Original -- (In)tact
Title: (In)tact
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 927
Warnings: brief language (…it's rated pretty much for one line, but what the hey)
Prompt: funny at pulped_fictions …again, because it's pick-your-poison week
Summary: Nick stirs up trouble, so Theo makes his position painfully clear, but it all sorta-kinda works out okay. So far.
Author's Note: Dear tortured subscribers: This is the last submission for Winterval, so I will not be spamming you with o-fic more-than-weekly anymore. At least not for a while. Sorry if there was any eye-rolling involved. ♥ Dear Nick and Theo fans: YES THIS IS LIKE THEIR EIGHTH CANON I DON'T UNDERSTAND IT EITHER *CRIES*
(In)tact
Nick is very talented, but even he can’t get into too much trouble while he’s still in Theo’s sightline. In four days, they will have escaped their final year of high school essentially intact, an accomplishment for which Theo-in honesty, not in conceit-takes every last molecule of credit.
He’s aware, however, that Nick can do a lot in four days, which is why he’s spending their “review” period-later their teacher will regret having left to make copies-mostly reading but also closely monitoring the resident psychopath. Said resident psychopath is conversing animatedly with a group of individuals whom Theo categorizes as school friends; once they’ve all parted ways, Nick will bid them happy birthdays on Facebook for a few years and occasionally comment on their statuses, especially the drunken ones. Eventually he’ll forget who they were, and by that time he won’t know the people that they are, and the last threads of commonality won’t be enough.
Before Theo can get too cynical about the weird social mores of Facebook, Nick bounces back over and plants both hands on his desk.
“You want to make fifteen bucks?” he asks.
Theo pointedly turns a page that he wasn’t actually finished reading. “Satan will have to pay at least twenty-five dollars for my s-”
Nick kisses him.
Not that Theo has ever in his life given the prospect any thought even for a second, but he expected Nick to be the kind of kisser who makes up for clumsiness with energy and good intentions. He was right, as it turns out, which is… interesting. He intends to wonder what kind of kisser he is, but someone says “Oh, my God,” and then he can’t hear anything over the voice in his head that would like to know WHAT IN THE FUCKING FUCK.
Before he can formulate an answer to that, Nick pulls away and barrels back to the cluster of wide-eyed school friends, saying something Theo can’t hear over the wind in his ears, though it’s almost certainly a variation on “Pay up, suckers.”
Theo swallows. He catches his breath. He puts down his book, none too concerned about which page he was on. He stands up.
By this time, Nick is sauntering back towards him, flipping through the wad of crumpled dollar bills in his hand. He divides the stack into two parts and holds one out to Theo.
Theo takes it. He sets it down on the desk. And then he punches Nick in the jaw.
Nick is on the floor howling bloody murder. Theo sits down. He picks up his book.
“Holy freaking crap,” somebody says, almost reverently.
“What the hell?” Nick wails. “I gave you more than half!”
Theo braces his elbows on the desktop so that his hands won’t shake. He focuses in on the word sequence, although the letters kind of tremble.
Nick grabs the edge of the desk and hauls himself back up to his feet, holding his jaw. His money’s all over the floor.
“You split your knuckles,” he says, pointing. “You split your knuckles on my face.”
“Funny how that works,” Theo says.
“Where the hell did you learn to hit like that?” Nick asks. “You’ve been a pacifist since before I knew what that word meant.”
When Theo was ten years old at his mother’s family’s annual reunion/Christmas party in Phoenix, he got up to the microphone between off-key karaoke songs and waited until the whole hall paused to stare at the scrawny black kid in the nerdy snowflake sweater. And then, because he knew it would be worth swallowing his shyness and weathering the humiliation, he stood on his tiptoes to speak into the mic. What he said was Would anyone here be willing to teach me how to throw a punch?
In the present, Theo shrugs. Maybe he’ll tell Nick the whole story-including the untimely demise of the glass cookie plate, the tipsy altercation-demonstrations when his half-dozen instructors disagreed, and the general consensus at the end of the night that it had been the best reunion in recent memory-sometime when Nick is not on Groveling for Forgiveness Duty.
“You must share your wisdom with me, sensei,” Nick intones then, and Theo manages not to crack a smile. “You must also help me find a way to explain this to my mother that does not involve the words ‘Theo kicked my ass in Calculus today.’”
“Only if you promise never to forget it,” Theo says.
“You know my memory,” Nick says. He rubs at his jaw. “But I’ll definitely remember for the three weeks it takes this bruise to go away.”
“It’s very roguish,” Theo says, returning to the book. “The girls will love it. You’re welcome.”
“Don’t talk craziness,” Nick says. “You’re the one I just made out with in a classroom.”
Theo thinks the room in question might be condensing around him-except that the air’s too thin to carry any oxygen to his brain, and the whiteboard has started to waver like a mirage. There is a hulking creature in the room, an elephant with sea urchin skin, and he isn’t brave enough to touch it yet.
“Speaking of classrooms,” he says, “can we not have this conversation in one?”
Nick bats his eyelashes with a grin, and Theo’s stomach does a standing backflip.
“I just made thirteen dollars,” Nick says. “I’ll buy you gelato once we are free from this horrible place.”
“Deal,” Theo says, so maybe he’s sold his soul after all.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 927
Warnings: brief language (…it's rated pretty much for one line, but what the hey)
Prompt: funny at pulped_fictions …again, because it's pick-your-poison week
Summary: Nick stirs up trouble, so Theo makes his position painfully clear, but it all sorta-kinda works out okay. So far.
Author's Note: Dear tortured subscribers: This is the last submission for Winterval, so I will not be spamming you with o-fic more-than-weekly anymore. At least not for a while. Sorry if there was any eye-rolling involved. ♥ Dear Nick and Theo fans: YES THIS IS LIKE THEIR EIGHTH CANON I DON'T UNDERSTAND IT EITHER *CRIES*
(In)tact
Nick is very talented, but even he can’t get into too much trouble while he’s still in Theo’s sightline. In four days, they will have escaped their final year of high school essentially intact, an accomplishment for which Theo-in honesty, not in conceit-takes every last molecule of credit.
He’s aware, however, that Nick can do a lot in four days, which is why he’s spending their “review” period-later their teacher will regret having left to make copies-mostly reading but also closely monitoring the resident psychopath. Said resident psychopath is conversing animatedly with a group of individuals whom Theo categorizes as school friends; once they’ve all parted ways, Nick will bid them happy birthdays on Facebook for a few years and occasionally comment on their statuses, especially the drunken ones. Eventually he’ll forget who they were, and by that time he won’t know the people that they are, and the last threads of commonality won’t be enough.
Before Theo can get too cynical about the weird social mores of Facebook, Nick bounces back over and plants both hands on his desk.
“You want to make fifteen bucks?” he asks.
Theo pointedly turns a page that he wasn’t actually finished reading. “Satan will have to pay at least twenty-five dollars for my s-”
Nick kisses him.
Not that Theo has ever in his life given the prospect any thought even for a second, but he expected Nick to be the kind of kisser who makes up for clumsiness with energy and good intentions. He was right, as it turns out, which is… interesting. He intends to wonder what kind of kisser he is, but someone says “Oh, my God,” and then he can’t hear anything over the voice in his head that would like to know WHAT IN THE FUCKING FUCK.
Before he can formulate an answer to that, Nick pulls away and barrels back to the cluster of wide-eyed school friends, saying something Theo can’t hear over the wind in his ears, though it’s almost certainly a variation on “Pay up, suckers.”
Theo swallows. He catches his breath. He puts down his book, none too concerned about which page he was on. He stands up.
By this time, Nick is sauntering back towards him, flipping through the wad of crumpled dollar bills in his hand. He divides the stack into two parts and holds one out to Theo.
Theo takes it. He sets it down on the desk. And then he punches Nick in the jaw.
Nick is on the floor howling bloody murder. Theo sits down. He picks up his book.
“Holy freaking crap,” somebody says, almost reverently.
“What the hell?” Nick wails. “I gave you more than half!”
Theo braces his elbows on the desktop so that his hands won’t shake. He focuses in on the word sequence, although the letters kind of tremble.
Nick grabs the edge of the desk and hauls himself back up to his feet, holding his jaw. His money’s all over the floor.
“You split your knuckles,” he says, pointing. “You split your knuckles on my face.”
“Funny how that works,” Theo says.
“Where the hell did you learn to hit like that?” Nick asks. “You’ve been a pacifist since before I knew what that word meant.”
When Theo was ten years old at his mother’s family’s annual reunion/Christmas party in Phoenix, he got up to the microphone between off-key karaoke songs and waited until the whole hall paused to stare at the scrawny black kid in the nerdy snowflake sweater. And then, because he knew it would be worth swallowing his shyness and weathering the humiliation, he stood on his tiptoes to speak into the mic. What he said was Would anyone here be willing to teach me how to throw a punch?
In the present, Theo shrugs. Maybe he’ll tell Nick the whole story-including the untimely demise of the glass cookie plate, the tipsy altercation-demonstrations when his half-dozen instructors disagreed, and the general consensus at the end of the night that it had been the best reunion in recent memory-sometime when Nick is not on Groveling for Forgiveness Duty.
“You must share your wisdom with me, sensei,” Nick intones then, and Theo manages not to crack a smile. “You must also help me find a way to explain this to my mother that does not involve the words ‘Theo kicked my ass in Calculus today.’”
“Only if you promise never to forget it,” Theo says.
“You know my memory,” Nick says. He rubs at his jaw. “But I’ll definitely remember for the three weeks it takes this bruise to go away.”
“It’s very roguish,” Theo says, returning to the book. “The girls will love it. You’re welcome.”
“Don’t talk craziness,” Nick says. “You’re the one I just made out with in a classroom.”
Theo thinks the room in question might be condensing around him-except that the air’s too thin to carry any oxygen to his brain, and the whiteboard has started to waver like a mirage. There is a hulking creature in the room, an elephant with sea urchin skin, and he isn’t brave enough to touch it yet.
“Speaking of classrooms,” he says, “can we not have this conversation in one?”
Nick bats his eyelashes with a grin, and Theo’s stomach does a standing backflip.
“I just made thirteen dollars,” Nick says. “I’ll buy you gelato once we are free from this horrible place.”
“Deal,” Theo says, so maybe he’s sold his soul after all.