Chapter Text
Mickey Milkovich slammed his locker, the rusty metal screeching loud enough to make the hallway jump. Jefferson High was falling apart floor tiles cracked and uneven, ceiling panels sagging, lockers dented and hanging on by stubborn hinges. Every step on the creaky floors echoed like a warning, and the air smelled faintly of mildew mixed with cafeteria grease. He didn’t mind. The school was a mess, and he liked it that way. It was predictable in all the right ways.
He turned down the hall, boots thudding against the worn linoleum, and froze. There was a new kid. Didn’t know his name. Didn’t care yet. But he was walking like he belonged somewhere else shiny shoes, neat hair, shirt tucked in like he’d ironed it himself that morning, a backpack that probably hadn’t survived a fight in its life. He moved through the hallway like he was gliding over the chaos, not touching the cracked floors or dented lockers.
Mickey’s jaw tightened. The kid had that polished look, that air of “I’m better than this place,” and it made him want to punch something. Fists itched. He didn’t even know the kid, and already he wanted to make him feel out of place.
The new kid glanced at a locker, not noticing Mickey at all, and for some reason that made him even more irritating. Didn’t see the hall. Didn’t see him. Didn’t even care.
Mickey slammed another locker shut, metal groaning, just to mark his territory. He wasn’t going to let some shiny little stranger ignore the place he claimed as his own. The kid glanced over, momentarily startled, but didn’t approach. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t even acknowledge him.
Mickey grunted, keeping his distance, eyes tracking the kid down the hall. Something about him felt… wrong. Or maybe dangerous. Or maybe just annoying as hell. And that, more than anything, made Mickey want to keep watching, even if he’d never admit it.
He turned away, muttering under his breath, and slammed another locker for good measure. Jefferson High was a warzone, broken and creaky, and it would swallow anyone whole who didn’t know how to fight. Mickey liked it that way. But this new kid? He didn’t look like he knew how to survive.
And for the first time in a long time, that made Mickey a little… curious.
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By the time lunch rolled around, the cafeteria was a war zone . Spilled milk pooled on cracked linoleum tiles, trays slammed onto tables, and a chorus of shouts and laughter echoed off the sagging ceiling panels. The smell of burnt fries and old pizza hung thick in the air, and the flickering fluorescent lights did little to brighten the chaos.
Mickey found a table near the wall, boots scraping against the floor as he settled in. He wasn’t really hungry. He was too busy scanning the room, keeping an eye on… him.
Of course. The new kid was sitting alone at the far corner, as far away from the noise as possible. Clean notebook open, pencil moving fast, shiny shoes tucked neatly under the table. He wasn’t even looking up, completely unaware of the screaming, crowded cafeteria.
Mickey’s jaw tightened. He leaned against the table, eyes narrowing.
This kid… this perfect little stranger… thinks he’s too good to sit with anyone else. Too good to get his hands dirty in the mess. Too good to deal with the noise, the shouting, the chaos of a real school. Sitting all high and mighty at his little corner table like Jefferson High is beneath him. He wanted to walk over and shove the tray off the table. Not because he was hungry. Because nobody sits like that at Jefferson High and goes unbothered. Someone bumped into the kid’s table. Soda sloshed. Cries of “Hey!” echoed nearby. The kid didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Didn’t even look up.
Mickey’s fists itched. The kid had no idea who he was messing with. He had no clue who Mickey Milkovich was. The bell rang, jolting the cafeteria back into motion. Students filed out, trays scraping, chairs squeaking, lockers banging. Mickey followed, boots echoing against the cracked floors, eyes still locked on the kid.
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Mickey shoved the classroom door open late, the hinges groaning like everything in Jefferson High. He hated being late. He scanned the room quickly, boots thudding against the scuffed linoleum, and spotted an empty seat at the back. Perfect. Out of the way. Away from the chatter and the teacher’s endless lectures about symbolism and thesis statements. He slumped in, dragging his backpack down beside him, and tried to tune out the room.
But then he noticed the new kid. Of course. He’d be sitting there, neat and quiet, like he belonged somewhere better than this dump. Shirt tucked in, hair still perfect, notebook clean and organized. Mickey scowled. Who even sits like that? Like they’re too good for this place. The teacher, Ms. Crane, was at the front, rattling off instructions for the semester project. Mickey didn’t care. Until he heard the words that made his stomach drop like a fist to the gut:
“For this project, I’ve paired you with partners,” Ms. Crane said, flipping the list. “Milkovich and Gallagher you two will start today.” Mickey froze mid breath. Gallagher? He barely registered the name. His eyes flicked to the new kid. That… Gallagher. Of course. Of all people. Great. Just perfect.
“What the hell?” Mickey muttered under his breath, tapping the desk like it was a warning. Gallagher looked up slowly, eyebrows raised, and said, in that calm, measured tone that made Mickey want to snap,
“I guess we’re partners, then.” Mickey’s jaw tightened.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, keeping his voice low, though the edge made it clear he wasn’t joking. Why do I have to get stuck with him? He’s too… clean, too smart, too annoying. I can already tell this is gonna suck.
“People like me Mikalo?” Gallagher asked, tilting his head ever so slightly, the tiniest smirk tugging at his lips. Mickey slammed his palm on the desk, trying to ignore the little sting in his chest he started steaming with anger.
“Watch it, Gallagher,” he said. “Call me that one more time…”
“I’ll just stick to calling you Milkovich then,” Gallagher said smoothly, flipping open his notebook and already jotting something down. “We’re partners. Might as well get started.”
Mickey groaned, leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowing. He hated this. Hated that he had to work with this polished little pest for the entire semester. He hated that he didn’t know anything about him. Why do I even care what he’s writing? Don’t care. Don’t care. Just get through this. “Fine,” he muttered, grabbing a sheet of paper. “Let’s just get this over with.” Gallagher didn’t look up.
“Relax. I’m not going to make this any harder than it has to be.” Mickey wanted to snap back, wanted to argue, but the words caught in his throat. So he sat there, arms crossed, watching Gallagher organize his notes with unnerving precision. He didn’t trust him. Didn’t like him. Probably never would. But damn it, why do I keep noticing the way he writes neat? Like it annoys me and… something else. Shut up, Milkovich.
The rest of class passed in tense silence. Mickey scribbled half-heartedly on his paper while Gallagher wrote neatly, almost annoyingly fast. Every glance, every movement made him aware of Gallagher in a way that was distracting, frustrating, and just… wrong. By the time the bell rang, Mickey was more annoyed than ever. And yet, as he packed his bag, he realized with a reluctant twist in his chest that this was going to be a long semester. A really long semester.
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Later, in the hall, Mickey considered cornering him, just to make him flinch, just to make him notice that Jefferson High didn’t bend for perfection. But something in the way Gallagher moved unbothered, calculated, precise made him pause. Dangerous, maybe. Annoying as hell, definitely. But… curious.
Mickey clenched his fists.
This was going to be a long semester. And he intended to make every second of it… memorable.