Chapter Text
September 2nd, 2019—Dan wakes up to a blaring alarm for the first time in weeks.
Well… saying he ‘wakes up’ is just wrong —it takes him a while. Another alarm and 3 snooze buttons later, one of which he misses by a mile, he rolls out of bed, nearly knocking everything off his nightstand.
He stumbles into the kitchen and makes himself some toast and some cereal. Fed and with a coffee in hand, and a little less zombie-like, he goes to get dressed.
For once he picked out his clothes the night before—not allowing himself to procrastinate. It’s just a pair of black skinny jeans that could pass for formal trousers, and a simple black button-up, but they cut it. It’s not like he has anyone to impress, beyond his bosses, who insist on teachers maintaining the dress code—even when their students don’t.
Looking in the mirror, Dan fusses with his curls until he physically can’t anymore. He supposes they’ll always be impossible to tame, no matter how hard he tries.
Done and dressed, he rushes down the stairs from his flat, to catch the earliest bus he possibly can.
The first day isn’t as bad as when he was a student himself, Dan has to admit, but it’s stressful enough to raise the bar pretty high for the rest of the year.
Not that Hornchurch High School is terrible overall—quite the opposite, in fact. It’s his first place of permanent work, sure—straight out of the basic teaching program he attended after switching degrees—and yet, from his experience, it’s a miles better environment than where he went as a teen.
As he feels like it’s his duty to accept his students as much as they’ve accepted him, to guide them to feel less lost than he has in his life, there could've been no better place to start than Hornchurch. Maybe he’s a little biased, as he holds them all dear, the staff (most of them) too, but it’s true.
The 4 years he’s been here prove it; the 4 years since he started in the Autumn of 2015. And like a sign of the cycle renewing, he’s finally gotten the chance to teach Drama alongside his original key stage 4 subject, Music.
He’s always had a passion for it. Despite the terrible piano teacher he had, his money difficulties growing up, and being bullied in school for everything from his clothes to drama club to ‘being gay’ before he even knew what it meant (and that yes, he was, he is) he’s retained that passion for the two subjects.
Dropping out of law school was just the final push he needed, and he doesn’t regret it one bit.
⸻
The bus stops just outside the school, next to the low wall that extends from the main gates. There’s a carpark on the other side, with assigned slots for the staff that own cars but Dan doesn’t, so it doesn’t concern him—he doesn’t have to go anywhere near there unless he’s getting a ride from a coworker.
The main and gym buildings that sit on school grounds are both brick, separated by a soccer field that can’t be seen when he strolls up the front lawn, to the doors at the right end of the building.
The classrooms and offices are on two levels, connected by a maze of corridors leading out from the main hallway. The gym, and the assembly hall on the left end, are the only places in the school that have wooden interiors. Everywhere else, the white walls have been made to contrast with the floor—all lavender and glossy—and with the lockers, lining the corridors—a shade of green that has never agreed with him.
Dan’s office and form room are both on the first floor—easy to get to—and he sometimes holds lessons in the assembly hall. But since the music room, the printer, and the library are upstairs, he spends a decent amount of time there, too. Not very nice for someone who’s crap at exercising, like he is, but he manages.
Already panting, he makes it up the front steps and walks in. He passes through the cafeteria and rounds a corner—he had the same form room last year, so he knows just where to find it.
It’s a blessing for those that have worked at Hornchurch for more than a few years, and are in the student’s good books—a favour with Ms. Prince, for keeping the same room. Dan’s happy to have it.
⸻
“Oh— g’morning, Daniel! You’re here early.”
Dan looks up, shuffling his papers once more. One of his colleagues stands in the doorway, looking quite happy to see him, yellow briefcase swinging from her arm. Her long red hair matches his own in frizziness—most likely the cause of wind. The colour practically burns against her pale, frostbite face. Amber Evans, the gym teacher.
Relieved it’s only her, not a student sneaking up on him, or—god forbid—the absolute heathen Mr. Lester, Dan chuckles and pulls his signature move, rolling his eyes.
“You of all people should know how unforgiving these first few days are.” He shrugs, continues shuffling his papers. “Can’t afford to be late.”
“You’re probably right,” Amber says. She cranes to look at the hallway clock and her briefcase swings, almost hitting the doorframe. A mortal sin in her book. If it got as much as a scratch on it—though it never has—who knows what she’d do. “Ay—”
“Time to go?”
“Time to go, or I’ll get trampled by students, ‘s more like it.” She waves awkwardly, infectious smile never leaving her face. “I’ll see you ‘round, Daniel!” With quiet footsteps, she disappears down the hallway.
Dan finishes tidying, doesn’t think much of the interaction, and becomes thoroughly distracted when his first class begins to trickle through the door—a chorus of Hi Mr. Howell and ‘Ello Mr. Wolf, the latter established years back by Lester’s deplorable teasing.
He won’t admit it, but the nickname makes him chuckle a little bit—when used by anyone but the maker.
Dan has a soft spot for his students, in that way. Even when they get on his nerves or act up in class he can’t fault them—they’re just kids, after all, and bound to learn things from a respectable, likeable teacher like Mr. Lester, even if it’s not English related (no, he’s not petty enough to dismiss everybody else’s opinion of a colleague and their teaching just because he doesn’t get along with them.)
The one strange thing with the school is that they hold term assemblies in the afternoon rather than in the morning. Dan’s gotten used to it, though, and why would this year be any different?
The bell goes off and to him, it looks like most everyone is seated. He’s not really surprised, just confused, when someone raises their hand, as the school often receives new students no matter the age group.
“Yes?” Dan asks, brows furrowed. It’s unusual to get questions before he’s even started his introduction.
“Mr…?”
“Howell. Mr. Howell’s good; take my word for it, and nobody else's.” There’s some giggling, but it dies down when he playfully glares at them.
The student looks slightly apprehensive, but presses on anyways. “Right… Mr. Howell, can you actually play any instruments? If that’s not… rude.”
“No worries… I actually play the piano.”
He points at it. It’s hard to miss, a big, white grand piano pushed up against the wall in the back, and the only instrument in the room that’s not in a cupboard or case.
“Oh…” the student says. “Can you show us?”
They sound too hopeful for him to turn down, joined by a couple others, even though he’s a bit shy about showing off, so he nods and shrugs. “Okay, alright, alright.”
Dan sits down at the piano, and cracks his fingers. Not wanting to keep them waiting, anticipation showing on their faces, he zones in and begins by playing Bohemian Rhapsody’s riff—smiling at the gasps—and transitioning into Bliss from Muse’s Origin Of Symmetry.
He finishes on the high of Ruled By Secrecy, a little flustered by the applause he receives—even though they’re just some Year 11s, not a concert hall full of people that have paid good money to be impressed. He much prefers this setting, anyways.
“Okay, okay— let’s settle down, please.” He returns to the front, and they all groan a little. “I know we’d all much rather chill out, but we do actually have things to do here. Don’t want to get me fired, do we?”
He ends up going over the basics of the year’s curriculum; songs and instruments and techniques they’ll be able to practice, and so on. Keeping the first lesson lax, he’s quick to dismiss them afterwards, warning them not to get up to any trouble during this essentially free period he’s given them.
His words coax a few bright laughs out of the students, but by the way most of them sprint down the hall as soon as they’re out of his sight, they won’t heed no matter what he says or does. All he can do is shake his head with a soft smile on his lips, and hope none of their schemes are bad enough to get back to him.
Seeing a sizable gap in his schedule, Dan leaves, locks the door, and heads on break. So far, all his pride and dignity are intact, but it’s only a matter of time. He does have a bit of a habit of making a fool of himself, intentionally or not.
⸻
The teachers’ lounge is crowded at the best of times—but that doesn’t mean Dan won’t notice his one and only enemy striding into the room. If there’s one thing he can relate to with Mr. Lester, it’s that they’re both freakishly tall. They stand out like two sore thumbs.
Lester’s got his claw-hand in his pocket, typical, so his back should be awkwardly bent—but it’s not. His head is held high, spine only slightly contorted; Dan supposes he just hasn’t seen him in so long that the change has been inevitable.
To make matters worse, his face is properly visible—midnight hair pushed into a swooping quiff away from his forehead—and framed by (thankfully) normal glasses. He’s never been one for choosing glasses over contacts, and combined with a blue button-up not seen before, Dan’s eyeballs are just about ready to fall out of his skull.
“The way he styled it—” He gestures vaguely. “Ugh, why does he have to be like this?”
“Hm?” Lu squints up at him, deadpan. Arms firmly crossed, her warm, ebony skin is so stark in contrast it cuts a clean line across her cream-coloured shirt.
She willingly puts up with his and Lester’s bullshit, but sometimes Dan is way, way, way too stubborn.
He was her apprentice (sort of) during his qualifying year at the school. They grew on each other, and learned quickly that they had so many things to bond over, like tv shows, movies, and charity work. She’s the person in his life he’s closest to.
She often brings him along, and he’s started looking into some charities to volunteer for on his own, particularly surrounding mental health and pride.
Posting on social media about these events, Dan’s received a handful of racist comments from ex-acquaintances (and some thinking he’s finally left behind his gay ‘lifestyle’ and gotten a girlfriend.) He’s not any less delighted to be friends with Lu. He could care less what others think, and neither could she, fuck ‘em.
“See? He got new hair— new hair! A stupid bloody quiff to replace that awful fringe—”
“—that you maintain he copied from you, even though you both went through an emo phase at one point. I know… Oh, stop it, Daniel. Noone else is staring—or pointing, for that matter.”
“Of course they’re not. That explains why I'm always the first one to notice.”
“You know, we’re all adults, unlike you two—mostly you.”
Dan gasps, but when he looks upon her face and sees her lopsided smirk— “Oh my god, that was so rude—!” —they both laugh.
He goes right back to sipping on his coffee, but can’t seem to tear his eyes away, despite it all. Looking over, he sees Amber and some other teacher are talking to Lester, who catches his eye, attempting to raise an eyebrow.
Dan really can’t handle it; his insides turn. He’s grateful he finishes his drink at that very moment.
“I’m— I’m going to get a refill,” he fumbles, and leaves before Lu can stop him. He knows she’s shaking her head at him. He just knows.
It’s not entirely his fault though. They get along like a house on fire—in the way that it always ends in death and destruction. And fire cannot be avoided.
“Hey,” Lester says, coming up behind him with his own mug. Dan huffs in his vague direction, focusing on the machine making his coffee. If only he could make it go faster; it’s only half full. “You don’t take any sugar, do you, Howell.”
“Nope.”
“Mhm… it’s not like you need it, anyways. Just look at yourself.”
Dan’s heart leaps into his throat. There’s a million possibilities of what could be said and he doesn’t like any of them.
“What’s that supposed to mean—” he stutters, but he’s cut off.
“You’re just so, so sweet,” Lester almost sneers. “You don’t need any more sugar.”
Dan gapes, a bit like a fish. He doesn’t know what to say.
“But you’re not allowed to outshine this coffee, Howell, it has to be the sweetest!” To prove his point, Lester swipes a fuckton of the sugar cubes into his mug, like a cat gone rogue, and grins just as wildly despite the now sickly pale colour of the drink—somehow paler than him.
“You ruin your own coffee…on purpose? For a… a fucking joke?” Hesitating, Dan looks down at his own, realizing some must’ve fallen into it too. “Oh… and mine, too.”
“Woops, sorry!” Lester’s cackling makes all Dan’s hair stand on end. It’s a despicable sound.
“Stupid as hell, if you ask me,” he mutters into his drink as he walks away, cheeks warm with anger. His stomach flips when Lester once again giggles at his turned back. God, he can’t stand him.
⸻
Dan can’t help but roll his eyes. It’s old news that he and Lester bicker and argue, but whispers still make their rounds through the corridors. The talking begins as soon as he leaves the lounge for his next lesson, and they certainly won’t stop until the two of them meet again—which’ll be soon. Probably. Knowing them. It’s Dan’s bad luck, certainly.
They started working at Hornchurch at the same time. Most people would assume two new staff would bond over being, well, new, and Dan had too. He’d even thought Phil—Mr. Lester—seemed a little too cool for him, so getting along would’ve been a blessing.
But the moment they introduced themselves, everything went downhill. Dan made a fool of himself, and Lester poked fun at him for it. He’ll admit he retorted with something unnecessarily rude, but then Lester also shot back, giggling with his tongue between his teeth.
The rest is history. Dan always has to one-up Lester, but if you asked him, he’d say he thinks Lester hates him more than he hates Lester. It’s all that relentless teasing. He tries not to think too much about it, though, because he can’t have it interrupt his work. Even though he’s… unavoidable.
⸻
It’s only a few weeks into classes and Dan still has loads of papers to sign and grade. Somehow almost none of them were assigned by him.
“Oh my god—! Dan—” Lu’s voice is edging on something of disbelief as she strides into his office. Even in such a state she manages to seem calm and composed, and Dan admires that greatly on any normal day—now he’s simply confused.
He puts his pen down. “What’s… up?”
“You and Lester,” she says, simply, and it dawns on him.
“Oh, right— well—” He folds his hands in his lap. “Johnson told you about… that... didn’t they.”
Lu just smiles, and Dan knows he’s been caught. Even though he hadn’t done much, had he, it takes two to tango.
It had been his lunch break and his plan had been perfect—eating, more eating, sulking over unanswered texts sent to family, glaring at Lester, more eating, and a bit more glaring. Lester just had to interrupt him.
Dan had snarled, but Lester didn’t bat an eye. He hadn’t cared at all that Dan was there, and pulled out a Wall-E-themed lunchbox, opening the colourful lid to reveal a frozen pasta meal.
“Couldn’t you stand anywhere but right next to me?”
“Of course I could have stood elsewhere,” Lester had smirked, and it made Dan’s blood boil, every time. “If I had not known you would miss me terribly.”
Maybe he had snarled again, maybe he hissed loudly enough for the whole room to hear. It’s not like it mattered, those details. There were giggles and laughs, either way.
He’d flushed, and moved over to Johnson and Amber instead, with Lester’s cackle ringing in his ears.
Lu definitely knows it already, Dan can see it on her face as he retells the story—or at least what he remembers and is willing to admit of it. She laughs, too, towards the end.
“You two really do act like kids sometimes,” she says, and it’s almost… proudly? Warmly? Whatever. Figuring out his own thoughts and feelings is already difficult enough.
Dan picks his pen back up, moving on to the next paper to distract himself. “Enough about me… did you get to experience anything exciting today? Any nosebleeds; broken violin strings?”
“Ha! Nothing that can beat yours—but how could it ever.” Lu moves to sit on the edge of the desk, long shirt pooling, watching him skim over the text on the page. “I’m actually planning to watch a show t’night.. what was it? House Hill? The murder on the hill? The house of… Eve? Death… thingy?”
“That’s… that’s about a quad billion different shows, Lu, jesus fucking christ. But I did recommend Killing Eve , if that’s the one you mean.” He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “God, you’re almost worse than—”
She snaps her fingers, hard, interrupting him before the name falls off his lips.
“Think that’s the one,” she says. “ Hm. Killing Eve, Killing Eve, Killing Eve … shouldn’t be that difficult to remember.”
“Shouldn’t… Maybe you could watch Westworld , too. At some point. I liked the soundtrack— no. I love that soundtrack.”
“Then we could watch it together, Daniel.”
He pauses. “So you’re saying I can’t just recommend you things and then follow you around to ask for your amazing thoughts and elaborate opinions?”
“Absolutely not. No more puppy eyes.”
“After Killing Eve , at least.”
Lu nods, pulling gently on one of her own kinky curls. “After Killing Eve .”
The last bell rings, and Dan knows it’s time for him to leave. Today’s an early end. He doesn’t have any more lessons nor does he lead any extracurricular activities, and he can continue this work at home. Unfortunately, Lester’s schedule is the same. Dan memorised it simply to avoid him, yet somehow continues bumping into him. He’s unpredictable.
Lu isn’t as lucky (or unlucky, depending on how he looks at it.) She waits for him to begin stuffing his bag before she leaves, though. “Try not to get into another fight!”
He lets out a dry laugh. He certainly tries.
⸻
A week later, Lester comes up to him in the staff lounge. Dan ignores him completely, at first, until he taps him on the shoulder.
“I saw you rewrote Twelfth Night . Interpreted it.”
“Well, the drama class had a hard time reciting it.” Dan continues spreading butter on his bagel. “It’s our latest hurdle this month.”
“I read it. It’s one of my favourite plays. You did a good effort but the grammar’s a bit off. I’d have done it a little differently, you know.”
Of course he would’ve—and it sounds like an offer, in hindsight. But it’s not like Dan would have asked him for help. “It’s poetry, Lester, you’d know it’s all ‘bout bending the rules,” he says instead.
“Sure of it?”
Lester’s surprising smile catches him off guard.
His eyes are crinkled, and his tongue pokes out from between his pristine white teeth. He’s got a freckle on the left side—no, right side of his face, it’s Dan’s left—and the way it moves is—no. That’s enough.
Dan looks down, shaking away his intrusive thoughts.
Lester’s shirt contrasts with the whole rest of him—his pale skin and his dark hair, black with a tint of blue—a deep maroon button-up with a dotted pattern of white, simple flowers. Dan’s eyes flicker from one to the other, unable to focus—and then up to his smile again, then the curve of his upper eyelid, then his shining forehead…
He shouldn’t be staring. He should look away.
But he can’t.
“Hm?” Lester asks. Apparently he got a bit zoned out there. Oops.
“Oh, nothing.” Dan shakes his head, again. He turns back around, is just able to put away the butter and knife before the bagel is snatched from his hands. “Hey! Give that back!”
And there’s Lester’s menacing laugh, again, as he runs away with it. Dan glares, in slight disbelief. He doesn’t get how others don’t hate him.
Maybe that’s hypocritical, because of all the things he makes Lester put up with. And maybe he doesn’t care that it is—maybe it's just their business, and no one else's.
⸻
Dan leans back against the short wall, looking up at the blue September sky. His leg’s bouncing, but his heartbeat’s calm and steady. It’s not necessarily good or bad, but he knows well that that’s how he gets lost in his thoughts.
“So you don’t have any ideas?”
He and Johnson are alone, waiting for their buses to arrive. Most other teachers have vehicles of their own or live close enough for other modes of transportation, save for those who take the tube.
Unlike Lester, Johnson’s always a delight to be around. They’re almost louder than him, and that’s saying something. Dan’s obnoxious and loud a lot of the time, he’s been told, and he’s very aware of it.
When he was younger, it made him quite self-conscious. He was being loud, then, not just to express himself but to hide the parts of him he found ugly, disgusting. The queerness, mostly, but the insecurities, too.
But he’s gotten better. He tries to be unabashedly himself, as often as he can. Being loud is one of those things. Not straightening his hair was another, and not pretending he likes every girl he sees, too. And coming out three years ago to the students, even when some of the teachers already knew.
He admires Johnson in that way, a bit. They’re just… so chill with themselves. Dan still has days when he feels a twinge of self-hatred, or when he falls into a depression funk. Not that they’re perfect, but it feels like some kind of solidarity, sometimes. Together, they’re just two… loud queer friends.
“You really, really don’t have any ideas?”
And teachers. Queer teachers. That’s in the back of Dan’s mind, too, sometimes. That people in his life can look up to him, to them, as role models. It’s a little daunting, but also comforting. He’d have liked that as a kid. Maybe that’s why he’s so open. He doesn’t even really know, himself.
“Hm?” Dan shakes himself out of his thoughts. “Sorry, what ideas?”
Johnson laughs. “I never know what’s in your head,” they say. “I was asking about Amber’s and what’s-his-name’s invitations. They haven’t sent them out yet.”
There’s a bus pulling up, but they speak over the bustling noise.
“Andy.” How he remembers that but not what he had for lunch yesterday is beyond him. “And no, I really do not have any ideas. Go ask Lu or— or Lester or something. Or better yet—”
“—Amber herself. Great. Such fantastic help.” They give him a little pat on the head. “Sit here and brood, by yourself. Or think about Phil; I bet you do. Lots.”
Dan pouts. He doesn’t even want to think about Lester, so he doesn’t know why he flushes. “Hush.”
Johnson just grins, and steps onto the bus. With one final nod, they’re gone, and Dan truly is left alone with his thoughts.
⸻
A week or so later, after yet another stressful day, Dan gets home with his brain in a thick fog. He is exhausted, weighed down, but he still has time before he crashes—he knows that much, even if he’s not always sure of his own limits.
He prays to any higher powers—if there are any—or the forces of the universe that he at least makes it inside.
His apartment block, in yellow brick, is thankfully just a stone’s throw from where the bus stops—down a street with rows of other buildings, too, the windows on the back of his vetting towards a courtyard. Further down the street, where it connects to another main line—with busses to a different part of London—and a tube station, are the shops he most often goes to.
He rushes up the stairs to the third floor, as if in a daze—not waiting for the lift, because potentially crying with a stranger in the same enclosed space as him is a no-no, at least today—and unlocks the door to his apartment—
“Fuck— please, just—”
—not without a bit of struggling.
He’s just had time to shake his shoes off when the loss of breath hits him—and he almost collapses against the wall, that’s how forceful it is.
Right. Dan— breathe.
He blinks a few times, hand to his chest. Letting out a held breath, he shuffles out of his coat, too.
It’s not until he’s in the bathroom to freshen up that he realises he really did cry—wipes the tears away, and splashes water on his face for good measure.
⸻
To help focus on his breathing, he connects to the speakers and puts on soft classical music—he’s got a playlist for days like these, when he feels like complete and utter shit by the end of it.
He’s not sure what finally broke the camel’s back—he had really tried putting on his best face to brave the day ahead.
It’s never the kids’ fault though. Thank god.
At first, he couldn’t find the shirt he’d wanted to wear—and the only formal one that wasn’t in the laundry—for a solid fifteen minutes. And then when he did, he ended up spilling milk all over the sleeve during his rush, almost breaking into tears then and there—but staying strong. He had woken up early—which while it contributed to his foul mood, meant he wasn’t going to be late because of it.
On the bus to the school, he had opened Facebook for a fresh start, and all he saw were some harsh messages directed at him—closing it immediately.
He’d been called into Ms. Prince’s office during break, only to find out that one of his students—who has family issues he relates to, but whose behaviour and participation had really been improving before the summer break under their teachers’ guidance—got in big trouble after a fight and would once again be put on report, which broke his heart.
Feeling so stressed out by the news, he’d accidentally slammed the door to his office too hard—one of his pictures falling down from the wall. And while the frame wasn’t anything special, not at all, and the picture itself was fine, he’d had to spend quite a bit of time cleaning up shards of glass.
To top it all off, when he’d become too tired and cranky to deal with any more misfortunes, he’d had to refill the coffee machine—only to have it break. Just after—and he couldn’t make this up—Lester had used up the last of it.
To say the least, Dan’s fucking miffed.
Without checking his messages, because he knows he will have a few by this point, he puts his phone away in his room, letting the music play. He feels a bit like the grinch, and doesn’t want to ruin someone else’s day by acting on impulse—can’t think straight, but it’s not in the good, gay way right now.
⸻
It’s darkening fast outside. He doesn’t have any windows in his kitchen, though, so it doesn’t make a difference. The lights always have to be on when he’s in there, or else he’d probably get hurt—drop a glass or something.
Curiously enough, the far-end wall is empty. Even though it’s not a lot of space—it’s a rather narrow kitchen, with sink, stove, oven, dishwasher and fridge to the left, and more counter space and the microwave to the right, with cupboards above and below on both sides—it would’ve been the one wall in the room where a window could have fit.
As a solution, to fill the emptiness and cover the boring white, Dan had a whiteboard hung up as soon as he moved in.
Most of the appliances, including the cupboards, are wood painted black, while the counters are white and the knobs—and whatever else that is metal—are silver-coloured.
Dan pulls out a pan, one of the few things he doesn’t store in the upper cupboards—because he’s so tall his back aches even when he doesn’t have to bend down that frequently. Go figure.
He’ll throw together something quick before sitting down to grade, or something. Keep his mind off the weight of the infinite universe—the weight of the future and the past and literally everything else that has happened to him throughout the day.
⸻
After dinner, he goes to his bedroom, unloads stuff from his bag onto his desk—left of the bed and opposite the door—and, as it’s underneath the window, closes the blinds. He doesn’t want to be distracted by anything moving outside.
He could’ve sat down in the living room or at the dining table, but tonight, as many other nights, he wants to be close to his bed, ready to fall into it at any moment—or else he would have the second bedroom as an office and not as a guest room.
Yawning—even though it’s not even eight o’ clock—he slowly undresses and puts his clothes in the hamper that will probably not be taken for washing for a few weeks, or at least not until the motivation kicks in. He has the weekend to prepare clothes for the week ahead, but he won’t get through the whole pile in that time.
The most organized part of his room is the inside of his sleek, black closet—matching the aesthetics of his whole apartment—and it’s easy for him to find a pair of pajamas to wear.
It’s too cold now, but he would sleep in just his boxers in summer—or after a one-night stand. But he doesn’t really do those anymore, yearning for something more long-term and committed, and not having had much interest in any guy for a while anyways.
Could have something to do with how busy he has been with work in the past year—or two, or three… or more—with trying to get Drama on the curriculum, among other things.
Cozied up and feeling a little more relaxed, Dan takes out his stationery and sits down to grade. Thinking about how bare-boned his love life is won’t help him get through multiple essays.
⸻
A few hours later, almost too late—Dan doesn’t dare check the clock because he would freak out, surely, but it feels like it—he yawns again, and slumps against the desk.
After more yawning, he pats his own arm, straightening up. “Let’s go sleep, that’s what you deserve, Danny boy—” he starts—catches himself, as that’s one of Lester’s lesser used nicknames for him.
He’s too tired to think of Lester right now. He simply shouldn’t.
He looks in the mirror leaned against the wall, to fix his hair, for no real reason—shaking his head at the pink tint of his cheeks, embarrassed for himself. He runs his hands through his curls, then pauses.
He squints at a smudge on the glass, wondering if it’s time to clean it again, or— ah, right. He almost forgot he had drawn something vaguely phallic—a penis. he’d drawn a penis—in the corner. In sharpie. Real mature, Dan.
After a drunk night out—with Lu and Johnson and a few others—his first pride month, he’d also drawn one much much bigger on the whiteboard in the kitchen. Thankfully, not in permanent marker. That would have been one hell of a story to have to tell—if he’d even get a chance to explain—to guests and his landlord.
He allows himself to be proud of himself in his better moments, though. He got through about three quarters of the work, which despite the hour of night is impressive in and of itself.
He facetimes his therapist the next day—not feeling up to the scale of a physical appointment with her, but needing somewhere to vent that isn’t just his notes app.
She repeats his own mantra of self care and taking breaks, as he listens with one ear, and reminds him of how much progress he’s made—no matter outside factors.
⸻
Greyer skies and winds and darker clouds arrive in good fashion. Dan has to leave after work bundled up in multiple layers so as to not freeze on his way home.
It’s getting quite late, so he finishes up his cleaning of the classroom. He turns the lights off, tries to shrug off the dark. It makes his skin crawl. He’s been scared of it for as long as he can remember.
Dan freezes with his keys still in the lock, and looks over his shoulder. Two of the most vocal students in year 11, Katie and Cay, stand there arm in arm. They’re looking at him quite expectantly. He can’t help but feel like he’s gonna get bad news.
He takes the keys out slowly, pocketing them. Their grins are equally as wide when he eventually turns around, tilting his head quizzically.
“Uh… anything I can help you with?” It’s quite late, but he does know some students stay for extracurricular activities.
They seem to consider his question thoughtfully. “Mr. Howell, have you heard?” For once Cay’s not using a nickname, but that’s not what Dan should be dwelling on, so he shakes his head.
“Have I heard… what?”
“Oh…” Their eyes glimmer. “So you didn’t hear what Mr. Lester said?”
That’s not good news, not at all. Had his mind not blanked at the very insinuation of Lester’s name, he’s certain it’d be running wild with every possible scenario of anything he could ever say or do—all of them bad.
“Did he say something you’ll nag me about forever if I don’t ask you to tell me?” Dan asks, and Katie nods. Sometimes he’s worried her neck will snap, she does it so vigorously.
“Yup yup, Mr. Howell. Yup yup.”
“Ugh. Go on, then…”
⸻
Dan’s lucky Lester’s office is just around the corner. He didn’t think he’d ever say that, but he is.
“Lester!”
Lester looks a bit like a deer in headlights, one foot inside his room and the other outside, bag hanging off his shoulder. He’s wearing a navy shirt with a corgi on the front, and a coat over it. Behind his glasses, his eyes are blown wide like a bug’s, and his mouth hangs slightly open.
“Hm? Howell?”
Coming to a halt, Dan folds in half with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. His cheeks are on fire, and so are his lungs. “You— you— you bastard, you didn’t— fuck.”
“What?”
Dan had given the year 11s a mini-assignment to work with over the weekend. It’s just his luck that they had Mr. Lester’s class immediately afterwards, always so curious of what they think about the other.
Dan’s a little pissed, but he can’t deny it’s a mutual rivalry, hatred, whatever you wanna label it. He’s not a saint, either.
“Why— why did you insult my choice of poets?”
There’s a short pause. Then Lester chuckles, but his voice is deeper than normal. “So word finally reached you?” How he manages to always sound so unbothered is but Dan’s guess. God, he hates him, sometimes. Often. Always. Maybe.
“You can’t— can’t say anything,“ he retorts, angrily. “You could’ve at least come and told me personally if you had a problem with it, Ph— Lester.”
“Dan… don’t beat your arms in a bunch, please.” For an English teacher, he gets a concerning number of idioms mixed up. Always has.
Dan huffs, deflating slightly, and crosses his arms. “And why shouldn’t I.”
Lester sulks, finally, just a little bit. “It was just a commentary, I promise, Howell. I had a student ask me about the ones you chose, and I— I answered as honestly as I could. I never actually personally insulted you. I never would, honestly. That’s your personal choice, in your work, not mine.”
Dan hates how right and wrong he simultaneously is. Oh the hypocrisy.
“So what. You said it.”
“I’m sorry.” Lester gives him his hand. “Next time, I’ll not be so blunt, okay?”
Dan huffs, again, yet takes it almost immediately. Even without looking, he knows Lester smiles blindingly, and he feels his face grow warm.
He doesn’t know what causes him to say it, but he knows he should—wants to. “No, I’m sorry— You don’t have to watch your words around me, or when you express your opinion, that’d be unfair to you. Let’s not… dwell on it.”
Lester grins even wider. “Deal.”
“Deal.”
Dan never gives in—Lu’s absolutely going to have a field-day with this one. And so will the students. Well, fuck it. He’ll be the bigger person, for once in his life.