Archive of Our Own ^beta

For the most part, Arthur was rather fond of his research class.

He'd always loved solving mysteries, always loved learning. There was something so satisfying about gathering data and laying it all out until it clicked together, a neat puzzle meticulously solved over bitter coffee and twenty-pound textbooks. An entire class dedicated to the process was, perhaps, one of the best things that education had to offer.

He was not fond, however, of the person in the seat next to him. And he was almost certain the feeling was mutual.

John Doe had always had a reputation for being a very hostile person. Rumours about him and his brother, Yellow, had spread through the school like wildfire the minute they'd transferred; violent, people said in hushed whispers, antagonistic. Emotionally volatile and unafraid to start fights if they felt so moved. While the rumours about their life before this school varied, ranging from petty lunch money theft to severe attacks on fellow students, everyone felt uneasy around them, and the two only seemed to interact with one another, if anyone at all. They were people to be avoided, particularly by people like Arthur, gauntly built with their noses buried in books. The picture of a perfect target.

"I want all of you," Ms. Pilon began, her voice warm and comforting, as if she hadn't just sentenced Arthur to what very well might have been his death, "to take a moment to get to know your partner. I tried to put everyone with someone new, so hopefully you'll all have an opportunity to make a new friend over the course of this project." Normally, Ms. Pilon was one of Arthur's favourite teachers. Right now, however…

"Arthur Lester," Arthur greeted cooly, trying not to give John the engagement of a conversation.

"John Doe."

"Pleasure."

The two sat in silence for the rest of Ms. Pilon's allotted getting-to-know-you time.

When those excruciatingly long two minutes ended, Ms. Pilon went explaining the assignment they'd be doing—a presentation on a famous writer or poet, detailing their life's events and what inspired or influenced their writing. Of course it had to be poetry. Arthur loved poetry. It was the kind of assignment he could have done by himself, would have enjoyed doing by himself, and the knowledge that he'd not only be doing it as a partner activity, but with John Doe, caused that feeling of dread to wash over him yet again.

After she finished her explanation, Ms. Pilon left the class to begin their projects, causing loud, excited chatter to erupt within the room. John flinched at the explosion of sound, almost imperceptibly, and Arthur would say that he didn't blame him, except he was rather insistent on the two not having any more common ground than was strictly necessary for this project.

Arthur sighed, opening his notebook to a new page. "We should probably go for a more obscure writer," he began. He knew he was probably setting himself up to be made fun of by getting so invested in this so early, but he couldn't help it. Even in the face of a project with John Doe, poetry remained one of his favourite subjects. "Unsung writers, the ones nobody our age talks about. Eugene O'Neill, or William Ernest Henley—"

"I really don't care, Arthur," John interrupted. "Just pick a fucking writer so you can get this project over and done with."

"So I can—" Arthur spluttered. "So we can get this project done!"

"Sure."

"You're not honestly intending to make me do this entire thing?"

"You obviously want to."

"Well—" Arthur began, reluctant to admit that John was entirely correct. "That isn't the point."

"Look," John began. "You want to do this project. I don't. Let's compromise."

"That's not how compromise works—"

"Let's. Compromise," John repeated. "You do the project. I'll stay out of your way. I'll even let you put your name first, if that makes you feel any better."

"Not really," Arthur scoffed. "Fine. Alright. It'll turn out better that way, anyway."

Unfortunately, much to both boys' despair, this plan lasted approximately twenty-four hours.

"John?" Ms. Pilon asked the next day, pausing the rounds she was making through the classroom, eyeing each pair with either a look of approval or a warning stare to stay focussed, please. "Are you helping Arthur?"

"He's helping," Arthur muttered halfheartedly, too engrossed in a collection of poetry he'd found in the library the day before. He'd been flipping through the pages the whole class period, trying to settle on a poet for the report. The problem wasn't that none of them were good—far from it. In fact, it was the opposite. Each poem was just as wonderful if not better than the last.

Of course, he had a favourite poem, one not in this particular collection, the writer of which, on any other occasion, would easily be the one chosen for this project. But the idea of associating it with someone like John made him feel ill, so he'd decided to find a new poem, one with less emotional significance, one that, when this was all over, he could part with.

Which, of course, made his decision all the more difficult. Choosing a favourite from the collection was hard enough. Choosing a least favourite…

"And how is he helping?" Ms. Pilon asked, bringing Arthur back to the real world.

"I'm taking notes," John said, though his notebook was notably very empty.

Ms. Pilon furrowed her eyebrows. "John, I hope you're taking this project seriously." Then, softer, "May I remind you of your current grade in this class?"

John froze. "I know."

Ms. Pilon hummed, sounding unsure. "I want you to do well in my class. But I can't do that if you're not trying."

"I know," John repeated.

"Good," Ms. Pilon said, and Arthur pretended not to be listening as she added, her voice barely above a whisper, "Arthur's a nice boy. I think you'd like him if you gave him a chance." The compliment made something inside Arthur glow, despite who it was being addressed to. He'd always thought himself good at making teachers like him. He was studious, good at following directions, never made a scene of himself.

Though, if those were qualities teachers appreciated, he was having trouble understanding what exactly Ms. Pilon saw in John.

"Take some notes," Ms. Pilon said gently, before moving on to another table.

John was silent for the rest of class, so Arthur continued his reading, occasionally sparing his partner a glance to see what he was doing. The answer was always the same—absolutely nothing. He was staring at his desk, and if Arthur was paying attention—which he was not—he'd say he recognised that stare. It was a look of worry and resignation, of knowing you were caught between the biggest rock you'd ever seen and the hardest place you'd ever been to. Arthur had worn that look himself many a time before. But John wasn't wearing that look now, or at least, not as far as Arthur was aware, because he wasn't paying attention to him. He wasn't.

When the bell rang, a sound which had, in the past twenty-four hours, become something akin to an angel choir as far as Arthur was concerned, the class packed up their things in a rush, filing out of the classroom like a pack of wild animals. It must have been hard for Ms. Pilon, dealing with a class of students at the end of the day, where just about every student was thinking only of home or sports practice or parties they were going to that night. Arthur sometimes made an effort to not leave too quickly, just to show he really did enjoy being in her class.

That wasn't the case today, though. He was entirely focused on getting as far away from John Doe as he could, packing up his bag as quickly as possible and hurrying out the door with a quick "thank you" to Ms. Pilon.

The weather outside was unusually warm for a February afternoon. The sun was shining as bright as midsummer, unbridled by the thick overcast the city had seen for all of January. Arthur had always loved winter afternoons like this; the sun low in the sky because the days were still short, the almost imperceptible haze that hung over everything, tinting the world ever so slightly blue even at golden hour. It was like something out of a poem, one he'd tried to write over and over again but could never quite pin down the feeling needed for.

Arthur scanned the crowd for his brother, Parker, with whom he was supposed to be walking home. He always took so long to leave the building, always too caught up with his work to finish on time. Like Arthur, he was studious, a lover of knowledge and learning, to the point where Arthur forgot, on occasion, that the two weren't truly related.

Arthur's parents had both always been sick. His mother had gone first, when he was little, and some part of him had always known his father would be close to follow. Arthur's father had died, in the end, but not before meeting Mr. Yang, or as he kept insisting Arthur call him, Parker—a name he shared with his son, as Peter had always preferred going by his middle name. The two men had been lovers. Arthur had been averse to the concept at first, before eventually realising the stupidity in his prejudice. He'd grown fond of Mr. Yang. The man wasn't quite a second father to him, but had become something of a paternal figure, especially when Arthur's real father finally passed away, causing Mr. Yang to have full legal custody of him.

Arthur always saw Parker as a step-brother, though he of course couldn't call him or Parker's sister as much outside of their own family. Still, their similarities were many, and the two acted enough like they'd been raised together that Arthur gave very little thought to the fact that they hadn't, in fact, known each other all their lives. He loved Parker dearly, and that was all that really mattered to him, more than semantic terms used to describe their familial bond.

Still, he could do to get out of the school building just a little bit faster.

Arthur sighed, tapping his fingers against each other absentmindedly, wondering where the hell Parker was, when a voice to his left startled him.

"Arthur."

Arthur jumped at the sound of John's voice, turning sharply to look at him. He then realised quickly that he would not be making eye contact with John Doe, and averted his gaze, but not before seeing a few flecks of gold where the sun hit his dark eyes, nor the way the light reflected off of his skin, making him look almost ethereal.

Except, no, he didn't, because this was John Doe, a decidedly un-ethereal person, whose eyes would never look pretty, why would anyone think that—

"Arthur," John repeated, shaking Arthur from the stupor that had not washed over him.

"John," Arthur replied, elegantly.

"I need to work on the project."

Arthur blinked once. "Sorry?"

"Don't be an idiot. The project. I need to work on it."

"Now?"

"Not now," Jon replied, rolling his eyes. "I just…what poet are we researching?"

"I'm not…entirely sure yet," Arthur admitted slowly. "Where is this coming from?" Though, if he was honest with himself, he could make a few guesses.

John paused. "That's not important. I just need to work on it. So…I need you to show me some poetry tomorrow."

Arthur was at a loss for words. John Doe was asking Arthur to introduce him to poetry. Poetry! What could he even say to that? He knew why John was asking, if Ms. Pilon's comment from earlier was anything to go by, but even still! John Doe! Poetry!

"Everything alright over here?" A voice to Arthur's right asked, and thank god, Parker had appeared at his side, expression cool as he stared John down. Though Parker was easily several inches shorter than John, and, while broad-shouldered, didn't look nearly as able to break someone into pieces as John and Yellow, he had a sort of look to him, as though even daring to cross him was dangerous. Arthur had never felt so lucky to have him as a brother as he did in that moment.

Until he hesitated, whatever words he was about to say dying on his tongue. Because John wasn't threatening him. He wasn't even being especially unkind. John was asking Arthur to teach him poetry.

"Yes," Arthur said slowly, the word feeling strange as it left his mouth. "Everything's quite alright."

John nodded once, still glowering, but looking less threatening by the minute. "I'll see you tomorrow, then." And with that, he marched off into the crowd of students, disappearing amongst the sea of faces despite his remarkable height advantage.

"Arthur," Parker began slowly. "Did he…say something to you?"

"He wants me to teach him poetry."

"What?"

Arthur shook his head, barely containing a bewildered laugh as he spoke. "He wants me to teach him poetry!"

"Artie, what the hell are you talking about?"

Arthur dragged a hand down his face, unable to control himself. This was far too many emotions for one day, far too much surprise for any man to handle in his entire life.

He wants me to teach him poetry.

What had he gotten himself into?