Revolution (rewrite) - Lashton AU boyxboy

1. ain't no god damn son of a bitch

i'm gonna start these chapters with a lashton pic (look how precious my children) and a punk song. but don't hold me to it bc i'm a flakey ass bitch

that way u motherfuckers who wear ur ramones and misfits and sex pistols shirts and whatnot can actually hear the bands ur flaunting around for once in ur life lmaooooo shots fired n i don't give a fuck

song: where eagles dare - misfits (because ashton ain't no god damn son of a bitch)

x

a.i.

Fast forward a semester.

It was fast, boring, and the finals were hard, but I spent most of my free time shitfaced and partying and not worrying about grades. That will likely be evident when grades come out, but I don't want to think about the fact that I'm essentially failing myself completely and will never amount to anything in my sad, miserable life. I just want to get the second worst first day of my life over with already.

Today I start my Intro to Psych class, and so far I haven't found anyone I know who signed up for the class as well, so it's going to be a room full of people I don't know, and therefore hate, and that is too much concentrated hate for one room. If it weren't for the fact that Winters was the professor, there'd be nothing to look forward to.

When I arrive, I realize that--oddly--I am one of the first ones there. Winters turns around and offers me a tired, sarcastic kind of smile, and a loud, "Good morning, Mr. Irwin," loud only for the sake of calling unwanted attention to my being there so early. I duck my head when people look up at me, but know better than to stare him down. Zeke Winters. An old, tired Jewish man with the world's most cynical sense of humor. My hero in life.

I sacrifice what feels like a fraction of my dignity when I find myself sitting so close to the front for the lecture, but the closer I am, the better I can hear Winters' running commentary. We get each other, me and that old Jew. It's a strange, unbreakable bond.

We're only halfway through the lecture when I see him staring at me from across the room, and if it weren't for the smirk on his face and my suddenly overwhelming desire to punch it off, I probably wouldn't have even recognized him.

Winters draws my attention away from Luke Hemmings when he asks the question, "So, are there levels to Heaven? Biblically or metaphorically, what do you think?"

Luke Hemmings perks up across the room, gently raising his hand. I try to telepathically warn Winters not to let him speak, but apparently my message doesn't go through. He gestures to Hemmings beckoningly.

"I think a very common example we see of this is in drugs, Sir," he begins, making quick, subtle eye contact with me across the room. "If someone smokes marijuana, for example, that's an easy level one. But when level one isn't enough, they gravitate towards level two. You know, psychadelics, like mushrooms or LSD. Something to take you just a little further away from real life. And then, there's level three. Hard drugs. An inevitable destination as the inclination  grows stronger."

I stare at him blankly from across the room, my eyes feeling like they're bulging out of my skull. This kid doesn't actually think I'm gonna escalate to crack just because I smoke a little weed from time to time. He's just taken up public humiliation as a method of belittling me. And you know what? It's fucking working.

"Interesting concept, Mr..." Winters trails off, waiting for Luke to fill his silence.

"Hemmings," Luke responds. The corner of his lip curls at my quiet anger.

I calmly raise my hand despite both Hemmings and myself. Winters notices me and chuckles quietly to himself. He knows what's coming from me just by the look on my face.