Boy Toy

Marshall is mad as hell. Holy flying fuck, is he pissed. He’s tearing through the halls like a wind-up car on speed. The hallways are empty and no one hears him stomping around in his worn-out Vans and Marshall is thankful for this, he doesn’t want any distractions; he’s on a mission.

Finally, fucking finally, he reaches the third floor and room 227. He sees Nathan sitting in the middle row with his notebook open and his phone hidden discreetly behind it. He’s texting Kale, Marshall decides almost immediately and this gives him all the more right to do what he’s about to do, his sleep-deprived brain tells him.

So he shoves open the door and barges in, not even really processing the shouts of the outraged teacher, he’s on a fucking mission.

“You goddamn lying, cheating, fake ass bastard!” he screams, his fingers curling into a fist. Before he even knows what he’s doing, his fist connects with the solid bone of Nathan’s jaw.

His mind doesn’t quite register the crack of bone against knuckles because he’s too busy marveling over the fact that he actually hit someone; hard, and in the face.

For the first seven seconds, Marshall is disoriented and all he can think of is the way his hand felt, like it left his body with a mind of his own.

He is rudely and abruptly pulled out of his thoughts though, by the too-firm hand slapping down on his shoulder and wheeling him around. But then the throbbing settles in and he flexes his hand, experimenting. Pain rockets through it as the squeezing hand on his shoulder takes him through the endless corridors of lockers and doors and solitude.

Then Marshall realizes where he’s going and why he’s going there. You just hit someone! his mind screams at him, excitedly. Because let’s face it: Marshall is kind of a pussy and he’d be lying if he said that it didn’t surprise the hell out of him to be punching Nathan in the face.

So Marshall is kind of grinning this smug little grin when he’s almost shoved into the office. He plops down in the seat, still grinning and slowly flexing his still throbbing hand.

The principal wheels out of the office, almost immediately after he hears the door open and close. He’s a big guy, bald, and trying to look tough, to be intimidating-- the kind that gives the speech on what he will and will not tolerate at the beginning of every school year. Marshall had never had the pleasure of meeting him though; he was a good kid. Usually, anyway.

“So, kid, I don’t know your name ‘cause you’ve never been in here, but I do know that you’re suspended for three days,” he says quickly and shoves his big meaty hands in his suit coat pocket and sits all tough-like on the corner of the desk. Marshall can’t help but wonder if he likes the feeling of the sharp wood go up his ass. This thought gets Marshall giggling, so he’s sitting there, laughing his ass off as the principal stares and looks angry.

“Look, son, I don’t have the time for this, but it’s pretty obvious you’re not remorseful. We’ll call your parents, you’ll go home, you’ll come back in three days and you’ll be a good kid again, alright?”

He manages a slight nod in response to the question as he continues his laughing and now he’s got to hold his stomach, because it’s kind of starting to hurt. He slides down into his chair and tries to control his breathing as Mr. Hardass wanders back into his office to call his mom.

As his giggles start to slow and the ache in his stomach settles in, Marshall realizes again just how miserable he is.

His heart’s has just been busted into a million fucking pieces, then he figures out that his boyfriend of ten and a half months was cheating on him, and now, he’s getting fucking suspended.

He quits his giggling almost abruptly and lets his head fall into his hands.

Marshall is all of a sudden sick of his life, because nothing ever goes right. Even when he thinks he’s got something good going on, it’s not good, not ever.

His stomach hurts like it’s about to fall out, his fist is pounding and starting to turn colors, nobody loves him anymore, and he can hear his mom screaming through the phone from twelve feet away. Plus, the creepy eighty year old secretary is totally checking him out from her seat across the desk. Marshall’s life fucking sucks.

---

After a year and a half of his mom’s severe bitchfit and the usual grounding for eternity, Marshall is free. Well, not really, it’s not like he can do anything. But he’s in the back yard with a cigarette on his trampoline. He hasn’t smoked in about a billion years because Nathan didn’t like it and now, Marshall feels kind of free. Or rebellious; he’s not sure yet.

It’s cold outside, early November, but leaves are pretty, so even though Marshall is sitting outside in a thin long sleeve tee, he doesn’t want to go in. The leaves are falling and most of them are still bright and cheery colors and it kind of helps Marshall out, just a little bit.

Leaves or no leaves, though, Marshall is still feeling awfully shitty. He just doesn’t see how it’s fair. He’s always been a good kid, right? He treated Nathan like he was fucking king and he still gets fucked over.

Marshall is thinking deeply about just running away or something else equally retarded when his phone, the only thing his mom forgot to take away, buzzes in his pocket.

Heard about the breakup. Sorry M. Get drunk and forget your pain?

Marshall is pretty sure that this is exactly what he needs to stop being such a pussy and just move on, so without two seconds’ though, he replies, “yes please. (:”.

He may be grounded, but his first floor window most definitely unlocks without a squeak and his mom goes to bed at 9:15 religiously every night. He’s never snuck out before, but he’s absolutely sure that’ll be easy as hell, and he’s planning the night out in his head before the clock ever strikes three.