author's note : if you think you don't absolutely need a breakfast club au, you're wrong. also if you haven't seen 'the breakfast club', this might not make any sense. but enjoy blushy emoji.
it's november 23rd, 1984. the air is cold and crisp, george andrew's lungs burn and sting with it. he breathes out, the huff mixes with the cigarette smoke leaving his lips. his fingers are cold and crisp; yet still as quick as ever. he has the lock off the football field gate in a matter of seconds, letting the heavy chain clatter to the ground. for george andrew, this is a habitual saturday; get to school an hour early, smoke, detention, smoke, get home late. he'd do anything to get home late. his layers of jackets weigh him down a bit, but nonetheless, he is a soldier and each step is a march. he'd do anything to hide the fact he's wasting away.
"you still on this shit?" a vaguely familiar voice asks from behind him. he doesn't turn; he has no reason to. the sky is such a dull, lifeless blue this morning. "andrew, i'm talking to you." george sighs in exasperation, turning to satisfy the nuisance. he gives will lenney an annoyed look.
"what?" alex hangs out the passenger seat of the jock's car, james and fraser are in the back, "what is this? a family reunion?" the prince sneers, turning to face his friend.
"told you we shouldn't have bothered." he makes something inside the man bubble uncontrollably. he pretends he's so high and mighty because he and his little group are "breaking down" stereotype barriers at the school or something. they're dead wrong. all they're doing is reinforcing why they were there in the first place; why those stereotypes needed to be there in the first place. all they did was prove why basket cases like james and brains like fraser shouldn't be hanging out with jocks like will and princes like alex.
"then why did you?" he brings his cigarette back up, taking a drag with raised eyebrows; he honestly doesn't care much for the answer but the expression on elmslie's face was worth it. "hm?" shermer highschool, in the middle-of-nowhere england, looms behind him. "is it 'cause you gotta prove yourself and i'm just another thing on your to-do list, elmslie?"
"didn't you say you wanted to change?" his heart is cold and crisp; cracking softly and chipping away. his face doesn't even falter from the angry, pissed off mask. he has everything under control.
"so now you're taking the word of a criminal?" it quiets, no one speaks, apart from the soft hum of lenney's volvo. the four of them had started hanging out after that one saturday in march, breaking down walls between them all. but not george andrew, he has walls for a reason.he wasn't going to let these two-dimensional, happy-go-lucky characters in, he wasn't going to let anyone in. he's a one-man show, a jack of all trades. he doesn't need anyone. he might be 'busy' every saturday for the rest of his highschool career but as least he's safe and sound in familiarity.
it's still november 23rd, 1984. but now, the air is colder and crisper than it was this morning. the eight hours of detention were so second-nature at this point they meant nothing to george; they came and went in the blink of an eye. he watches the sun set over suburbia from the top of the football field bleachers; blue into orange, red, pink. he's wasting away; a couple cigarettes a day had become full packs and full meals had become a couple bites. he didn't understand but he'd impulsively do things that he'd know would hurt because he knew they'd hurt, he knew he'd feel something for once; putting out his cigarettes against his own skin, letting himself fall off his skateboard, "accidentally" messing up a trick with one of his knives. he flicks what's left of the burning tobacco away, exhaling a thick cloud of nicotine to join the sky, and begins to walk down from the top of the creaky, metal bleachers.
"george." he doesn't stop but the sound of his first name makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand. it reminds him how much he doesn't wanna go home. "george, i'm fucking talking to you."
"and i'm ignoring you, elmslie. take a hint." he's already reaching into his trench coat for his box of malboro reds again. the hum of the volvo is back.
"what's your problem, faggot?" he turns to face them, walking backwards. he meets all of their eyes.
"don't get me started, lenney. you'll really wish you hadn't." james and fraser sit in the back in silence, behind a thick, rolled-up window. they were the two he actually liked. but that died in his throat when he noticed their eyes trailing him with the same sick pity. "you'll really wish you hadn't." they're all out of his mind when he returns to walking normally, already thinking about the coffee or tea he'll have at the diner. he flicks his lighter, his fingers are colder and crisper than they were this morning, and a small blue-ish flame dances under his nose. the first drag slows his heart beat.
"george!" at the hand on his shoulder, he has a switchblade at alex's stomach level. he looks him in the eyes and finally sees what he wanted; fear, regret, distance.
"hey, prince," andrew seeths, "don't touch me." his heart is colder and crisper than it was this morning; than it ever was. alex stumbles backwards, hands up in defense. george looks bored. he retreats back to the car, where they're all sitting in a shocked silence, sitting in the hum of the volvo, at george's violent outburst. he gives them a numb little nod and salute, 'cause that's all he is these days; numb. he doesn't need anyone; he wasn't going to let anyone in; he is a one-man show, jack of all trades; he has walls for a reason.
1010 words
YOU ARE READING
"𝖒𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖔𝖓𝖌𝖚𝖊" : 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔶 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔴 𝔬𝔫𝔢-𝔰𝔥𝔬𝔱𝔰
Fanfiction𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔦𝔰 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔦𝔫 𝔤𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔣𝔲𝔫. 𝔦𝔱'𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔪𝔢𝔞𝔫𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔦𝔪𝔭𝔩𝔶 𝔞𝔫𝔶𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔟𝔢𝔱𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔬𝔶𝔰. 𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔯-𝔠𝔞𝔰𝔢 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔡.
