NAK Drabbles [Ghost Adventures] ✔

7. The Quarterback and the Punk [High School AU]

Prompt: High School AU

Warning: intense discriminatory language

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"Move out of the way, faggot!"

A hiss from one of the older students came first, sending knives to Zak's heart, and then there was a shove, pushing him right into the corner of the lockers. His forehead came in contact with it and pain seared throughout his brain. Laughter came next, as Zak fell to the ground. Hands spread out on the white scraped tile floor to catch himself. Black spots danced in front of his vision. 

"Shit," Zak mumbles under his breath. 

He tries to ignore the few sharp intakes of voices and the whispers, but they are loud in his ears.

Zak sits there, kneeling on the tile floor, trying to gain his baring's. He is so tired of all this high school bullshit. 

A hand lands on his shoulder and he winces, waiting for another hit. Yet, it never comes and he turns around to look behind him. A guy, a year beneath him, stands leaning over him. He wears a sports jacket with their school's colors (black with red trim), his number (6), and his last name (Groff) embroidered on it. Brown eyes peer down into Zak's blue with a look of worry that Zak has not seen one anyone's face. With the sports coat, Zak assumed that this guy must be part of the group that harassed him, but those eyes...

"Are you alright, man?" 

His voice is deep and low, soft and humble, careful and cautious. 

A lick to his lips, Zak rises on shaky knees. The jock notices this and shifts his hand to the middle of Zak's back in unspoken support. Not a second after rising from the floor, Zak's knees buckle under him as more black dots swim across his eyes. 

"Fuck," Zak moans. 

"You're definitely not," the jock replies and shifts his body next to Zak's, allowing the older boy to lean against his shoulder. 

Zak isn't sure where the jock is taking him, but he smells bleach and stale water. He lifts his heads and catches a glimpse of bright red metal bathroom stall doors. Then he feels cool porcelain against his hip, pressing his chain belt into his thin hips. 

"Here," the jock holds out to him a water bottle.

Zak stares at it uneasily, observing their school logo and the words "FOOTBALL TEAM" across the bottom. 

"It's not going to bite you," the jock teases and shakes the water bottle in his hand toward Zak. The water sloshes in the plastic container, "Take some water."

Zak reaches out and grabs it, unclicking the top, and bringing the bottle up to his lips. The jock turns away and runs a paper towel under the sink, soaking it in cool water, before ringing it out. He lifts the damn towel up to Zak's head and begins to poke.

"OW! SHIT!" Zak cries out, wincing and cowering into himself as pain sears through his forehead. 

"I know," the jock's voice is low again, "But we got to clean it."

He brings the towel up to the older boy's forehead and begins to clean the wound. The two slip into silence. The jock stares intently at the wound on the punk boy (dressed in his band shirts and ripped black jeans and chains). Blood seeps from it slowly, but the jock can see that the wound will be more of a giant bruise rather than a scar. Zak, on the other hand, is staring at those brown eyes and wondering why they appear like bronze when the sunlight shines down on them just right from the half-windows at the roofline. 

"Why did you help me?" Zak asks carefully.

The jock glances down at the punk boy's bright blue eyes before looking back up at the wound, "I would say I felt bad, but that probably makes me look like a piece of shit."

A chuckle escapes Zak's lips, "Yeah that would."

The jock smiles, "But, it is for that reason, and I don't care if I'm a piece of shit because of it."

The laughter fades from Zak's lips at the jock's words. Normally, if someone were to say that to him, Zak would turn the other cheek. He didn't want someone's sympathy for being shoved face first into a metal locker. He didn't want the looks of sadness or the words of worry in the halls. Zak just wanted to be left alone with himself and the other friend he had (Jay Wasley-- a punk boy who was obsessed with the occult). 

"My name is Nick, by the way," the jock pulls away from Zak and runs the bloody and damp cloth under hot water. He isn't paying attention to the fact that the towel is getting too water-logged and is disintegrating in his fingers. His brown gaze is staring at the punk kid. 

"You're the quarterback, aren't you?" Zak cocks any eyebrow at him.

"Heard of me, have you?" Nick smirks, looking down at the towel in his hands and rings out the rest of the water, trying to hold the paper in his hand as much as he can. It's more a wad than anything now, "Hopefully, all good things," there's a tone to Zak's voice that puts him on edge... a good edge. 

Nick leans forward again, pressing the warm towel to Zak's forehead and keeps it there. His brown gaze looks down at Zak again. 

"Depends on who you ask," Zak teases back. 

Nick scoffs and rolls his eyes. Zak admits he likes this flirting. 

Zak smiles at him, "I'm Zak."

"So," Nick draws out the word, "Zak...Would you like to go get pizza at Joey's after school?" Nick asks with this air confidence around him. 

Zak lowers his gaze from Nick, a faint blush appearing on his cheeks, "Is this a date, quarterback?"

Nick steps closer to Zak. He can feel the football star's jeans against the pale skin peeking through his ripped jeans, "Would it be okay if I say yes?"

The blush deepens on Zak's cheeks and he raises his gaze to look at Nick, "Yes."