GLEE: Luck of the Irish (Interlude)
Title: Luck of the Irish (interlude)
summary: So what's Lee doing, all on his lonesome?
Ireland was even worse than Lee had thought it would be.
The cold felt more bitter now, cutting through coats and numbing his fingers and burning his lungs and toes and every part of him. His nose ran and his eyes watered (and Lee wasn’t crying, he wasn’t) and the only things that would warm him was the acrid smoke from a cigarette or the burning warmth of banned alcohol tipped down his throat in his favourite haunt, an unused courtyard with a single stone bench and just enough shelter from the wind and rain to make it habitable.
Stubbing out a cigarette on the bottom of his distinctly non-regulation boots, Lee sighed heavily, the last trickles of smoke mixing with the white puff of his breath in the December air. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and kicked a loose stone, sending it skipping down the narrow staircase that lead up to the little courtyard, and heard a thump, followed by a yelp.
“Who the fuck is it?”
“Your goddamn brother, you self absorbed prick!”
“Wash your mouth out, bitch!” Lee called down, but stopped blocking the doorway, letting Rauri through. His younger brother fell onto the stone bench, putting down his book bag and pulling at his steel grey school scarf.
“I see you’ve somehow managed to dye your hair again.”
“You like it?” Lee asked with a grin, running his hand over the leopard spots that now decorated his hair. Unlike his brother, who was picture perfect in his uniform, ready to shoot the cover of the school brochure, Lee was a little less...polished.
His school tie was far too loose, to start with the least offensive of his uniform breaking habits, the knot hanging loosely on his chest, and his buttoned shirt was unbuttoned enough to see the top of a bright red anarchy ‘A’ on a black tee. His slacks were held up by a spiked belt, with several chains hanging from it, he wore steel toed boots, one of which had FUCK painted on it in white paint. As for his blazer...well. What had once been a neat, grey trimmed black blazer with the school coat of arms over the breast pocket, was mauled beyond most recognition. One lapel had been torn off entirely and replaced with one made of navy and red cloth, while the other was pinned to the rest of the blazer with a an uneven line of safety pins of various sizes. Most prominently, to Ruari’s eye, there was a purple pin with the head of a griffin enamelled on it, sitting in pride of place at Lee’s collar.
He wasn’t even going to think about the hair dye and piercings.
“I do. I don’t think the headmaster does.”
“Hidebound old motherfucker. I should slip some manic panic in his shampoo or some shit. Bright blue. See how he feels about it then,” Lee snorted, dropping onto the bench next to Ruari and pulling him into a headlock- the closest Lee usually came to hug, lately.
“I somehow don’t think that would help.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, and Lee pulled a hipflask out of the inside pocket of his blazer, taking a nip of whatever highly toxic substance he’d filled it with today. When Ruari reached for it, he pulled it back, tutting at him.
“Not for you, sprog. Wait till your goddamn balls have dropped.”
“Do you really want to know about the state of my balls?”
“Definitely fucking not,” Lee said, shaking his head, and Ruari reached for the flask as well.
“...Lee.”
“That’s my name.”
“You’re not happy here, are you?”
“What the fuck gave it away?”
“The sulking, drinking, acting out in a way you haven’t since you moved to the U.S., and the way you end up glaring at every single person who makes eye contact with you.”
“They’re fucking judging me.”
“You burned down the gym! Of course they’re judging you.”
“Fuck it all, that was years ago! Get the fuck over it!” Lee snapped, lighting another cigarette as Ruari rolled the hipflask between his palms.
“You know. I’m alright now.”
“Damn straight you are. How much fucking physio have I helped you with.”
“Too much,” Ruari agreed, with a small smile, “and I love you for it.”
“‘Course you do.”
“So understand, I’m not telling you to rack off or anything, but-”
“But?”
“But fuck off back to America and that dumbass blond of yours. Your sulking vibes are scaring off the girls.”
“What girls?”
“Exactly,” Ruari said with a smile, and dug his phone out of his pocket, offering it to Lee.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do with this, you shit stain?”
“Call Dad. Ask him to help you transfer back to Daltoff.”
“Dalton,” Lee corrected.
“They’re trying to go green,” Ruari said, with an impish smile.
Lee groaned and pushed him off the bench.
“I’ll fucking think about it. No goddamn promises.”
summary: So what's Lee doing, all on his lonesome?
Ireland was even worse than Lee had thought it would be.
The cold felt more bitter now, cutting through coats and numbing his fingers and burning his lungs and toes and every part of him. His nose ran and his eyes watered (and Lee wasn’t crying, he wasn’t) and the only things that would warm him was the acrid smoke from a cigarette or the burning warmth of banned alcohol tipped down his throat in his favourite haunt, an unused courtyard with a single stone bench and just enough shelter from the wind and rain to make it habitable.
Stubbing out a cigarette on the bottom of his distinctly non-regulation boots, Lee sighed heavily, the last trickles of smoke mixing with the white puff of his breath in the December air. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and kicked a loose stone, sending it skipping down the narrow staircase that lead up to the little courtyard, and heard a thump, followed by a yelp.
“Who the fuck is it?”
“Your goddamn brother, you self absorbed prick!”
“Wash your mouth out, bitch!” Lee called down, but stopped blocking the doorway, letting Rauri through. His younger brother fell onto the stone bench, putting down his book bag and pulling at his steel grey school scarf.
“I see you’ve somehow managed to dye your hair again.”
“You like it?” Lee asked with a grin, running his hand over the leopard spots that now decorated his hair. Unlike his brother, who was picture perfect in his uniform, ready to shoot the cover of the school brochure, Lee was a little less...polished.
His school tie was far too loose, to start with the least offensive of his uniform breaking habits, the knot hanging loosely on his chest, and his buttoned shirt was unbuttoned enough to see the top of a bright red anarchy ‘A’ on a black tee. His slacks were held up by a spiked belt, with several chains hanging from it, he wore steel toed boots, one of which had FUCK painted on it in white paint. As for his blazer...well. What had once been a neat, grey trimmed black blazer with the school coat of arms over the breast pocket, was mauled beyond most recognition. One lapel had been torn off entirely and replaced with one made of navy and red cloth, while the other was pinned to the rest of the blazer with a an uneven line of safety pins of various sizes. Most prominently, to Ruari’s eye, there was a purple pin with the head of a griffin enamelled on it, sitting in pride of place at Lee’s collar.
He wasn’t even going to think about the hair dye and piercings.
“I do. I don’t think the headmaster does.”
“Hidebound old motherfucker. I should slip some manic panic in his shampoo or some shit. Bright blue. See how he feels about it then,” Lee snorted, dropping onto the bench next to Ruari and pulling him into a headlock- the closest Lee usually came to hug, lately.
“I somehow don’t think that would help.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, and Lee pulled a hipflask out of the inside pocket of his blazer, taking a nip of whatever highly toxic substance he’d filled it with today. When Ruari reached for it, he pulled it back, tutting at him.
“Not for you, sprog. Wait till your goddamn balls have dropped.”
“Do you really want to know about the state of my balls?”
“Definitely fucking not,” Lee said, shaking his head, and Ruari reached for the flask as well.
“...Lee.”
“That’s my name.”
“You’re not happy here, are you?”
“What the fuck gave it away?”
“The sulking, drinking, acting out in a way you haven’t since you moved to the U.S., and the way you end up glaring at every single person who makes eye contact with you.”
“They’re fucking judging me.”
“You burned down the gym! Of course they’re judging you.”
“Fuck it all, that was years ago! Get the fuck over it!” Lee snapped, lighting another cigarette as Ruari rolled the hipflask between his palms.
“You know. I’m alright now.”
“Damn straight you are. How much fucking physio have I helped you with.”
“Too much,” Ruari agreed, with a small smile, “and I love you for it.”
“‘Course you do.”
“So understand, I’m not telling you to rack off or anything, but-”
“But?”
“But fuck off back to America and that dumbass blond of yours. Your sulking vibes are scaring off the girls.”
“What girls?”
“Exactly,” Ruari said with a smile, and dug his phone out of his pocket, offering it to Lee.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do with this, you shit stain?”
“Call Dad. Ask him to help you transfer back to Daltoff.”
“Dalton,” Lee corrected.
“They’re trying to go green,” Ruari said, with an impish smile.
Lee groaned and pushed him off the bench.
“I’ll fucking think about it. No goddamn promises.”