Chapter Text
Morrissey was just starting experiencing his teenage years, being only 15. He was becoming a 'fine young man' in the voices of the old Irish women around his streets of Lancashire, Manchester. And, by God, was there nothing around for him.
He hated Manchester, it was a dismal place where nothing happened, with faceless people that all looked the same. It was a place of no intelligence to Morrissey, with people that couldn't even start to think of how to spell the words that he used in casual conversation. School wasn't that interesting to him either. When he did go - which was rarely - all he'd get is stares or bruises from fights he'd started. He found it no use. The horrid, shrivelled teachers looked like looming, ostentatious ghouls to him. They threw things for little offences, and pulled the hair of children minding their business. He didn't find much to bond over with any of his fellow students. They all seemed so boring to him. They all fancied themselves with trivial pursuits such as sports or fawning over the young women that would walk about with their bouncing grey school skirts. Morrissey saw no point in any of it. He more entertained himself with more 'worthy' matters. He loved poetry, literature, anything thought provoking, anything that would make him think, like music.
He loved music, it was almost his lifeline; the thing that got him through the morbid reality he was living through. 70s Manchester was nothing to him if it wasn't for music. His never-ending collection of vinyls, stowed away on a shelf in his bedroom, was proof of this. As a child he would dance around in his living room to the music on his TV, before his droning father would tell him to stop. 'You're embarrassing yourself' he'd say. So Morrissey would save his more physical shows of adoration for his bedroom. But now, as a teenager, he enjoyed the more finer sounds of bands like 'New York Dolls.'
He loved what he loved, and saw anything else as vapid nonsense. No-body he knew shared in his love of the finer things in life, so when his mother told him that a new student was going to join his class, he was semi-excited. He didn't get his hopes up too much. He knew that they'd most likely just be another bland, doppelganger of the other belligerent, tasteless bastards around him. But still, even if it was in limited supply, there was still hope.
Curious, Morrissey decided that maybe today he would attend the morose ritual of school, just to cheak out where the new student sat themselves in the hierarchy.Possibly, another intellectual could be spawn out of them.
The first few classes, there seemed to be no sign of the new student. Morrissey was started to feel a bit stupid. Perhaps his mother had lied to him? But he has also overheard other muttering morons talking about the new boy. But he still trudged through the day - though he obviously skipped maths, as he normally did no matter the occasion. At the second to last class, he felt defeated and played, like he'd been stood up on a date. But, just as he was starting to slump bored in his chair, the door opened as the final member of this class walked inside.
His height was average, and he was built like any other thin, lean boy in all of England. But everything else about him was far from ordinary. He usually wasn't usually very interested in his peers - if he would even call them that - but this dark, haired boy seemed different. The unashamed red of his lips, the messy ratted mess of his hair. It all seemed so new, so interesting, so captivating. Morrissey straightened his posture, and followed the walking boy with his eyes, trying to not look like he was eyed him - which he was.
The teacher's lip seemed to pull above their teeth to a snarl as he inspected the look of him. He was different, and he had individuality, which - in this school - didn't fly. The teacher called for him to go to the headmaster's office, which he ignored. Morrissey festered and squirmed in his seat as he admired the disobedience of the new kid. The teacher shouted again, louder this time, asking if the boy couldn't hear him. After minutes of this back and forth, the teacher threatening physical abuse each time, the boy finally left. Leaving Morrissey feeling strangely disappointed. He had no chance to talk to him, which felt like a waste.
He wanted to talk to him.
He just needed to find the perfect moment.