Chapter Text
“Come on man! Don’t give me the cold shoulder!” The basketball player seeks out his target, still clad in his white uniform. A red “3” marks him front and back.
“Fuck off, Joseph,”
“I just wanna talk buddy,” Mocking. Josh isn’t stupid. The meathead probably has something to say about his new look. He wouldn’t admit that defense was already curling in his gut, begging for release. The boy wills himself to regulate his emotions. Violence solves nothing. Regardless, he shamelessly longs for the days-long since passed-where he’d get the opportunity to chuck red, foam dodgeballs at his stupid head.
“Dude, I said stop. I’m not dealing with you today. Seriously,” It’s a clear warning. He does not withhold the intent of the phrase.
Tyler chuckles at what he reads as a faux threat. He doesn’t like being ignored, so he boldly pushes at the alt boy’s back, shrouded in a black Blink-182 T which advertises the Untitled Album Tour. ‘Wanna be punk,’ Is what Tyler thinks of the wardrobe choice. The assault sends Josh tripping forward. He scarcely catches his balance in time to avoid colliding with the ugly, scuffed, pattern-absent tiles. Tyler certainly has his attention now.
“I just wanna look at your cool new hair, man. Hot pink like a-”
An echoing crack fills the hall at the precise moment a hard fist connects with Tyler’s jaw. Before he can process what happened, the boy is falling to the floor, sliding a little as his hand comes up to grab at his face. His fingers are bloody when he retracts them. A numb pain shoots through his bruising face.
“Who's got a gay ass pierced lip now?” Josh quizzes, dripping with sarcasm. “And your own crooked ass teeth did it to you,” Tyler's tongue prods at the bleeding hole while his brain catches up to the events which have conspired before him at lightning speed. He’s still for a moment as he contemplates the situation he’s gotten himself into.
The jock feels heat twist in his gut.
It should be the usual heat. The one of jealousy and competition that keeps him nagging at Josh every day about his piercings and his falsely straight hair, framing his eyes in a fashion he and his varsity clique declare “Emo”.
Tyler is aware, deep inside the recesses of his brain, that he is not as cool as his peer. He doesn’t even come close to looking like it. This triggers his untamable competitive streak. After some time of coming up empty, said streak settled for a compromise: If Tyler can’t be the coolest, he’ll wear the coolest down until he isn’t so cool anymore. ‘Well…that backfired’ The thought is bred from melodramatic dismay. For, as it turns out, not only is Josh the coolest person he’s ever seen, now his hair is vibrant pink, and apparently he knows how to throw a hell of a right hook. He’s going to be a hit now. And Tyler will be the brunt of the joke.
It should be the usual heat, but this isn’t the usual heat. Tyler realizes with an impending sense of horror, that this is the type of heat he feels when Jenna Black giggles at a joke he told. The heat he feels during the angst-muddled apex of a romcom (he’d rather chew off his own foot than admit to this guilty pleasure). He feels panic rise up from his chest. Does he think it’s…hot? That Josh punched him? What the fuck?
“Got nothing to say now huh? Pussy ,” Josh spits with venom. “Like my hair ,” The gathering crowd’s sounds of amusement flow silently through Tyler’s ears. He only sees red at the name calling. ‘Who does he think he is?’
In a wave of poorly calculated rage, he jumps to his feet and charges the other boy. He’s fast but that’s pretty much the only upper hand he possesses. Tyler’s sloppy hook is dodged effortlessly, and he’s met promptly in the stomach with a clean, wind stealing teep.
As the team captain stumbles back, Josh’s muscle memory engages. He shuffles forward, hands guarding his face, in his usual orthodox stance. Here, he lays a nice, quick, deadly jab-cross upon the elegant slope of the jock’s nose. Tyler falls back to the floor, holding at his bridge and groaning. More blood pools in his fingers. ‘God, this is embarrassing,’
Josh drops to his knees and pulls at the white, breezy jersey fabric around Tyler's neck. The loser is jerked into a sitting position. He’s thoroughly prepared to exercise some Jiu Jitsu moves he’s been training as well. Why stop at Boxing and Muay Thai? He wants to make him tap, stuck in an arm bar. Josh’s fantasies are cut short. The basketball captain wastes no time holding up his palms in pleading surrender.
“Okay! Okay you win! I’m sorry!” Tyler sputters. The words come out dumb and swollen. He’s equally ashamed and impressed by his utter lack of skill in juxtaposition to his punky opponent. It pairs exquisitely with his unwillingness to suffer any more shiners to the money maker. A medium rare steak with a rich cabernet sauvignon.
The heat blossoms from his chest anew. Close proximity leads to shared breaths between them. Mostly Tyler’s own. Josh doesn’t pant; He isn’t out of breath. This did not exert him. No, Josh does this often. That much is a simple conclusion. Whether it’s usually directed towards assholes like himself, or just a sand-weighted bag, Tyler isn’t sure.
The player huffs in pain, breathing in Josh's fiery exhales while the alt boy stares irate into his deep honey eyes. His are narrow, piercing, and furious with untold threats. Tyler's are wide, glistening, and nervous for reasons he can’t quite force himself to grasp in the moment. These nerves should stem from the prospects of catching another fist to the face, but reality sings that it’s solely the proximity of Josh’s to his own.
His vision picks up every freckle. Like constellations telling a complex tale of the cosmos. He wants the long-form novel. For once, he sees up close the way Josh’s silver lip ring delves into the flesh. Only momentarily, he wonders how it would feel to kiss someone with a metal ornament such as his. Tyler physically recoils at the route taken by his straying thoughts. The jump creates vital distance.
With this, Josh does release his collar. He’s thrown back to the ground as the Blink fan stands, vacating the scene. Tyler can only watch with a heaving, confused chest as pink hair turns the corner. He holds himself confidently. He doesn’t look back, mostly to prevent Tyler from seeing the excessively satisfied grin spread over his pearly teeth.
Only once Josh is out of sight does Tyler clock into the world around him. People are staring with wide, surprised eyes. They clap and laugh and yell about how awesome that was. The boy finds himself in limbo, unsure what his next move should be. So, he stares into space while Jenna Black and her friends stand to his right, giggling about how hot that alt boy is for putting such a jackass in his place. Tyler wilts. He’ll never live this down.
A body crouches beside the jock and slaps a hand to his sulking back. When he lifts his eyes, he’s not surprised, but still humiliated to find Mark.
“Nice one, Genius,” He congratulates. He would sound sarcastic if he wasn't suppressing the giggles. “I told you not to fuck with him,”
“I didn’t think he’d-”
“Like what is actually wrong with you? You could have just asked him out but instead you make him beat the crap outta you,” Mirth bleeds into Mark’s demeanor: His tone, eyes, and the shaking upcurl of his lips. He loves his friend, of course he does, but it is a special treat to see him knocked down a peg every once in a while. “It’s Twisted, man. You’ve got issues for real,”
“Dude I am not -“
“ Oh, shove it. You’re like, obsessed with this dude's appearance. It’s all you talk about. ‘ Gay ass piercing, gay ass hair, gay ass skinny jeans-They’re so tight! Why are they so tight? ’” Mark mocks him in a put-on jock voice. “This guy’s a drummer- apparently, he boxes too. I don’t know why you ever tried to start a pissing match. Of course he’s stronger than you,”
Tyler should defend himself. He should spew out how it’s not about strength , it’s about technique . Alas, all of Mark’s mocking and teasing flies right over his clouded head. In one ear, out the other. Well, most of it.
“Wait, he’s a drummer?”
Mark rolls his eyes and pulls Tyler to his feet with a friendly hand.
“If you got any closer to the point, Ty, it would take out your eyes. You’re down bad,”
Tyler ignores the comment but looks back over his shoulder several times as they exit the scene of the crime. He hopes to find pink hair bobbing through the current. He knows he won’t. Maybe Mark’s right. ‘Oh no,’ .