Chapter Text
"You want me to do what?!?"
"Calm down, mate, calm down," Ed waved his gangly arms around. "People already stare cos of your accent, I don't need you shouting my secrets to the entire fucking school!"
Dave lowered his voice, staring at his miserable sandwich. PB&J. His mom had forced him to use some whole grain bread, Non GMO and made with some locally sourced shit like quinoa and chia seeds. The peanut butter in the UK was terrible.
Dave gave one of his patented Dave Sighs™, trying to drown out the rowdy noise of the cafeteria. He took a bite of the sandwich. It looked like shit and tasted worse.
He wished he was back in Texas.
But no, he was stuck here, in England, where people made fun of him for not pronouncing his 'a's like 'o's. Where people laughed at him for talking to Edmund Irwin-Singer, that nerdy guy who always had his nose in a book and looked like some girrafe-meerkat hybrid. Where the football jocks shoved him into lockers until his lips were raw and bloody.
Ed, unaware of Dave's mood, continued talking zealously while fiddling with a protractor and grid paper. His lunch was long forgotten.
"He's really pretty, Dave, trust me! He's got these big brown eyes and his hair is always messy in this purposeful sort of way. I reckon he doesn't do anything to get it like that! He's absolutely rubbish at math, and he does this cute little thing where he sighs a bit and looks at the ceiling whenever he's confused. He's great at music though, pretty good at bass and piano, his voice is quite lovely, if I do say so myself…Dave, you've got to see this! Everything about him is perfect!"
"I get it, I get it," Dave said, choking down the last of his sandwich. "You're in love with Drew MacFarlane. No need to scream it to the school."
"You're the one who'se doing that!"
"Yo, for a shy guy, you talk pretty much," Dave muttered under his breath. He gulped down water, watching kids line up for cafeteria sandwiches.
"Pleeeeeaaaase do it, just one note, you just have to slip it into his locker, easy! What are we best mates for?"
"I've known you for four weeks, Ed. We are not best mates."
"I found you on the floor of the toilet stall crying with a bloody nose because some guys beat you up, Dave, we're automatically best mates."
"Draw your angles, Ed," Dave waved him away dismissively.
"Aw, you're mean," muttered Ed, but returned to his protractor. Dave closed his eyes for a moment, looking at the swirling patterns beneath his eyelids. The brightness and general loudness of the cafeteria was giving Dave a headache.
"Fine." Dave was surprised at his own blunt reply, and held his hand out in Ed's direction.
Ed gave a little victorious hiss, and placed the note in Dave's hand. Dave held in a barely suppressed smile.
"Locker 293 is Drew's."
"I know."
Dave slid the small peice of folded paper in the pocket of his overlarge yellow hoodie. The note slid between the two gum packets that were also occupying his pocket. The note fit perfectly; like a stolen secret.
Dave sighed again, watching British teenagers stand in line for sandwiches.