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theimnotokayprojekt · 4 years

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Chapter 1

AO3 and Wattpad

He’d made sure to be there early, just like they had planned. 7:25 was the agreed-upon time. Peering through the window at the front of the house, a clock hung proudly on the wall displaying the current time, 7:40 am. Frank had been waiting 15 minutes.

Annoyed, Frank steps back and looks up at the window leading into Ray’s room. The curtains were still drawn tightly shut like they hadn’t been touched in hours. Assuming Ray was still sleeping, they probably hadn’t.

He eyes the tree standing in the front yard as an idea starts to form.

Frank had never been athletic. As a short, stocky Italian, it just wasn’t genetically in the cards for him. But he needs his hair done, so, fuck it. He’s climbing the tree.

If he had taken any more amount of time to think it over, he would’ve seen the many, many flaws in this plan. Firstly, his uniform. With every brush against the bark or scrape against a branch, they only grew more tattered the higher he went. Tying in with the uniform situation, his shoes were shameful. The once polished fronts were now scratched and peeling from holding him against the rough bark. Then came the more worrying problem; Ray’s window was closed.

He shimmies over to an outlying branch close to the room. Frank pushes against the window with no luck and instead starts to tap at it, still to no avail. Everyone assumed Frank was a delinquent of sorts, what with his plain disregarding of the rules and any sort of authority. They were right. Frank was no stranger to shoplifting or stealing, so he knew a thing or two about locks.

Frank shovess a hand in the satchel he used to carry his school needs and hair products and pulls out an old tacky dollar-store pen. Something sturdier would’ve worked better, but he hadn’t exactly been expecting to break into his best friend’s house at almost 8:00 in the morning. He puts the pen in the crack between the window and the windowsill and starts to move it around. Bits of wood splinter outward as he wriggles it in between the crack. After about a minute of doing this, there’s a soft cracking sound and the window opens slightly.

There’s only a moment’s hesitation before Frank gives up preserving his shoes and rams it in the gap. His hands clutch the thick tree branch underneath him and he kicks upward as hard as he can, breaking what was left of the window’s defenses. It was lucky Ray lived in such an old house. If he had some of the newer locks, Frank’s trick would have never worked.

Frank drops into Ray’s room with a sigh of relief, as he rarely had to work his body so hard. It was way too dark, despite the sun already being up, so he pushed back his musty curtains. He looks around the room, seeing Ray’s sleeping body wrapped up in blankets, not even slightly ruffled by the loud sound.

Only one thing crossed his mind when his eyes adjusted and took in the sight: How come this asshole can sleep-in while I had to exercise?

With that and only that, Frank reaches in his messenger bag and pulls out a bundle of hair products held together with an obnoxiously pink belt. He holds the bundle over the sleeping Ray and unceremoniously unclasps the belt, causing a wave of hair products to drop onto him.

“Ah, fuck!” a groggy voice croaks after a particularly heavy bottle makes a satisfying thunk. Ray’s head appears from the pile of blankets as he rubs the sleep away from his eyes. He blinks a few times, adjusting to the, now light, room, and finally looks up at Frank (which is an oxymoron).

Once they lock eyes and Ray doesn’t look like his eyes are going to roll out of his head, Frank clears his throat. “Thanks for leaving me outside, asshole.”

Ray blearily blinks at his alarm clock, which now reads 7:47, and his eyes widen. “Oh, shit!” he exclaims as he frantically twists out of bed and nearly falls onto the fluffy rug under his bed. “Must’ve forgotten to set it or something,” he mumbles more to himself than Frank, internally beating himself up over such a simple mistake. “How did you get in here anyway?”

Frank rolls his eyes. “Your window was open,” he says sarcastically.

After pushing a couple of pillows off the side of his bed, Ray rolls over to get a look at the window, squinting his eyes at the incoming light. “Dude, I swear I locked it.”

“No, no, Ray, I’m kidding. It was locked.” He then shrugs at seeing Ray’s perplexed expression, like he hadn’t just broken into his best friend’s house with only a pen and his impulsive instincts. “You should’ve set your alarm.”

Ray rubs his eyes, still upset about his mistake. “Remind me to never invite you anywhere.”

“Like you get invited to places,” Frank snorts.

“Be nice, I’m still doing your hair,” Ray says expectantly.

He groans loudly. “Please do my hair. I didn’t climb a tree for nothing,” Frank grits through a locked jaw.

Ray opens his mouth to say something but decides against it and sighs instead. “You know what? Why don’t you just tell me how you got in here while I douse your head in chemicals.”

At that, Frank flops onto Ray’s still disheveled bed and gets himself into an upright position. His friend grabs the scattered product and a comb then lets himself get to work, though not as thorough as he normally would have due to the time. He pulls his famous “Toro’s Five Minute Hair” trick, which, in all honesty, was a mixture of lots of gel and a hairdryer.

“So, the window,” Ray leads with all attention on curling the ends of Frank’s hair the right way. “Explain.”

“Well,” Frank starts, “You have a tree. I have a pen. Simple.”

“Please tell me you didn’t break anything.”

Frank’s eyes flit over to the busted lock. “It wouldn’t be a break-in if nothing was broken.”

There’s a long silence before Ray utters, “Te odeio.”

To emphasize his annoyance, Frank attempts to dramatically swing his head around but is stopped by a firm grip on his neck from Ray, who was perfecting a curl.

“You can’t use fucking Portuguese to win every argument.”

Ray removes his hands from the now slightly styled hair of Frank with a quick, “Eu apenas fiz.”

It’s hard not to notice, but it especially bothers Frank that Ray keeps rubbing his feet through the rug one at a time, occasionally hitting his chair. He knew better than to get on his case about it.

“You okay?”

At Frank’s calming voice, Ray stops his kicking and sighs. “Yeah, just upset about the alarm thing.”

Frank would’ve kept chatting if he hadn’t spotted Ray’s bedside clock flashing 7:53 in blocky neon green. “Dude, we have to go.”

He rushes to the door leading out into the hallway before Ray yells, “Wait!” He freezes and looks back at him. “Change your pants at least! You’ll get detention on the first day. Plus, I still have to get into my uniform... and take a piss,” he adds.

Frank grabs a random jumble of clothes and practically throws the full outfit into Ray’s unsuspecting arms. “Change.”

Ray flips him off as he starts pulling off his shirt. “Put on a decent pair of pants!” He calls through the fabric.

The long jeans in the drawer were practically taunting Frank for not being tall enough to fit in them comfortably, but he knew Ray would make him. After grabbing the pink belt off the bed, knowing Ray’s pants would be too big and stripping off his torn pants, he picks out a pair at the bottom of the drawer Ray had probably outgrown. He slips on the pants and puts the belt through the loops, buckling it tight, before having to cuff the bottoms.

At that moment, Ray finishes buttoning up his shirt and unsuccessfully holds back a snort at Frank’s rolled up pant legs.

“What, got something to say?” Frank warns.

Ray mock zips his lips and shakes his head, then moves to go to his bathroom.

“We’re gonna be late!”

“And who’s fault is that?” Ray calls from down the hallway.

Frank pauses and his brain processes what he said. “Fucker- It was yours!” he shouts.

Ray laughs as he closes the door, not responding to Frank otherwise.

It’s the first day of the school year and since Frank plans to come to Ray’s daily or vice versa, he pulls out all of his packed hair product and leaves it on Ray’s bedside table, knowing he’d fix it up later. He stands in front of the bathroom, practically bouncing as he waits for Ray to get out.

“Hurry up, we’re late!” Frank whines.

At that, the door flies open, smacking Frank on the edge of his nose. “Then go get my bag and we can leave.” Ray is practically going to implode if he doesn’t get out of the door in the next five seconds.

Frank runs into the room and slings both of their bags on his shoulder and barrels out the stairs where Ray stands anxiously by the front door. He opens it, bowing overdramatically. “Your chariot awaits.”

Frank’s eyes nearly fall out of his head from rolling so hard. “We’re walking. I’d hardly call that a chariot.”

“Well, it’s 7:58 so you’d better be as fast as a fucking chariot,” Ray scoffs, practically running out of the door.

While Frank wasn’t an exemplary student, even he knew that he shouldn’t be late to class on the first day. The teachers came back from their long-awaited break filled with fresh loathing, so they wouldn’t take any shit. All days after were fair game. They would just stop caring once again and leave the students to mostly their own devices. But today is not after the first day, it is the first day.

Frank evens out the weight by shifting both backpacks to one shoulder and pulling Ray with his free arm down the block. They leave so fast Ray only has time to shut the door, not even lock it. His mom would scold him for it later. As it turns out, Frank’s speed walk is faster than one would expect from him. However, such a speed for someone not made for speed-walking makes one very sweaty very quickly.

He’s running too fast. If Ray has learned anything from being friends with Frank for so long and in his physics class, it’s that this kid has no idea what is around him in any direction. So, really, it isn’t a surprise when Frank runs into someone else walking down the street and takes them down with him.

“Ow,” the guy Frank barreled over wheezes. “Get off of me.”

A separate pair of hands push Frank off of the boy and go digging through a bag. “Where’s your damn inhaler, you idiot?”

“Front pocket,” the one on the floor gasps.

The guy searching through the bag gestures vaguely to the front of the bag. “Mikey, there’s like fucking twenty front pockets.”

“The one with Audrey Hepburn on it,” Mikey coughs. “Y’know, like heart-burn? Except it- Except it’s my lungs that feel like they’re burning,” he cracks, still taking the opportunity to spring his connection, even when he could barely say the words themselves.

The name catches Ray’s ears and he immediately stops helping Frank up from the floor to eye the drawing in question, which looked like it was done in a half-dried-out Sharpie. He watches as the other guy reaches into the pocket and pulls out a half busted inhaler and hands it to Mikey.

“We need to get you a new one,” he mumbles through his mouth as he bites his nails, lip quirked at the joke. No matter how many times he had heard it before, it was still funny.

Mikey shakes his head and takes a deep puff. “What we need to do is get to school. We’re already late from this morning.”

Now that no one is dying, Ray looks at the familiar uniform on Mikey. “You go to Skyline?”

“Um,” the two strangers glance at each other, “Yeah,” Mikey finally answers, taking another puff.

Ray looks at the guy who wasn’t almost killed by Frank, recognizing him. “Wait, you’re that dude who made those homework comics, right?”

The one Ray was referring to furrowed his eyebrows. “The what?”

Ray animatedly waves his hands around. “The comics! Like you drew the answers instead of writing them.”

The artist blinks almost comically. “Oh… How do you know about that?”

“You dropped some after school last year, and I gave them back to you,” Ray explains. He then turns slightly pink. “I kinda looked at… a lot of them.” He flushes slightly and avoids looking at anyone.

Frank hates the quiet and being left out. This situation sported both, so he takes this opportunity to give his two cents. “You draw for your homework?”

The unnamed stranger fidgets awkwardly. “Um, yeah. Look we should really get going, we’re already gonna be late.”

Mikey looks down at his watch and studies the time, you could see the gears turning in his head. “Okay, class starts in eight minutes, and- eight minutes, and we’re walking. It would take us about fifteen minutes to get there on foot. It might- like, it might work if we run, but the school closes itself off at- at least three minutes before the bell…” It's obvious they won’t make it.

“You guys could run ahead. Mikey and I can be late,” the guy assures.

Mikey is about to protest that he would not, in fact, be fine, when Ray steps forward and waves off Frank's initial agreement to the plan. “No way, we’ll probably be late too. The least we can do to make up for this idiot hitting Mikey is to help you guys.”

“Oh,” the guy looks surprised that Ray would rather walk with them than not be late, “Um, okay.”

“What’s your name?” Ray asks, clearly having been wanting to since he recognized him.

Not looking at him, he helps Mikey up to his feet. “Gerard…” he says shyly.

Ray smiles at that. “Nice to meet you, Gerard. I’m Ray, and this ball of chaos is Frank.”

Gerard nods and gives a little wave while Mikey mutters a soft, “Hey.”

“This little meet-and-greet has been great,” Frank cuts in, “But we really should go.”

Mikey pushes up his slightly off-centered glasses. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I have- have- um, if we’re already late then it’s fine, but we shouldn’t make it a habit.”

“We should be worried about that.”

Mikey only rolls his eyes, taking a third puff. “No, we shouldn’t. I’ll just tell them I had, like- like a, um, an asthma attack or something. It doesn’t matter, those office ladies like me enough to let it slide- er, pass.”

Frank gapes at Mikey incredulously and Gerard laughs at his expression. “You’d be surprised how much he can get away with, with those grandmas backing him up.”

Frank eyes Mikey up and down then mutters, “You think you can get away with blowing something up?”

Ray smacks Frank on the back harshly. “Ha, he’s kidding, obviously.”

Gerard nods unsurely and begins walking, causing Ray to rush up by his side. “So, Audrey Hepburn, huh?”

Mikey slinks to Frank’s right side as they continue walking. “Technically speaking, if you don’t leave any evidence, I could- like, maybe, I could get away with it,” he mutters.

Back up front, “Um, yeah…” is all Gerard could come up with.

There’s silence for only a few seconds before Ray’s talking again. “So I saw your drawings and they reminded me of… um, well...”

Gerard perks up at the mention. “What are you talking about?” he hesitantly asks.

“Uh, one of the characters looked a lot like, um, an elf. Or Drizzt Do’Urden from Forgotten Realms,” Ray mutters awkwardly. “I mean, it probably wasn’t. I just wanted to talk to you because I hoped you- that you- um…”

This was the affirmation Gerard needed. “You play DnD?!”

Ray nods quickly. “Yeah! I used to have a group, but they all moved away.”

Gerard rattles off questions in excitement. “What do you main? Have you DMed before? How long have you been playing?”

“Oh, I’m usually a School of Abjuration wizard, but I don’t mind barbarian or druid. I haven’t DMed, but I want to since I’ve been playing for about 3 years,” Ray answers as smoothly as humanly possible, like a test he’d been studying all his life. “Your turn, how long have you been playing and what do you main as?”

Gerard smiles widely, not used to the attention regarding the game. Mikey was the one person he knew liked DnD and he already knew everything about Gerard and his playing. “I like rangers for the most part! Fighters aren’t bad, but a ranger has never let me down! I’ve been playing for as long as you have, actually!”

Ray nods with an equally wide smile. “Dude, with you, Mikey, Frank, and me, we could have a campaign! If, uh, you wanted,” he adds, slightly embarrassed at his bluntness.

“Totally!” Gerard exclaims, forgetting his initial anxiety around Ray.

Ray pumps his fist. “Yes!” He exclaims in excitement.

“Nerds!” Frank yells teasingly.

After catching sight of Gerard’s flushed face, Ray turns back to look at Frank. “You were almost as big a nerd as me after our first game!”

Just then, a car pulled up beside them with the top off, in it was practically the whole football team. “Hey, fuck-ups!” they jeer as they throw empty soda bottles at the four.

Mikey uses an arm to shield his glasses from the oncoming projectiles, feeling his muscles tighten. He had been expecting a fight, but even the jocks were racing to get to school relatively on time. But they had a car, which was a huge advantage timewise.

“Now those are people I wouldn’t mind blowing up the shit of,” Frank grumbles as the car speeds away.

“And I wouldn’t even- I wouldn’t even mind covering you,” Mikey sighs, rubbing the inhaler clutched in his hand three times.

Frank holds out a hand. “Blow-Shit-Up-Buds?” He offers.

Mikey gingerly shakes his hand. “As long as that’s not the official name.”

“Well, I kinda like it,” Frank says with a shrug.

Mikey rolls his eyes and shakes his head. The two walk a little faster to catch up with Ray and Gerard who had been avidly talking about Gerard’s art and the way he drew the characters.

“Like, he does have a lot of hair, but people make it way too long!”

Gerard considers this and nods. “You’re right, but he’s a very muscular character, and having more hair would balance out his proportions.”

“What are you talking about?” Frank butts in.

“Oh, just Gerard’s character design,” Ray answers, wanting Gerard to keep talking and not fall back into his anxious state.

Gerard completely ignores Frank’s question however, and starts talking about the design more thoroughly. “Sure, it’s not completely in line with what they had drawn him as, but it looks better that way! It’s more balanced. A cartoon character with a bigger head looks less realistic because of the proportions,” Gerard rambles.

Mikey puts a hand on Ray's shoulder but puts it down when Ray tenses up. “Look what you did, now he won’t ever shut up.”

Gerard flushes red when he overhears his brother’s comment. “Um, yeah, sorry. I was… I just gave him longer hair so it looked better…”

Ray nods. “Well, I don’t know much about art, but from what I do understand, you make really good points! Is there anything else that you did?”

After Mikey’s comment, Gerard felt slightly hesitant to continue. “Well, I just made his shoulders a little less broad. The bigger the person, the more effective the change in wind or direction would have on them. I just made his figure slimmer, so he would be more agile. I know it doesn’t make a difference in gameplay, but I wanted to add some realism.”

While Gerard seemed to think he was annoying everyone, Ray seemed absolutely enthralled at his reasoning and descriptions.

“Gee, I was kidding. You know I like hearing about your art and- and all your ideas,” Mikey reassures.

Gerard’s eyes fly as wide as saucers and he quickly coughs and nods. “Yeah, I know.”

When Ray manages to tangle Gerard back into a one on one conversation, Mikey leans over to Frank and utters, “He didn’t know.”

“Clearly,” Frank responds, making a note to go easier on his teasing with Gerard, at least until they were more comfortable.

Just as Mikey promised, when they get to school, the ladies at the front desk easily accept Mikey’s excuse of an asthma attack, they even suggest he and the other three go to the nurse’s office for the rest of the homeroom period, to which they politely decline. Well, Gerard declines. Frank practically jumps three feet in the air at the opportunity to skip class with no consequences.

“We’ll need to get used to our classes and finding our way around,” he reasons.

Frank huffs and digs the schedule he’d been given previously out of his bag, the other three mimic his actions. He tries to walk back into the office, but they all push him through the hall. Frank walks into his homeroom sulking. He doesn’t pay much attention to what the teacher is saying when he walks in late, nor does he really care. He finds his way to Mr. Dean’s classroom for chemistry and, to his surprise, sees Ray already sitting inside.

Ray waves him over to the table. It’s an ordinary science classroom. The tables only meant for two with plenty of space as well as a sink.

“Oh, dude! This is great! I can talk to you in our morning classes now!”

Ray gives him an overly dramatic sigh. “Oh, great,” he answers sarcastically.

Frank gives him a light shove with a soft laugh and Ray mimics. Their fun is promptly interrupted with a haughty shout of “Fags!” from none other than one of the jocks that had been in the car that drove past them earlier.

Frank grits his teeth to try and hold back a retort. It wouldn’t matter if his personal experience was anything to go by. Hopefully, this is his only class with this group of idiots. Hopefully.

The classroom door closes and the teacher walks up to the front behind a table similar to the ones scattered about the room. A few students noted that he hadn’t been teaching at the school the previous year. He acknowledges those confused faces with a curt nod.

With his back turned, he scrawls his name on the whiteboard. “I’m Mr. Dean, welcome to Chemistry. Try not to blow anything up that isn’t supposed to be blown up, supplies are expensive,” he says with a bit of a chuckle. He pauses expectantly for any brown-nosers to laugh. They do. “I also expect you to follow the safety rules; human lives and body parts are also expensive.”

Mr. Dean then starts to detail what the class will cover throughout the year, as well as the different types of experiments they will participate in and lab safety. Pointing to numerous posters on the wall, each depicting cartoon children and animals in lab attire with cheesy lines talking about the consequences of not following safety measures, he elaborates further on their meaning. He chuckles over the confused looks people gave the worn Hello Kitty stickers on the beakers, explaining his kids would bring them home to play with, after they had been cleaned he strained, hoping everyone would drop the hint to wash the beakers.

In all honesty, Ray and Frank weren’t paying attention to any of it. Frank only sat pretending to stare at the board and Mr. Dean when in reality all of his focus was being used up to keep kicking his chair in a steady rhythm. Ray was no better. His feet were firmly planted to the floor and his leg wouldn’t stop bouncing.

The two had become comfortable with each other’s fidgety habits, so the only reaction they give is a quick side-eye glance.

“Something funny?”

Apparently not quick enough.

Mr. Dean stares at the two expectantly, clearly annoyed about having to put class time into the situation. He glances up at the clock, then back at the pair, and crosses his arms.

“Well? We don’t have all day.”

“Nothing, Mr. Dean,” Frank blurts out hastily, tacking on his title at the end for extra effect. He was either overly careful when planning his responses or lets whatever the first thing in mind was fly out of his mouth.

Mr. Dean nods at Frank’s response. “Good. And whoever is making it, stop that rattle, it’s disrupting the classroom.”

Frank flushes red and stops kicking his stool immediately. This didn’t change Ray’s behavior, as he proceeded to silently bounce his leg, knowing full well he wouldn’t hit anything. It was terrible for Frank. The noise of his professor babbling on about god-knows-what. The ticking of the clock. The breathing of his classmates. It was as though he could feel each and every breath they took right on the nape of his neck. Every speckle of spit from Mr. Dean flying nowhere near him still managed to make him squirm.

When Frank’s breathing started to grow more uneven was when Ray noticed something was wrong. In his own experience, touching someone to rouse them out of their thoughts might only make it worse. Saying his name could do the trick, but they were in the middle of a public space. So, he did the next best thing. With hope, he laid his hand out in front of Frank. It was all he could think of.

Frank looks at Ray’s hand for a brief moment before taking it and locking their fingers for a moment. After giving a reassuring squeeze and making sure Ray knows he’s okay, he unlocks their hands and sets his focus on Ray’s fingers. They’re long and lanky, just like Ray. His knuckles are soft and squishy, unlike his fingertips.

“I didn’t know you played,” Frank murmured.

“Guitar? Uh, yeah,” Ray confirms, legs bouncing wildly. It wasn’t as though he disliked Frank’s touch roaming his hands, it’s just that the feeling was growing to be a little too much.

Like the situation couldn’t get any worse for Ray, it did.

“Faggots,” a voice breathed down Ray’s neck.

At the sound and recognition of the voice, Ray’s eyes shot up towards the front of the room. He had been hoping Mr. Dean would hear his silent plea for help, only to see he wasn’t there. Ironic that he leaves when someone is actually causing a disturbance.

Chairs screech throughout the room as what seems like the entire class turns to look at the pair. It wasn’t that hard to tell a scene was going to go down. The jocks who were sitting in the back had all stood up and sauntered over to the two scrawny kids in the front who were practically holding hands.

One of them slams his palms on their table and gets his face in close to Ray. “You need him to suck your dick, fairy fag? Can’t get a girl to, huh?” Ray doesn’t say a word, only focusing on the feeling of Frank’s frozen fingers lingering on his. “Oh, my mistake then. You suck his dick, huh, fairy? Never took you as the girl in the relationship, especially with girly faggot like him.”

That’s the line in which Frank gets the sense to pull his hand away. Every inch of him is itching to fiddle with something, but instead, he sits on his hands. It’s not like he can ignore the itch, so he settles for kicking his chair again.

One of the jocks has a vicious smirk as he opens his mouth to continue when the door handle starts to turn. Mr. Dean opens the door and walks in, looking at the small group that had started to surround Frank and Ray. “What are you all doing over there?” he demands.

“Frank was being loud and we couldn’t concentrate,” one of the bullies lies.

Mr. Dean and the one who spoke eye each other up and down before it’s Mr. Dean who looks away. He turns his attention on a girl in the front row. “Sorry, but what’s your name?”

A girl with two short brown braids looked up and Mr. Dean. Even two tables across from her it was evident her skin had pimples and scars from previous acne. “Oh, Samantha,” she answers without much emotion, her braces flashing from under her lips. As she answers, Mr. Dean takes a moment to straighten his glasses.

“Right, Samantha, what happened?”

Samantha glances at Ray and Frank’s table, then back at Mr. Dean. “Well, you left the classroom when the three boys in the back came up to Frank and his partner’s table and started to call them both slurs, sir,” she answers simply.

With a fire in his eyes, Mr. Dean stalks up to the group and violently points to the door, all intention not needing words. The jocks shuffled out of the room, not at all feeling any amount of regret or worry, in fact, they were snickering and elbowing each other. Once they were out in the hall, the snickers became full-on laughs and hollers.

The rest of class went on without much disturbance. It’s fairly boring but sometimes boring is better than belittlement. The bell rings, signaling the end of the period, and Frank and Ray walk out of the classroom behind Samantha.

Frank taps her shoulder before he can really think about it, and she turns around with a questioning look. “You, uh, didn’t have to do that. But thanks,” he mutters.

Samantha’s eyes flit between Frank and Ray, examining them. “Well, neither of you deserved it. I have to go to English, see you.” She swiftly turns and walks off into the sea of students.

Frank turns to Ray. “Where’s your next class?” He asks. Ray takes out a smooth piece of paper from his bag.

“It looks like the second floor. Yours?” Ray looks at his friend.

Frank takes out his own sheet of paper, wrinkled from lack of thought as he had shoved it in his pocket. “Down here. This is where we part, for now,” he dramatically sighs

“See you later, Frank.” Ray smiles slightly as he climbs the stairs to the second floor, while Frank heads the opposite way to his next class.

Having asthma was shit. Having classes all over the giant school building and being expected to make it on time was just the icing on the cake.

“This is so stupid. Why is my first- my first class on the top floor?” Mikey wheezes to no one, bent over with a hand on his knee. His unoccupied hand was rubbing his inhaler. 1, 2, 3. His lungs felt they were on fire and yet empty at the same time, no matter how much he kept breathing. Every gasping breath felt like he was puncturing a hole in his chest.

Then, there was a light hand on his shoulder. “Are you feeling okay?”

Uncomfortable with the unknown intrusion, Mikey flaps his hand in the voice’s general direction until the hand is gone. “I’m fine,” is what he tries to say, but his lungs feel like they’re going to split open, so it comes out as more of a pained gasp.

“I can help you to the nurse,” the voice offers.

Mikey straightens up as quickly as he can without becoming winded and shakes his head. “It’s- I’m fine. I just have to get to next period.”

“I could walk you.”

Mikey looks over at the persistent figure to see a girl with dry, brown hair tied up into two braids. Her face is littered with scars and pimples, magnified by her practically translucent skin.

“I’ll be fine,” he states and continues walking through the hallway, trying to ignore the pounding in his head.

Then she’s at his side again. “I’m going this way too, I can help.”

Mikey stops right in his tracks, watching as the girl stumbles forward and then back to his side. “I’m fine. I just told you.”

Her neck flushes pink and she starts twirling one of her braids. “I’m going to Mr. Zumwalt’s, which is this way. It’s really no trouble.”

Now Mikey felt like an asshole, even if it was never his intention. “Oh, I’m going- I’m going that way too.”

“Mr. Zumwalt?”

Mikey nods sheepishly and heads down the hall with the girl glued by his side. “So, uh, what’s your name?”

“Samantha, yours?”

As Samantha was answering, Mikey slipped behind her to fall onto her right side instead of her left. “Um, Mikey.”

Samantha smiles up at Mikey. “That’s a nice name.”

Mikey manages to nod awkwardly and continues to walk down the hall, ignoring the anxious atmosphere the silence brought.

They manage to get to Zumwalt’s class before the bell rings. Mikey sits down in the back right corner like the stereotypical loner kid, and Samantha takes the seat right next to him.

Mr. Zumwalt closes the door with a loud ‘bang!’ as he walks into the classroom. “Hello, class, welcome to accelerated English II. I am your teacher, Mr. Zumwalt, as you may know. But what you don’t know are the names of your fellow classmates. On the wall are some questions I would like you to be able to answer about the students around you. You have 5 minutes.” He finishes his little speech and goes to sit behind his desk.

Mikey sinks into his seat to try and disappear. What is he even supposed to say? Just ask the questions? What about when the questions are finished, or if someone asks more questions? Who would he even ask?

“Hey, so, um, Mikey.” Samantha turns to him. “Where are you from?”

He awkwardly scratches at his palm, thinking it over. “Just here- in Belleville. Where are you from?” he adds as an afterthought, not wanting this to be one-sided.

“Oh, I moved here a couple states over from Maryland!” Mikey nods vigorously, not knowing how else to react to her joy. “Um, do you have any hobbies?”

Mikey looks down at his fingers, flexing them spastically. “Well, I play a bit of bass. The loud, low sound is calming to me.” The pink of his neck, which was normally there due to constant embarrassment, was now magnified as he realized he shared a secret detail about his hobby not even Gerard knew.

Mikey’s flustered expression must not have registered with Samantha, seeing as she positively lit up once she heard he could play. “That's so cool! I wish I could play something…” she admits.

No one really knew about his skill, even if they did, they would just say he should learn guitar instead. “Well, the only way to get good- uh, to get good is practice.”

Samantha takes a deep breath and sighs, putting her head in her hand. “I know, I know. It just gets boring having to practice all the time, y’know?”

Mikey only shrugs, shifting his legs to be symmetrical under the desk. “Sure, I guess.”

The less than enthusiastic tone of his words compared to his initial excitement from before was noticeable to Samantha. Her mind races to figure out what to say next. “Bass is actually really cool, though. It’s probably one of my favorite rock instruments.”

This catches Mikey’s ears. “Really?”

She smiles, flashing all her braces. “Yeah! I love how it sounds. The guitars are cool and all, but the bass is what backs the whole song up.”

Mikey nods at her words, gaining his previous excitement back. “Exactly! It’s a lower sound, so it’s harder to hear, but it’s one of the most important instruments, especially when it comes to keeping in time and- and- and rhythm. Sometimes you can feel it in your chest, too, depending on how loud it is.”

As Mikey begins explaining the mechanics of the bass from a technical standpoint, Mr. Zumwalt decides the time is up. “Alright, time’s up,” he announces. He goes through the rows of students, setting a single piece of paper down in front of each of their desks. “You will write the name of your partner and fill out the following questions. On the back, you will fill out the questions about yourself. Turn it into the basket on my desk when you finish.”

Mikey looks down at the sheet of paper once he straightens it to be symmetrical with the tabletop. There are five questions listed, the bottom three standing out. They hadn’t gotten through all the questions. Why did he have to start talking about bass? They hadn’t completed the assignment because he was too distracted going on and on about a goddamn instrument.

Then there was walking. Of course, people had finished. They had been focused. He dares a peek up and, shockingly, sees Samantha strutting confidently up to Mr. Sumwalt’s desk. How had she finished?

“Mr. Zumwalt,” Samantha begins, gaining his attention and a few other students’. “Me and my partner, Mikey, found a common interest and discussed that instead.”

Mr. Zumwalt looks up at her through his dainty spectacles, then at Mikey. “Yes, that’s fine,” he decides. “Write about that instead.” He waves her away and goes back to clicking around on his computer.

Samantha turns and walks back to her desk with a triumphant grin and sits down. “He said that we can write about bass instead.” She tells him, even though Mikey already heard the verdict, and starts to scribble words down on her own paper.

It wasn’t as though Mikey knew everything there was to know about bass guitars, he just knew enough to make it through this assignment. He looks at the piece of paper as he walks up to Mr. Zumwalt’s desk and places it in the basket. Mr. Zumwalt looks up at him and Mikey feels his gaze practically boring into his soul. It was an odd feeling. He didn’t like it.

Mikey wastes no time breaking eye contact and heading back through the middle row of desks towards his own in the back.

“You’re done?” Samantha asks, baffled.

With a quick glance up at the clock, Mikey knows it took him an abnormally short amount of time to finish the assignment. Especially for him. He only hums in acknowledgment.

He fidgets at his desk for a long while. It was as though he were up on some sort of pedestal given to him for being the first to finish. He didn’t like it. It meant that people would expect him to be fast and smart, even if he was in the advanced class, he sure wasn’t fast.

After a few minutes, Samantha stands up and puts her paper in the basket on the desk. She gives Mikey a small smile and thumbs up when she sits down.

Before Mikey knows it, the bell rings signaling the end of class. Mikey stands up and walks out of the classroom, turning to the right. Samantha waves goodbye as she turns left, and Mikey sarcastically thanks the universe for letting his next class be upstairs.

He walks into the classroom, seeing no teacher in the room, only two other students. He takes a seat in the back right corner and waits for class to start, when he sees the kid who almost killed him, Frank, walk through the doorway. Apparently, right when Mikey noticed him, Frank also noticed him.

“Oh, you’re the kid from this morning right? The asthma guy?”

Mikey pushes up his glasses and rests against the wall on his right side, showing Frank he could sit on his left. “They did say my name, you know?”

Frank’s brows furrow slightly and he tries to put on a convincing smile. “Yeah, of course. I remember.”

Mikey raises his eyebrow. “Really? Would you mind telling me my name then?”

“Why would I have to do that?” Frank crosses his arms and slouches low in his seat. “You know your name.”

“No, I don’t.”

That catches him off guard. “Yes, you do, it’s your name.”

“Is it? Tell me and I’ll decide.”

Frank goes bright red as he realizes he’s lost the argument. “Fine,” he mumbles. “I forgot your name.”

Before Mikey could put the situation to rest, Ray walks in and plops down next to Frank. “Hey, guys, whatcha talking about?”

“Just about how I was going to remind Frank that my name is King because he forgot it from this morning.”

Ray pauses before answering. “I thought it was Mikey.”

Mikey squints at Ray, causing them to lock eyes. “No, it’s King.”

Before Ray can respond, Gerard walks in and sits beside Ray, remembering Mikey’s preference, even if he would rather be closer. “Hey, Mikey. Hey, guys from this morning.”

“Gerard, my name is King,” Mikey says simply, pretending not to notice the baffled stares being given from Frank and Ray.

The corners of Gerard’s mouth turn upwards into a smile. “Ah yes, my bad. King Mikey.”

Mikey shakes his head in disappointment. “No, just King. I can’t believe you forgot the name of your own brother.”

“Ah, silly me.”

Ray hunches down to Frank’s level. “I thought his name was Mikey,” Ray whispers.

“I forgot his name completely, so you’re doing better than me,” he grumbles

A big, beefy man walks through the door and closes it with a fatherly grunt. His eyes scour the room, looking over the uncomfortable boys. His mustache curls over his top lip and his contrasting bald head shine slightly in the light. “Welcome to Sexual Education. This semester you will take this class and next semester you will take Adult Living,” he grunts.

Frank finds the room to be silent, even with his leg kicking at his chair. To his surprise, the teacher glares at two lanky kids a few seats over who reeked of cigarettes. “I expect you all to be mature about this, but if you aren’t, I won’t hesitate to send you to the office.”

A meek hand in the front raises above the sea of heads. “What’s your name?”

“You will refer to me as Mr. McGill.” He turns and begins rolling out posters and charts, something he should have done another time, but decided now would be best.

“When having a sexual relationship, I need you all to understand that it comes in all kinds of ways. This class isn’t just for teaching you guys how to have intercourse with your girlfriend and not wind up with a kid. There’s a lot more to the spectrum.”

With his back turned, he uncaps a marker with his teeth and writes five big letters on the whiteboard. There, front and center, is “LGBTQ+” for the whole room to see.

“Can any of you tell me what these letters mean?” No one in the room moves an inch. No one so much as dares to breathe. It wasn’t as though they didn’t know what they meant. Everyone knew. It was just if you showed that you knew, you were a target.

Mr. McGIll hardly seems phased, however. He only points a finger to one of the tobacco smelling kids. “What’s your name?”

“Dylan,” he sighs.

“Okay, Dylan, tell me what one of these letters mean.”

It was basically a trap. If you said “I don’t know,” to avoid confrontation, you would be mocked for not knowing. On the other hand, if you did know, you would be mocked for knowing.

Dylan seems to realize this since he takes a minute to think over his answer. “The ‘L’ is for Lesbian,” he says with a smirk, earning a jab from the other smelling kid, who laughed. Gerard edged a little closer to Ray.

“Very good, Dylan. Though I hope you realize that if you find lesbian intercourse attractive as a man, you’re rightfully seen as a predator.”

Suddenly, the two cigarette boys stop laughing, causing Gerard to smile brightly.

“You, with the blue hair,” he directs at a boy sitting near the front.

“I’m Robert and the ‘T’ is for transgender.”

“Correct. Transgender is used when describing a person who doesn’t identify with their assigned gender at birth.”

“So, if a guy wants to be a girl and a girl wants to be a guy?” someone calls, apparently Mr. McGill didn’t see who it was since he gives a general nod to the room.

“That is part of it. There are more genders than male and female, however.”

It wasn’t planned, more like an instinct, but Ray happens to glance over at Gerard, who glanced over at Ray in the same moment. That was weird.

“Um, you,” Mr. McGill half-yells to a kid sitting in the opposite corner from Mikey.

“Well, I’m Will, and the ‘B’ stands for Bisexual.”

Mr. McGill turns back to the board and starts writing what the letters they discussed had meant under the respective ones. “Right, bisexual is normally seen as liking both men and women, when this isn’t true. Bisexual means that you are attracted to male and female genitalia, but that could belong to anyone on any gender spectrum.”

He doesn’t call on anyone, this time he volunteers himself. “The ‘Q’ on the board can stand for queer or questioning. Queer is a slur that was thrown at those in the LGBTQ+ community and still is thrown around, as well as the f-slur, Pansy, Femboy, and many others. Yet, some people use it as an umbrella term, not choosing to give themself a label. Questioning is self-explanatory, you think you might be in the community, but you aren’t sure of your labels.”

Then, Mr. McGill looks at the back left of the classroom, raises his finger, and points at him. “Would you mind telling us what the ‘G” stands for?”

“My name is Frank and the ‘G’...” he starts, faltering halfway through. “The ‘G’ stands for…” Ray lays a simple hand on his knee, making sure to be discreet. “The ‘G’ stands for Gay.”

“Correct. Gay is a term for a man or someone on that general spectrum being attracted to only men or others on that spectrum.” Mr. McGill turns around to face the classroom, eyes scanning the faces of his students. “I will tolerate absolutely no hate to other students in this classroom. Especially involving LGBTQ+ subjects. Am I clear?”

Slowly, the class nods and Mr. McGill nods back. “Good. Now, on a sheet of paper, write down any questions you have about anything I discussed or something that I didn’t.”

After writing down “gender” and “lack of sexual attraction”, Ray finds himself locking eyes with Gerard again. They both slowly look at each other’s paper, then back up in unison. Ray found himself trying to not look at the messily scrawled “gender” on Gerard’s paper and pull him into a hug.

Frank wasn’t having such a sappy moment. Frank was staring down at his own card, just one word in the center of the back. Gay. His whole body was shaking in fear and a hint of something else. This was such a dumb idea. Why was he doing this? It’s not like he was gay or anything. No, he’s not gay. With that, he crumples up the paper with one hand and stuffs it into his pocket.

There’s a polite cough from his right and Frank sees Mikey abashedly staring into his lap, looking at the flipped card resting on his legs. He eases forward and places both hands on Frank’s closest leg. “My name is Mikey,” he says, looking up at Frank. “And, it’s okay, y’know?”

It didn’t take a detective to know what Mikey was talking about, so Frank took a deep breath and pulled out the wrinkled card. He smoothed it out and folded it accordingly. “Thanks,” he whispered. This didn’t mean he was gay. Definitely not. He was just curious. That’s all.

Then, the bell rang.

“Alright, put your cards into this box and get to lunch.”

Frank hovers around the little blue box long after everyone he was afraid of had left. The only people in the room were Gerard, Mikey, Ray, Mr. McGill, and the cigarette boys who Mr. McGill asked to serve lunch detention. No one was looking at him. It was just him and that damn box. The innocent little blue color practically taunted him like it wouldn’t hold the power to eliminate any form of social standing he had. Even worse. It had the power to get back to his father.

It wasn’t like he was going to deny Mikey, who so clearly supported him. He just took a deep breath, feeling the sting in his lungs, and shoves the already wrinkled sheet into the book with the rest.

“Come on Frank, Gerard said he’s gonna show us his drawings at lunch!” Ray calls, pulling Gerard out of the room by his wrist.

“Ray, I didn’t say that!” he hears Gerard shout.

There’s a soft tapping of shoes as Frank turns quickly to just see Mikey walking through the middle row. He offers out an arm with a curious glance. Frank grabs his arm with a squeeze and nods. They both walk after Gerard and Ray, who had already made it to the cafeteria.

#tinop #the im not okay projekt #the im not okay projekt writing

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chinarsi · 4 years

Text

( DACRE MONTGOMERY + HE/HIM ) — Hey, were you just talking to ANTONELLO LUCCHESE ? The THIRTY year old is a STRIP CLUB OWNER/UNDERBOSS who resides in MANHATTAN. HE has been living in NYC for TWENTY-SIX YEARS, and is known to be EFFICIENT and AFFECTIONATE, but can also be IMPULSIVE and PERVERTED. Word on the street is they’ve got some heavy ties with THE GUERRAS so I’d steer clear if you know what’s good for you.

**TW: **implied attempted murder, child abuse, abandonment; mental illness mention

First name: Antonello

Middle name(s): Giuseppe / “Pinky”

Surname: Lucchese

Age: 30

Date of birth: November 19, 1990

Religious values: Raised Roman Catholic but considers himself agnostic and a vitalist

Location: Spanish Harlem, Manhattan, New York

Occupation and length of time: Underboss/Strip club owner, 15 years

Affiliation: Guerra

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Relationship status: Divorced

Nationality: Considers himself Italian American ( fathers’ side is from Palermo, Sicily, mothers’ side is from Eastern Germany )

Languages known: English, Italian, German, Russian

Style of speaking: Politically incorrect

Birth Country: United States

Hometown: Crown Heights, Brooklyn

Parents: Bill and Teresa Lucchese

Siblings: Amy Lucchese

Pets: Amethystine python, Jinn, and an albino boa constrictor, Rasputin

Height: 5'11

Weight: 183 lbs

Eye color: Light blue

Hair color: Dark brown

Build of body: Stocky, muscular, aka a brickshit house

Tattoos: None

Piercings: Earlobe

Typical clothing: Business casual to very casual, button-downs/linen pants and vintage suits (*Three Looks by Jenna Marbles plays quietly in the background*)

Personality: “ Did you guys come by ? “ ( Ends at 8:32 ; it’s worth the watch, I swear lmao )

“ Como se dice ? How you say what happing ? whA HAPPING HEA. ” ( Starts at 2:52, ends at 11:36 )

Likes: Winning, music, Friedrich Nietzsche, indulgence, working out, and reading

Dislikes: Birds, uncertainty, technology, anything grape flavored, waiting, swimming in open water/the ocean, drama, younger generations

Pet peeves: Being ignored or interrupted, knuckle cracking, people eating with their mouths open

Hobbies/past times: Running, swimming, cooking, fencing, journaling, marksmanship, knife throwing, reading, avid glass collector and tobacco aficionado

Guilty pleasures: An old soul; loves red wine, Telenovelas, listening to either Nina Simone or Amy Winehouse, and pain

Talents: Can play piano, coronet, drums, braid hair and relocate an entire family in less than 48 hours

Education: Highschool dropout

Fears: Heights, dying alone, being asked to go to Italy

Goals: Settle the family dispute and to keep his ex-wife in the dark about what he does

General attitude: Quiet, reserved, snarky

General intelligence: Somewhat above average

General sociability: Average to below average

Illnesses (if any): Traumatized, most likely very depressed, bat shit crazy and probably a bit of a sociopath, but views seeing a Dr./Therapist is just as dangerous as becoming an informant.

Allergies (if any): Cats, amoxicillin/penicillin

Sleeping habits: Sleeps 3-4 hours normally, gets up early and stays up late, is sometimes up for days

Energy level: Depends on the day, could be moderate, low and very rarely high

Eating habits: Eats more than three times a day, mostly pasta, meat, bread, and sweets

Memory: Fair and remembers faces well but tends to repress quite a bit from his life/childhood, under certain circumstances it is poor

Any unhealthy habits: Overspending, binge eating, smoking, not getting enough rest, binge drinking, uses recreational drugs daily

Peaceful or violent: Unpredictable

Weapon (if applicable): Gun, golf club, curling iron, hands

Favorite types of food: Anything you put in front of him

Favorite types of drink: Water, wine and Ski soda

Favorite colors: Black, earth and neutral tones

Favorite types of music: 1. 2. 3.

Hobbies/past times: Running, swimming, cooking, fencing, journaling, marksmanship, knife throwing, reading, avid glass collector and tobacco aficionado

Guilty pleasures: An old soul; loves red wine, Telenovelas, listening to either Nina Simone or Amy Winehouse, and pain

Strengths: Efficient, passionate, observant, protective, loyal, brave, affectionate, poised, fair, chivalrous, playful, honest, romantic

Weaknesses: Intolerant, childish, negative, stubborn, short-tempered, impatient, perverted, aggressive, blunt, reclusive, paranoid, impulsive, secretive

Wcs: His ex wife, house mom/house dad/business partner, fwb, old friends, regular/associate turned bff, rival that manages to win & screw him over, fwbs that get involved/find out about his double life and are put in danger

Quirks/facts:

* Nicknamed “pinky” by a small group of friends when his now ex-wife found out he spent his life savings on a strip club and attempted to sever his pinky finger with a pair of thinning shears, also due to the simple fact, he never leaves the house without his grandfather’s gold teamster pinky ring placed on that exact finger

* In most situations he’s the extremely respectful, strong and silent type

* Extremely quick to anger, doesn’t take much to aggravate and provoke him, but he can also be an unpredictably warm, affectionate, goofy individual

* Agnostic and believes you should indulge in all of your desires but always in gentle moderation

* Has a machivelian yet moral mindset

* His respect for women knows no bounds

* Has a really loud sneeze and goes into sneeze fits

* Brutally honest

* Likes to go on late night/early morning shopping trips

* Gets too emotionally attached to people that shouldn’t matter

* Always carries a tiny notebook with him

* No shame in his game but cautious, composed, and always aware of his surroundings

* Has to move things around in a certain pattern before going to sleep

* Experienced alot but tends to keep to himself, there’s very few people that actually know him

* Bruises super easily

* Writes and eats with his left hand but is right hand dominant

* Likes to memorize numbers instead of saving contacts in his phone

* Gets homesick very easily

* Brushes his teeth up to five times a day

* Generous with his money, purely for selfish and superstitious reasons, but only for close friends and associates

* Likes to stay off social media

* Gets his heart broken too often

* Holds grudges like no other

* Will be loyal to the mob until he takes his last breath and would rather die than be forced to send anyone to prison

* Firmly believes in the healing power of sit-downs

* Would never take advantage of a drunk woman, but defintely would get drunk just to get taken advantage of

* Don’t fuck around though, has high libido and occasionally low stamina; a wrong look alone could get you pregnant

* Sanctioned hits directly from the boss have always made him uncomfortable and nervous, no matter who he’s working under

* Takes murder very seriously

Bio: Antonello Guiseppe Lucchese was born three months prematurely to Bill and Teressa on a chilly November night in Brooklyn, New York.

He doesn’t remember much from his childhood other than he never really had a mother and father, but figures he might have gotten luckier not having them around. Apparently, his mother worked numerous jobs to keep a roof over their heads for years, until dealing with the constant absence of his father became too much to bear. Then, at just the fragile age of three and four years old, both Amy and Antonello Lucchese were carted off to Crown Heights, New York to permanently stay with a mixed family of uncles, cousins, and loving grandparents, almost all the surviving members of the Lucchese crime family in a small three-bedroom apartment.

Most of their wives had passed away or left them by the time they’d arrived, so it was a lot like growing up in a dingy old bar but, both children grew up and learned quickly from their mistakes. Learned to use them to their advantage, but every once in a while there would be unnecessary punishments, overdramatic arguments, dinners missed and uneasy, awkward mornings, but. It was more than what anyone else could have given them, so they were grateful nonetheless.

Everything changed drastically for Antonello when he entered the fifth grade. Things became easier to deal with at home, but not exactly in the way anyone had expected. Especially not his grandmother. He’d always clung to her for guidance, support, and love but the moment the family exposed the young heart to their lifestyle, he broke away and heedlessly dove in.

No one had forced him into anything, but as the years passed, most relatives and himself included were absolutely convinced that he was made for it, and it was made for him. Although it was in his blood, after all, a large number of them also knew it marked the end of his innocence, and the beginning of ruthless trek towards a twisted, egotistical version of manhood and success.

In the span of six years, he’d become the youngest in the family to rise through the ranks in a proud, composed fashion and landed a spot right beneath his grandfather. He was creative, intelligent and respectful in a way that the elders of the Italian mob began to appreciate more than the efforts of his own immediate family, so soon after Antonello realized the long list of dead or incarcerated relatives were mostly rats, scumbags, and hypocrites, coincidentally, he was asked to leave.

Then while out at the local bowling alley, his cousins spotted one of his better friends groping his girlfriend. He didn’t even make it twenty-four hours after his grandmother had broken the news of the heartless eviction, and the younger boy spent almost two weeks in the hospital. Luckily, her grandson wasn’t around long enough to suffer any harsh consequences, or god forbid a life sentence but, one punishment that should have been totally unrelated, would slowly begin to ruin his life.

Out of pure fear of her older brother and grandparents, Amy Lucchese decided to finish her high school career at home and cut all ties with him. Shortly after the devastating blow, a family friend was contacted and made arrangments for him to stay in East Harlem.

Present: Has resided in East Harlem for the past fifteen years, staying moderately silent and unlocatable until being promoted to underboss. Currently works for the Guerra family, laundering money and holding meetings through his own business until the doors open every evening. He is recently divorced, lives alone above an old pizza joint and prefers a conventional lifestyle even though he loves what he does.

Although Show N' Tail opened in 2017, the wide variety of male and female dancers, elaborate drag shows, light shows, warm and cozy atmosphere, has made it one of the most decadent and revered clubs in the area.

#( about. )#tw

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