Olympics Fic Sprint
Title- Thirty Four
Ratings/Warnings- T for punk!Arthur and Dork!Alfred though it never really comes into it
Word count- 1,088
Summary- Arthur needs to finish his song and the boy with the red rimmed glasses becomes the muse
|Thirty Four|
Arthur tapped the pen against his chin as he stared down the page of notes in front of him.
Considering he was in a maths class, a subject he did not grasp all too well, he was in his senior year with finals coming soon and he really needed the handy tips the teacher was handing out at that moment, it might surprise you that these were not study notes he took in that class. In fact, if you were to have asked him what the teacher was even talking about, he probably would have looked at you blankly and given you the finger. If you were lucky enough to actually get a civil response he might just tell you that the teacher was talking about maths; a very vague explanation that showed that he was paying not even the slightest bit of attention.
No, these were the music notes, specifically the ones that were tossed at him that morning by his idiotic band mates who wished for him to come up with the lyrics to their music since he was obviously the only one who could sting a coherent sentence together and put it to a beat. Surely they could have even given him an idea as to what they wanted; the beat was shaky in his head as he had never heard them play it and it was hard to imagine how it sounded from the bass player's bad handwriting.
Arthur wasn't even the band's lyricist. Didn't most bands these days have a special lyricist or even a whole team of them? He supposed they might have more meaning if they wrote them themselves; even as just a group of people playing in their neighbour's garage, they were not planning on being trashy pop with hand me down lyrics.
However, to come with lyrics that meant anything- even if the sky being blue was the topic- you would need a muse and that was exactly what Arthur didn't have. He did not have a horrible ex partner who needed to be taken down a peg or too. He didn't have some beautiful girl sitting across from him that wouldn't give him the time of day; all he had was some boy in an overgrown sweatshirt with red rimmed glasses who looked like he was far too young to be there. He didn't have a sweetheart that he thought the world of and wanted the world to know it.
He didn't have a muse and without a muse, you couldn't have a decent track.
He could write about war and peace and the destruction of mankind, yes. However, the way the beat was going, that would never work out in the long term. since those songs seemed to be coupled with a heavy bass in Arthur's experience, which this song did not have.
He needed another idiotic love song that would make him want to retch and make a bunch of shallow teenage girls want to cry and exclaim about it to their unconvinced boyfriends. In fact, any song with a bit of curiosity and love would do.
He looked around the room. Only the front row were taking notes and a lost little advanced maths junior in the corner. Now that he thought about it, that could explain how young the other boy looked with the idiotic plastic glasses and overgrown sweater. Either that or the size of his clothes just made him look younger, like a cute child in hand me down clothes from their much older sibling.
He wasn't taking notes either. He was hunched over his desk and scribbling profusely, his eyes down at the lined paper in front of him and a scrap of hair sticking up at an awkward angle. He supposed the teacher thought he was taking notes, but Arthur knew that trick better. Four eyes was avoiding the teachers eyes and writing to make sure the teacher didn't call on him for anything, but he was not working on class work. If Arthur or the teacher had looked over the boy's shoulder, they would have saw him doodling superheroes in the margin and practicing his signature on the lines. However, the teacher had a class to teach and Arthur wasn't arsed so the boy's drawings remained under wraps.
Arthur kicked the chair in front of him, reveling in the jump the other student did and sneering at the glare he received for it. There was thirty minutes of class left. Thirty minutes to have three verses and a chorus.
Four eyes pushed up his glasses on his nose, just to have them slip down again. They were fakes or an ill fit, it seemed. Maybe he didn't need them or maybe they were for reading Maybe they were all for show, but if they were he could have gotten a better looking pair than that.
Arthur ran a hand through his hair, making a face at all the disgusting gunk that came out. He didn't need the hair gel, he just put it in for show like that other kid was probably doing with his glasses. He wanted to ask him, but at the same time he wasn't bothered. He took a glance over to look at the kid's table number. It was thirty four, a number that had belonged to some girl Arthur had spoken once before she got pregnant and dropped out. He must have been given that desk when he moved to senior maths then.
Arthur doodled in his margin and then looked down to find that he was writing the number thirty four as the header of the page. He blinked down and then looked up to where four eyes was biting his pen.
A muse was a muse, whether he knew him or not.
A quirk of the kid's fingers sent his rubber flying and he let out a heavy breath before lunging for it, crashing the legs of his chair against the table while he did so. His face turned beetroot coloured and he hunched over the desk again, trying to hide his cheeks and ears as he rubbed out his doodles.
Arthur wrote down every little twitch, every movement and eventually habits became words and words became sentences that didn't form a cliche, thank God. A muse is a muse, wherever you find it.
Still, he was surprised when, after seeing the kid hurrying out of class like a startled deer, he looked down at his noted and realised his lyrics made sense.
|END|
Ratings/Warnings- T for punk!Arthur and Dork!Alfred though it never really comes into it
Word count- 1,088
Summary- Arthur needs to finish his song and the boy with the red rimmed glasses becomes the muse
|Thirty Four|
Arthur tapped the pen against his chin as he stared down the page of notes in front of him.
Considering he was in a maths class, a subject he did not grasp all too well, he was in his senior year with finals coming soon and he really needed the handy tips the teacher was handing out at that moment, it might surprise you that these were not study notes he took in that class. In fact, if you were to have asked him what the teacher was even talking about, he probably would have looked at you blankly and given you the finger. If you were lucky enough to actually get a civil response he might just tell you that the teacher was talking about maths; a very vague explanation that showed that he was paying not even the slightest bit of attention.
No, these were the music notes, specifically the ones that were tossed at him that morning by his idiotic band mates who wished for him to come up with the lyrics to their music since he was obviously the only one who could sting a coherent sentence together and put it to a beat. Surely they could have even given him an idea as to what they wanted; the beat was shaky in his head as he had never heard them play it and it was hard to imagine how it sounded from the bass player's bad handwriting.
Arthur wasn't even the band's lyricist. Didn't most bands these days have a special lyricist or even a whole team of them? He supposed they might have more meaning if they wrote them themselves; even as just a group of people playing in their neighbour's garage, they were not planning on being trashy pop with hand me down lyrics.
However, to come with lyrics that meant anything- even if the sky being blue was the topic- you would need a muse and that was exactly what Arthur didn't have. He did not have a horrible ex partner who needed to be taken down a peg or too. He didn't have some beautiful girl sitting across from him that wouldn't give him the time of day; all he had was some boy in an overgrown sweatshirt with red rimmed glasses who looked like he was far too young to be there. He didn't have a sweetheart that he thought the world of and wanted the world to know it.
He didn't have a muse and without a muse, you couldn't have a decent track.
He could write about war and peace and the destruction of mankind, yes. However, the way the beat was going, that would never work out in the long term. since those songs seemed to be coupled with a heavy bass in Arthur's experience, which this song did not have.
He needed another idiotic love song that would make him want to retch and make a bunch of shallow teenage girls want to cry and exclaim about it to their unconvinced boyfriends. In fact, any song with a bit of curiosity and love would do.
He looked around the room. Only the front row were taking notes and a lost little advanced maths junior in the corner. Now that he thought about it, that could explain how young the other boy looked with the idiotic plastic glasses and overgrown sweater. Either that or the size of his clothes just made him look younger, like a cute child in hand me down clothes from their much older sibling.
He wasn't taking notes either. He was hunched over his desk and scribbling profusely, his eyes down at the lined paper in front of him and a scrap of hair sticking up at an awkward angle. He supposed the teacher thought he was taking notes, but Arthur knew that trick better. Four eyes was avoiding the teachers eyes and writing to make sure the teacher didn't call on him for anything, but he was not working on class work. If Arthur or the teacher had looked over the boy's shoulder, they would have saw him doodling superheroes in the margin and practicing his signature on the lines. However, the teacher had a class to teach and Arthur wasn't arsed so the boy's drawings remained under wraps.
Arthur kicked the chair in front of him, reveling in the jump the other student did and sneering at the glare he received for it. There was thirty minutes of class left. Thirty minutes to have three verses and a chorus.
Four eyes pushed up his glasses on his nose, just to have them slip down again. They were fakes or an ill fit, it seemed. Maybe he didn't need them or maybe they were for reading Maybe they were all for show, but if they were he could have gotten a better looking pair than that.
Arthur ran a hand through his hair, making a face at all the disgusting gunk that came out. He didn't need the hair gel, he just put it in for show like that other kid was probably doing with his glasses. He wanted to ask him, but at the same time he wasn't bothered. He took a glance over to look at the kid's table number. It was thirty four, a number that had belonged to some girl Arthur had spoken once before she got pregnant and dropped out. He must have been given that desk when he moved to senior maths then.
Arthur doodled in his margin and then looked down to find that he was writing the number thirty four as the header of the page. He blinked down and then looked up to where four eyes was biting his pen.
A muse was a muse, whether he knew him or not.
A quirk of the kid's fingers sent his rubber flying and he let out a heavy breath before lunging for it, crashing the legs of his chair against the table while he did so. His face turned beetroot coloured and he hunched over the desk again, trying to hide his cheeks and ears as he rubbed out his doodles.
Arthur wrote down every little twitch, every movement and eventually habits became words and words became sentences that didn't form a cliche, thank God. A muse is a muse, wherever you find it.
Still, he was surprised when, after seeing the kid hurrying out of class like a startled deer, he looked down at his noted and realised his lyrics made sense.
|END|