leader of the pack
673 words. PG. 1950s AU.
Shawn Hunter, Cory Matthews.
Summary: Shawn is trouble, that's one thing everyone knows.
Note: Originally posted here. I don't really...know about this, lol. It didn't turn out quite like I wanted, but I suppose I'm still pretty cool with it. Set sort of vaguely mid-fifties.
Shawn is trouble, that's one thing everyone knows.
He wears his hair slick and wet-looking, glossy brown, but never perfectly kept, strands always hanging over his eyes. He slouches and leans, motorcycle boots always up on his desk until the teacher smacks them off, hunching down into his leather jacket. He has a motorcycle but it's mostly parts, a hunk of metal on blocks outside his trailer.
It's enough that he has it, though.
Shawn is trouble because he doesn't care, or because no one cares about him, or because when people do care it makes him uncomfortable. Except Cory, but Cory doesn't count because that goes a lot deeper than caring.
He and Cory cut class most of the time to go down to the movies, which is where Shawn learns to slouch and glare. He studies Brando's steady, half-lidded stare. Cory is always ruining things in the best possible way, making fun and doing voices, rousting unwilling smiles out of Shawn.
"Quit it," Shawn says. "This is art, or something."
"Shawnie," Cory says, "Don't you miss before high school? Before we had to try so hard to be cool?"
Which is funny, because Cory doesn't really try to be anything. Not like Shawn. Cory's problem is he's too honest and that's all he knows how to do: to not lie. To tell the truth. It makes him an odd choice for Shawn's partner in not-crime, because if there's one thing Cory isn't, it's trouble. But this is just who they are; it's how they've always been.
Shawn always has a girl ready to tour the backseat of Cory's dad's car, but he keeps a cutout picture of Montgomery Clift in the back of his locker. Cory has no girls, ever, just waits a little down the road and smokes until Shawn's finished up. Then they take the girl home and drive around, sometimes grab burgers, sometimes see movies. That's the part of the night Shawn likes the best, which is probably stupid. But it's nice; it's quiet and they don't have to deal with anyone else, it's just the radio and the road.
Cory has a sort-of crush on Topanga Lawrence but he'd never admit it because she's a real weirdo – she wears all black and snaps instead of clapping, is always reciting poetry and, on top of it, it's really bad poetry. Shawn kind of writes poems sometimes, but they're nobody's business and he'd never start saying one right in the middle of Feeny's lecture. Well. Maybe he would, but only to watch Feeny go all red and apoplectic.
Cory likes her but he'd be too embarrassed to ever make a pass, so Shawn doesn't worry too much about it.
Shawn doesn't worry too much about most things. School is just what he's doing until he's eighteen; home is just a place to stay until he leaves. Shawn doesn't let it get him down. One day he'll have the bike fixed up and he'll ride out of here, leave dust behind.
Cory gets all puppy-dog sad when Shawn says that, so he's been on the lookout for another bike because the one person he'll never leave behind is Cory.
He says as much, kicking his boot in the dirt. They're parked at an overlook, the kind of place Shawn takes girls, but it's just the two of them. That's how Shawn likes it.
Cory's face crinkles in a smile and he says he's no good at bikes, he'll look ridiculous, but he looks so happy it makes Shawn smile too.
"Then we'll figure something else out, Cor," Shawn tells him. "Doesn't matter, so long as it's you and me."
Cory smiles but there's something curious in his eyes. He says, "That right, Shawnie?"
Shawn looks at him, unable to put words to the warmth rising in his chest. "That's right," he says quietly. They don't say anything else, turning away from each other before anything – before anything, and Shawn releases a long-held breath.
Him and Cory. That's when everything's best.
673 words. PG. 1950s AU.
Shawn Hunter, Cory Matthews.
Summary: Shawn is trouble, that's one thing everyone knows.
Note: Originally posted here. I don't really...know about this, lol. It didn't turn out quite like I wanted, but I suppose I'm still pretty cool with it. Set sort of vaguely mid-fifties.
Shawn is trouble, that's one thing everyone knows.
He wears his hair slick and wet-looking, glossy brown, but never perfectly kept, strands always hanging over his eyes. He slouches and leans, motorcycle boots always up on his desk until the teacher smacks them off, hunching down into his leather jacket. He has a motorcycle but it's mostly parts, a hunk of metal on blocks outside his trailer.
It's enough that he has it, though.
Shawn is trouble because he doesn't care, or because no one cares about him, or because when people do care it makes him uncomfortable. Except Cory, but Cory doesn't count because that goes a lot deeper than caring.
He and Cory cut class most of the time to go down to the movies, which is where Shawn learns to slouch and glare. He studies Brando's steady, half-lidded stare. Cory is always ruining things in the best possible way, making fun and doing voices, rousting unwilling smiles out of Shawn.
"Quit it," Shawn says. "This is art, or something."
"Shawnie," Cory says, "Don't you miss before high school? Before we had to try so hard to be cool?"
Which is funny, because Cory doesn't really try to be anything. Not like Shawn. Cory's problem is he's too honest and that's all he knows how to do: to not lie. To tell the truth. It makes him an odd choice for Shawn's partner in not-crime, because if there's one thing Cory isn't, it's trouble. But this is just who they are; it's how they've always been.
Shawn always has a girl ready to tour the backseat of Cory's dad's car, but he keeps a cutout picture of Montgomery Clift in the back of his locker. Cory has no girls, ever, just waits a little down the road and smokes until Shawn's finished up. Then they take the girl home and drive around, sometimes grab burgers, sometimes see movies. That's the part of the night Shawn likes the best, which is probably stupid. But it's nice; it's quiet and they don't have to deal with anyone else, it's just the radio and the road.
Cory has a sort-of crush on Topanga Lawrence but he'd never admit it because she's a real weirdo – she wears all black and snaps instead of clapping, is always reciting poetry and, on top of it, it's really bad poetry. Shawn kind of writes poems sometimes, but they're nobody's business and he'd never start saying one right in the middle of Feeny's lecture. Well. Maybe he would, but only to watch Feeny go all red and apoplectic.
Cory likes her but he'd be too embarrassed to ever make a pass, so Shawn doesn't worry too much about it.
Shawn doesn't worry too much about most things. School is just what he's doing until he's eighteen; home is just a place to stay until he leaves. Shawn doesn't let it get him down. One day he'll have the bike fixed up and he'll ride out of here, leave dust behind.
Cory gets all puppy-dog sad when Shawn says that, so he's been on the lookout for another bike because the one person he'll never leave behind is Cory.
He says as much, kicking his boot in the dirt. They're parked at an overlook, the kind of place Shawn takes girls, but it's just the two of them. That's how Shawn likes it.
Cory's face crinkles in a smile and he says he's no good at bikes, he'll look ridiculous, but he looks so happy it makes Shawn smile too.
"Then we'll figure something else out, Cor," Shawn tells him. "Doesn't matter, so long as it's you and me."
Cory smiles but there's something curious in his eyes. He says, "That right, Shawnie?"
Shawn looks at him, unable to put words to the warmth rising in his chest. "That's right," he says quietly. They don't say anything else, turning away from each other before anything – before anything, and Shawn releases a long-held breath.
Him and Cory. That's when everything's best.