Chapter Text
His dad was a mean drunk, his mom was an absent neat freak who fussed over everything his father ruined. Textbook, been there done that, blah blah blah tragic backstory who cares.
The bigger issue, as far as Shawn was concerned, was how damn bored he was. Like out of his mind, brain melting into puddles, playing wall-ball boredom.
As far as he was concerned, his schedule wasn’t an issue. He showed up to school, did whatever classes they threw at him, went home, and repeated. There wasn’t much to think about really. Getting moved down to a lower math class had been a bit of a blow to the ego, he’ll admit, but with him getting straight Fs and Cory cruising on a solid D-C average, it made sense that Shawn would get shoved into an ‘additional support needs’ class. Which just means that he’s stupid. Or some bullshit about how he ‘doesn’t apply himself’ but is sharp.
If sharp means able to get through math for years by cheating off of Minkus enough to not fail abysmally but not enough to arouse suspicion, sure. But with Minkus being moved into a higher maths class, his plans were foiled, and he got busted for being an idiot.
But when he changed maths classes, apparently it meant that the rest of the schedule had to change to fit it as well. So his schedule that consisted of whatever Cory wanted to do rapidly re-rolled into a steadfast ‘arts learning track’, which means advanced english, support maths, standard history, media studies, standard science, and most notably, art.
As of now, he has two classes with Cory and nothing else, which of course he didn’t even notice until after the school year started.
And with his better half being absent for his classes, Shawn landed himself here, sitting on a gangly wooden stool at a paint splattered desk, bored out of his god damned mind.
Pretending to sketch in his book, he doodled some half hearted throw up graffiti that he was considering embellishing the side of a nearby building with, his right hand tapping his fingers absently across the side of his arm. As if charting out the tick, tock, tick, tock, of the cat clock that flicked its tail at him from the front of the classroom.
When the bell chimes he’s already shoving his sketchbook into his bag and marching to the door, he’s first out of the classroom and in an instant making a beeline for his set of lockers.
Shoving his art supplies inside, (which consist of a sketchpad that he found under his bed from when he was nine, and pencils that he’d stolen from other people), Shawn glances at himself in his locker mirror, an essential for any self obsessed teenager, and fixes his hair.
“Shawnie!” “Cory!” Right on time.
The catch up between class was short before Shawn had to bid Cory goodbye. If he wasn’t in class within five minutes of the bell ringing, his science teacher would lock the doors. Which seems like a perfect excuse to skip class but apparently Cory doesn’t feel the same.
Shawn instead takes a leisurely stroll to advanced english, already prepared to ask the teacher to fix the scheduling issue that had occurred and to boot him back into him the english for dummies that he had gotten used to.
Surprisingly not late, Shawn plants himself in the furthest chair from the front, already bored and looking up at the ceiling. Usually he’d go ‘girl window shopping’ during classes Cory wasn’t in, which means he’d stare at girls all class and consider them. Occasionally he’d make a purchase. It was- well it wasn’t fun, but it was… fine? It worked.
There were probably not going to be very many pretty boys in advanced english. Atleast not any that would entertain him- or even give him the time of day really… it was going to be a long class.
So when Mister Turner barges to the front of the class – a few minutes late, tsk tsk, Shawn doesn’t look up. His reaction is trained, he doesn’t glance at the short snippet of poetry as the paper is passed through the ques of desks and Jon looks at them expectantly from the front, He keeps his reaction trained. Cool, calm, collected. Shawn doesn’t like poetry, Shawn isn’t lame and flowery.
“What do you notice about this”, Jon begins, looking around the class of students wilted over their desks with more pep than any of them. Shawn misses when Jon gave out X-men comics.
“It’s a poem” Topanga articulates, to which Jon nods. “Technically it’s a prose, but I’ll give it to ya” He chuckles, turning his back to the class and writing the year nineteen eighty four in large bold lettering, underneath it adding what must be the title of the poem.
“First they came-,” Starts Jon, met with slight snickers from Shawn, “-is not about sexual acts thank you Hunter. ‘First they came’ is going to be the start of our nineteen eighty four unit, which will culminate with a final essay that you can choose the subject of.”
“For this, we’re focusing on-..” He turns his back to the class, writing his words in bullett points across the board, “Theme, idea, groups, and society.” He lists off, looking at everyone enthusiastically. People are listening, but there’s no stirring at his words, he sighs, “not my best material, I’ll admit, but starting with theme, everyone can take a look at this poem and we can discuss the themes within it.”
Shawn's eyes flit over the poem lazily, putting on a good show of it before he actually reads it. The poem is short, and simple — much more his reading level. He pauses, reading again. The simple and true lettering stabbing short into the paper sinks into him. For a moment, he’s absorbed.
“What do we think that the central theme is?” Jon interrupts by questioning the class, looking around expectantly. “Don’t leave me waiting or I’ll start naming names,” he threatens, seeing Topanga's hand stretch up in response.
“Post holocaust guilt,” she says sharply. Jon nods, “Alright, what makes you think that?” He probes, “At the bottom it says that it was written in nineteen eighty four, which is post holocaust, and the first line of it talks about Jews being taken.” Crisp and sharp, her delivery leaves no room for arguments. None are provided.
“Okay, okay… well what about central idea?” Jon looks over the class. “Hunter, you haven’t bestowed us with your knowledge yet aside from a chuckle” Jon selects, looking over at where Shawn was pretending to look at the ceiling fan.
“Huh-?” He questions, eyes flitting back to the front. “What do you think the central idea is?” Jon repeats. “...well- probably community, right?” He splutters after a few seconds, not sure how he’s supposed to react in this unforeseen situation. Jon raises an eyebrow but Shawn continues, “Like- the point of it is that we need to build communities with people who are different to us so that when something bad happens then we have someone to look out for us who aren’t just people similar to us who are in the same situation?”
Jon nods slowly, “So you think the central idea is community because if we look out for those around us in our community when they’re struggling then there are people to speak out for us when we’re struggling, right?” Shawn gives a half hearted nod, feigning indifference.
“Good job kid.” Jon says simply, continuing on to blather about other ideas presented. But Shawn tunes out around the overtones of violent authorities.
Some safety net standing close to protect people, yeah right.
—
After class he hangs back a minute or two before walking over to Mister Turner's desk, the man in question looking up from his dog eared book. “Hunter?” Jon asks, raising an eyebrow, “Something must be burning you if you stayed longer than strictly necessary in my classroom.” Shawn gives him a half smile, “Nothing- crazy, just wanted to see about changing my schedule? You’re my homeroom teacher so- that’s who I’d go to, right?”
Jon nods, “Yeah, alright, what class is gettin’ atcha then?” Shawn looks up at the ceiling fan for a moment. Usually he’d have no problem with telling a teacher he hates their class to his face, infact he does it often, but… not with Mister Turner. “Yours.” He says simply, not looking away from where his gaze was fixed to see a reaction.
“May I ask why?”, when he eventually looks back, Mister Turners brow is furrowed. “I don’t think advanced english is for me.” Shawn chuckles, but there’s a truth to it, “Well in that case I’m not changing your schedule.” Mister Turner shrugs, getting up and starting to pack his things into his satchel. “What!” “You say advanced english isn’t for you, I say it is. So we’ll wait a while into the semester, and if it really isn’t for you, then you move.”
Shawn splutters for a moment, “But it’s my schedule and my choice” He argues, turning to look at Mister Turner, who’s almost out the door. “I requested for you to be in my class, Shawn.”
What?
“Now do you want a ride home or do you want to dawdle at my desk like you own the damn place, schools over.” Jon continues casually. “I’ll walk” Shawn grumbles, snatching up his bag and stomping out past Jon as if there’s a point to be made, storming out of the school.
—
The walk home is sweltering hot, his almost empty bag knocking against his back and digging into his shoulders as he makes the trudge through town, skipping alleys and striding across munted pavements, kicking abandoned beer bottles down the street and hearing the clink as the glass rolls against concrete. He’s learned to keep his head down on the way home, but it’s for the best, he doesn’t want to talk to anyone anyways.
John Adams was a while away from the trailer park and barely scraped his zone. It was nicer than the closer schools in his area, what with less graffiti across the bathroom stalls and better cafeteria food. The difference was marginal, but that’s not what mattered to him.
Jefferson elementary school was plonked right in the middle of the trailer park and Cory's nicer side of town, where John Adams highschool was dead smack bang right near Cory’s. So getting to Jefferson wasn’t a big deal, but John Adams… he had to beg his parents to let him go so that he could be with Cory.
That’s what mattered to him.
After far too long sweating in the Philly heat, Shawn dumps his bag on the trailer floor, slumping on the couch and sighing heavily. He didn’t need a ride from Jon! He got here perfectly fine on his own… forty five minutes after schools end.
It was fine.
After a while of lazing on the couch, Shawn dragged his bag to his room and emptied out part of it, catching the snippet of poetry Jon gave out. Hesitating for a moment, he slid it into an almost empty box under his bed and continued on. Re
He’d just- be a dick to Jon until he let him move classes, that’s what he’d do. Ice him out and annoy the crap out of him, after all, he’s been told he’s very persuasive when he makes people hate him.
That’d work. It’s fine.