Star-crossed lovers.

"This -- this is absolute bullshit," Frank growled to no one in particular, staring at the old brick building before him. The school seemed to be challenging him to take a step closer, to saunter through the dull red doors and claim the halls for his own.
Challenge excepted, bitch.
The short, tattooed boy swam through the sea of children, pushing and shoving unnecessarily hard to make it to class on time. Most kids, some over a foot taller than him, barely budged at his rough greetings, while other stumbled and cursed at him loudly. He vaguely heard someone threatening his hair with a toilet (A swirly, really? How original.).
Finally finding a clearing in the swirling mass of idiots, Frank sighed in relief when he spotted room 13, the art room. Homeroom would be starting in ten minutes, at the least, and he decided he was never going to get up that early again. Six o'clock was so overrated.
He pushed open the door, surprised to see students already settles into desks. Maybe it wasn't so surprising, considering it was the first day of New Jersey's schools, while New York had started almost two weeks ago. It's like Jersey's school board knew he would be transferred there.
What didn't surprise him, however, was the fact that the only people in the room was a guy with a load of eyeliner and dark hair, tapping his fingers to an unknown rhythm and a girl with blonde hair in pigtails and lots of freckles.
And what surprised him once again -- he will have a heart-attack one day, he swears it -- was the fact that the room wasn't dull and bare like he would have expected. Instead, one wall was covered in strikingly beautiful art. It ranged in styles: messy, sharp and graphic, clean and realistic. It was amazing, the beauty making him stiffen and gape. Even with the varying styles, there was still one central theme.
Death.
It made Frank worry a little about the artist, no matter how much he wanted to deny it. Whoever it was had a sick obsession with Death. Well, maybe not sick, but still disturbing to the outside world. The realm inside the artists mind seemed terrifyingly real. It frightened him.
"Pretty weird, huh?" He jolted from his thoughts, blinking at the speaker, who appeared to be the only other male in the room.
The short boy started shuffling towards the back, moving to sit in a desk beside the other boy after a nod of admission. "Yeah, it's pretty fucked up."
Eyeliner, as he decided to call him as long as he didn't know his name, smiled, saying, "Billie Joe, at your service. Please, don't call me B.J."
"I won't if you won't." He swung a hand out. "Frank." Billie Joe shook his hand, grinning widely.
"Man, you are one weird fuckin' kid. We'll get along just fine, I suppose." The boys weren't 'alone' anymore; more students were filing loudly through the doors, some buried in their phones and others chattering enthusiastically with their friends.
"So," Frank wondered aloud, "do you know who did all of this artwork?"
Billie shrugged, looking around thoughtfully. "No clue. I looked for signatures, but I couldn't find any," he said, scratching his hair.
The tattooed boy opened his mouth to respond, but stopped when the door opened again. And then the teacher walked in.
Frank had an aneurysm and died.
Nah, I kid. What kind of story would it be if the main character died as soon as they saw their love interest?
No -- he didn't die, but he did stare blatantly at the man crossing the room. Black hair, pale skin, big hazel eyes filled with wonder; he was hot as all Hell. And a teacher. So off limits, way off limits.
He carried himself with an air of confidence Frank only wished he could have. "Good morning," he chimed, his voice holding a slight accent and a...he didn't know what it was, but it sounded unique and really fucking nice. "I am Mr.Way, your homeroom -- and for some of you, art -- teacher. I'm new this year, as you may remember Mrs.Luttece being the previous teacher. Well, she was pretty damn old (I remember her as my art teacher), so she retired. I woke up this morning, thinking to myself, 'Why the hell did I decide to teach highschool my first year?' I'll tell you now, I have no clue what I'm doing. So hang in there, I'll get it. Any questions you'd like to ask me?"
Hands shot up, including Billie's. Frank kept his down, entranced by the man's bold words and a little scared to make himself known on his first day. Not that he would admit that to anyone.
"Who made all of the art?" He didn't know who asked it, nor did he care, he just appreciated the straightforwardness of that person. Straightforwardness? Is that a word? What the fuck, Frank? Mr.Way grinned, running a hand through his shaggy black hair. "As a matter of fact, I did!" He looked so proud as he gazed at the artwork on the wall opposite the door, smiling softly with his hands on his hips.
There were murmurs among the class. Billie seemed intrigued, glancing at Frank with raised eyebrows, as if to say, "Crazy, yeah? Our teacher is thoroughly insane." So his teacher was the one with the Death obsession? Not surprising; he looked the part. Hopefully there would be no more surprises that day.
"I'll explain the story behind my art later in the year, in my art class, to those who earn it," Mr.Way muttered, something flitting through his hazel irises quickly before disappearing.
Frank really wanted the year to move faster now.

Notes

Sorry for the wait; Search and Destroy was supposed to do this chapter, but she was super busy so we decided I should take over for this one. You like? I like. I have an obsession with Death too, so I can relate. I have some thoughts on it that I'll put in here. The explanation behind his art. Yeah, I'm going to do lots with fears and obsession as an undertone to this story. That's kind of a trademark for me. It's always in my stories, fanfiction or original. New-age philosophy.
Comment and subscribe and shit.
-Stitches