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bedlamsbardYou know, I sort of really want to write Year of Ghosts and Shadows for NaNo. Because I've been plotting it since eighth grade now, and it was supposed to be my NaNo novel last year except obviously that went nowhere, because of lack of focus and no plot. But YGS: Smoke on the Water has been what I've been working on for a while, and I have characters AND plot AND background, and...I should do it instead of Dangerous Heroes, because Dangerous Heroes has no plot. I mean, it does, I just care more about YGS.
And then there's Bloody Sunday. *sigh* Bloody Sunday will get written, althought it'll probably be the last major story in the Bardverse. There's just too much trauma there for me to comfortably deal with. YGS will be a nice break. Although there's a lot of trauma in YGS too; it just happens to be of the teenage drama type. Which I can totally write right now.
Also, a scene from YGS, along the lines of "cut or keep."
Alan doodled in his notebook, only half listening to di Bonaventura. Normally he would have paid more attention - Bonaventura really loved math, and he seemed to take his honors trig class as a personal challenge to beat as much calculus into their heads before they realized what was going on - but his eyes kept drifting over to Fury and Joey’s empty seats. Joey wouldn’t skip class of his own free will - the idea would never cross his mind, not seriously. He was too straight-laced for that. Fury was something else entirely, but Alan doubted she’d go to the trouble of cutting Algebra-Trig just to go out to DQ or Fred Meyer early. She liked math, freak that she was. Joey did too, a lot more than even Fury did.
Dutifully, he glanced up at the board and scribbled down what di Bonaventura wrote, barely paying attention to the notes surrounding the assignment. He’d figure it out later; if he couldn’t, he’d ask Joey - no, he couldn’t ask Joey, not unless he wanted to risk getting punched in the face again.
Alan’s fingers drifted up to his jaw reflexively. The bruises had faded clean away by now, leaving nothing behind but faint ghost-pain whenever he touched where they’d been. Not really hurting, but he wanted them enough to that they did under his hands, no matter how long they’d been healed. The last time Joey had touched him, at least willingly, and the last time they’d spoken, no matter how angry the words.
“Christ, I’m pathetic,” he whispered under his breath and flipped through his green Algebra 2 book, searching for the pages di Bonaventura had written up before leaving the room.
“Hey, Auberon,” Rick Grundman said loudly, and Alan turned around.
“What?”
“So where’s Storm, anyway? Off making out with his girlfriend?”
Alan gritted his teeth. “I wouldn’t know, and I don’t see why you care.” He tried to turn back toward his work, but Rick reached forward and grabbed his shoulder.
“And why’s that, Auberon?” he asked, cocking his head to one side. “Why do you care? You two haven’t been talking. You guys have a little lover’s spat or something?”
Cold anger went straight to his head, and he was on his feet before he’d even processed the action. “Shut the fuck up, Grundman.”
“What? I right?” Rick tilted his head back, eyes dark and knowing. Something fierce and red floated before Alan’s eyes and he grabbed desperately for what had to remain of his self-control - the shards, the bits and pieces, that had been slipping away ever since Homecoming - and found nothing there. Oh, sweet fucking gods, help me now… Fury wasn’t here. Joey wasn’t here. No one to hold him back, and lightning was sparking behind his eyes the same way it did in his dreams. He couldn’t hear Rick’s words for the thunder roaring in his ears, and the next thing he knew was Grundman’s fist colliding with his jaw.
Alan knocked over the desk going backwards, books and notebook and paper spilling to the carpet, and broke his fall with the metal rod connecting the chair to the desk. In the background, someone screamed. It sounded like Fury, but Fury didn’t believe in screaming - it must have been Grace.
Something fierce and foreign slipped from his lips, and Rick scowled and grabbed him by the collar, hauling him to his feet. Football bulk to Alan’s wiry soccer muscle, and he twisted furiously in Rick’s grip like a cat. Not enough to get free, but enough to get enough leverage that he could slam his head forehead into Rick’s nose. Just like hitting a soccer ball - only soccer balls didn’t shatter with a sound like breaking glass and squished hearts when you hit him.
Rick yelped and thrust away from him, and Alan went down again, feet tangling in his chair legs. He spit out something - maybe an insult, maybe a curse - and shoved himself to his feet.
“The fuck’s your problem, Auberon?” Rick demanded, circling back with his fists up in front of him. There was blood streaming down his face, his nose twisted in some position Alan was pretty sure wasn’t natural. “Speak English, you fucking pussy.”
Alan licked at his lips, tasted blood there for the first time. When had that happened? He had to think hard for his next words to come out. “Only when you do, pal.”
He felt Bobby Carroll’s wolf whistle before he heard it, some subtle tweaking of the air currents in the room. “Come on, Rick, you gonna let some rich fucking little queer talk to you like that?”
“Kick his ass, Alan,” Silky said enthusiastically.
“Yeah, you gonna let one of those dumbass footballers kick your ass?” Flynn added. “You can do better than that.”
Luke Savage chipped in, “C’mon, Rick, little bitch isn’t whining for his mommy yet. You a pussy yourself? You just gonna stand there, or I gotta get in there and finish this shit for you?”
Rick’s dark face twisted in a scowl. “Fuck you, Savage,” he said, and threw himself forward at Alan. This time Alan remained on his feet, just barely, taking Rick’s weight with his own. Momentum, he thought, fleeting sanity before that dark thing washed through him again. Joey…
Rick shoved him back up against a wall, beating his head against it. Alan twisted furiously in his grip, something not panic threading through him. Cool calculation - this, and this, and if he did this Rick would do -
- that -
Out in the hall. Fuck. He heard doors banging open, a cacophony of excited voices, seniors and juniors and sophs and freshmen, all demanding to know who and what and why.
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Alan couldn’t pinpoint it, couldn’t think beyond this blow and that block, and teeth were scraping at his skin but he didn’t - where was di Bonaventura’s classroom?
Second floor. Right next to the -
“Alan, watch out!” Scott yelled at the top of his lungs, and Alan didn’t have time to look away as Rick untangled himself and shoved him away. Didn’t have time to think beyond the sudden weightlessness, then the arcing pain flooding him.
...Hopefully I'll finish the Halloween story tonight...
And then there's Bloody Sunday. *sigh* Bloody Sunday will get written, althought it'll probably be the last major story in the Bardverse. There's just too much trauma there for me to comfortably deal with. YGS will be a nice break. Although there's a lot of trauma in YGS too; it just happens to be of the teenage drama type. Which I can totally write right now.
Also, a scene from YGS, along the lines of "cut or keep."
Alan doodled in his notebook, only half listening to di Bonaventura. Normally he would have paid more attention - Bonaventura really loved math, and he seemed to take his honors trig class as a personal challenge to beat as much calculus into their heads before they realized what was going on - but his eyes kept drifting over to Fury and Joey’s empty seats. Joey wouldn’t skip class of his own free will - the idea would never cross his mind, not seriously. He was too straight-laced for that. Fury was something else entirely, but Alan doubted she’d go to the trouble of cutting Algebra-Trig just to go out to DQ or Fred Meyer early. She liked math, freak that she was. Joey did too, a lot more than even Fury did.
Dutifully, he glanced up at the board and scribbled down what di Bonaventura wrote, barely paying attention to the notes surrounding the assignment. He’d figure it out later; if he couldn’t, he’d ask Joey - no, he couldn’t ask Joey, not unless he wanted to risk getting punched in the face again.
Alan’s fingers drifted up to his jaw reflexively. The bruises had faded clean away by now, leaving nothing behind but faint ghost-pain whenever he touched where they’d been. Not really hurting, but he wanted them enough to that they did under his hands, no matter how long they’d been healed. The last time Joey had touched him, at least willingly, and the last time they’d spoken, no matter how angry the words.
“Christ, I’m pathetic,” he whispered under his breath and flipped through his green Algebra 2 book, searching for the pages di Bonaventura had written up before leaving the room.
“Hey, Auberon,” Rick Grundman said loudly, and Alan turned around.
“What?”
“So where’s Storm, anyway? Off making out with his girlfriend?”
Alan gritted his teeth. “I wouldn’t know, and I don’t see why you care.” He tried to turn back toward his work, but Rick reached forward and grabbed his shoulder.
“And why’s that, Auberon?” he asked, cocking his head to one side. “Why do you care? You two haven’t been talking. You guys have a little lover’s spat or something?”
Cold anger went straight to his head, and he was on his feet before he’d even processed the action. “Shut the fuck up, Grundman.”
“What? I right?” Rick tilted his head back, eyes dark and knowing. Something fierce and red floated before Alan’s eyes and he grabbed desperately for what had to remain of his self-control - the shards, the bits and pieces, that had been slipping away ever since Homecoming - and found nothing there. Oh, sweet fucking gods, help me now… Fury wasn’t here. Joey wasn’t here. No one to hold him back, and lightning was sparking behind his eyes the same way it did in his dreams. He couldn’t hear Rick’s words for the thunder roaring in his ears, and the next thing he knew was Grundman’s fist colliding with his jaw.
Alan knocked over the desk going backwards, books and notebook and paper spilling to the carpet, and broke his fall with the metal rod connecting the chair to the desk. In the background, someone screamed. It sounded like Fury, but Fury didn’t believe in screaming - it must have been Grace.
Something fierce and foreign slipped from his lips, and Rick scowled and grabbed him by the collar, hauling him to his feet. Football bulk to Alan’s wiry soccer muscle, and he twisted furiously in Rick’s grip like a cat. Not enough to get free, but enough to get enough leverage that he could slam his head forehead into Rick’s nose. Just like hitting a soccer ball - only soccer balls didn’t shatter with a sound like breaking glass and squished hearts when you hit him.
Rick yelped and thrust away from him, and Alan went down again, feet tangling in his chair legs. He spit out something - maybe an insult, maybe a curse - and shoved himself to his feet.
“The fuck’s your problem, Auberon?” Rick demanded, circling back with his fists up in front of him. There was blood streaming down his face, his nose twisted in some position Alan was pretty sure wasn’t natural. “Speak English, you fucking pussy.”
Alan licked at his lips, tasted blood there for the first time. When had that happened? He had to think hard for his next words to come out. “Only when you do, pal.”
He felt Bobby Carroll’s wolf whistle before he heard it, some subtle tweaking of the air currents in the room. “Come on, Rick, you gonna let some rich fucking little queer talk to you like that?”
“Kick his ass, Alan,” Silky said enthusiastically.
“Yeah, you gonna let one of those dumbass footballers kick your ass?” Flynn added. “You can do better than that.”
Luke Savage chipped in, “C’mon, Rick, little bitch isn’t whining for his mommy yet. You a pussy yourself? You just gonna stand there, or I gotta get in there and finish this shit for you?”
Rick’s dark face twisted in a scowl. “Fuck you, Savage,” he said, and threw himself forward at Alan. This time Alan remained on his feet, just barely, taking Rick’s weight with his own. Momentum, he thought, fleeting sanity before that dark thing washed through him again. Joey…
Rick shoved him back up against a wall, beating his head against it. Alan twisted furiously in his grip, something not panic threading through him. Cool calculation - this, and this, and if he did this Rick would do -
- that -
Out in the hall. Fuck. He heard doors banging open, a cacophony of excited voices, seniors and juniors and sophs and freshmen, all demanding to know who and what and why.
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Alan couldn’t pinpoint it, couldn’t think beyond this blow and that block, and teeth were scraping at his skin but he didn’t - where was di Bonaventura’s classroom?
Second floor. Right next to the -
“Alan, watch out!” Scott yelled at the top of his lungs, and Alan didn’t have time to look away as Rick untangled himself and shoved him away. Didn’t have time to think beyond the sudden weightlessness, then the arcing pain flooding him.
...Hopefully I'll finish the Halloween story tonight...