavings.

His eyes dart down. You notice he does that a lot, and you hate it. You hate everyone who bullies him. You hate everyone who ostracises him. You hate yourself for remaining silent.

To you, his eyes are a blessing sent from above. His lyrics are the most soothing of symphonies. His personality is gentle as the stars decorating the night sky. And his hands hold you like you're the last diamond amongst a brooding cave of minerals.

"I'm fine with it," whispers Duke shyly. He shoots you a troubled grin, his teeth awkwardly sticking out. And you know he's lying. He's not fine with it.

No one should have to justify their feelings.

You wordlessly grab Duke's hand, being unable to do anything but drag him outside.

However, this time, the boys that'd so usually bother Duke don't say a word. Their leader keeps his eyes focused onto you. A shiver runs down your spine. The intensity causes your grip to loosen. He notices, and Duke, so sweet to you, makes sure he intertwines your hands together tight enough you feel the both of your hearts beating as one.

"[Name], you're going to love grandma's food!" Duke says, his mouth emphasising each word as he watches you follow along. He attempts to change the conversation.

You smile softly. "Of course, I will. And it'll taste much better eating with you."

With those words, the two of you leave the room. But the stares of unknown emotion shooting into your back are enough to scar the skin, you're sure.

People have begun to act weird with you. Bringing up topics. Starting conversations. It isn't everyone, but quite a few start to make an effort. An active effort. Before, they'd just stare. They still ignore Duke. They even try to spread rumours about him in front of you. It's funny they try. You're not oblivious.

Your mother always did say your eyes were perfect for your face. And your lips, not entirely noticeable, begin to feel just right; they fit in with the rest of your features. Your nose is a nice compliment as well. Alone, each part is unique to you. Together, they haven't found harmony.

Your appearance is awkward.

But you aren't quite pretty yet. Nor are you ugly; you just aren't average anymore.

"[Name], are you okay?" Duke asks, his hands shaking as they grab your cheeks. He doesn't grip hard. It's a comforting moment.

You're silent.

He lets go.

"I know what you're going—" your words are interrupted by a sudden outburst.

Duke looks tired. His eyes sink to the ground. He says, "It's my fault. I know it is, I saw it. They're bothering you, aren't they?"

"No way!" you shout.

"[Name]—" Duke tries to speak. He steps forward.

Your blood runs cold.

"It isn't your fault, Duke," you say seriously.

Duke straightens his back. "They're bothering you."

"So what?" you rebut.

"They're bothering you," he repeats. His voice shakes, and it's damn painful to hear. He continues, "And it's because you choose to hang around someone like me."

You weakly frown. Your legs move before you know what you're doing, and you find that your arms wrap around Duke's body. He shivers at the touch.

"I choose to hang around you," you say.

Duke mumbles into your shoulder, "Right."

"It's my choice," you repeat. His wide shoulders bump against your torso, and the height difference is almost laughable. The contact, his body alongside your own, makes your stomach flutter with butterflies. But it's not the season for butterflies to be round about the streets. It's not even mildly right for any insect to be outside; they'd freeze with the weather.

The sun, which you barely see over the gloomy clouds, begins to set, and that's when Duke shrieks. He mumbles about how late the two of you are, and how his grandma will for sure be worried.

You laugh at him loudly. Your lungs feel like they're on fire. His cheeks burn with just as much passion, and he bumps you lightly in retaliation. Still, you keep laughing. It's not because of how funny he's been acting. His small lips perk up, and he lets out his own fit of chuckles. After trying for so long, you know, Duke accepts everything. He's fine with you hanging around him, and he's come to terms with you not leaving his side at all. A small part of you knows he sees through it, too. And the fact lets you grin all the much brighter.

Walking hand in hand, your heart feels light like a feather gracefully falling to its rightful place.

You can see Duke's grandma waving over at you from a distance. She wears a sweet smile, one which reminds you so much of Duke. The smell of her food stall invades your nose, and yes, you think, with the two of them by your side, you can die happy.