Tweetie

4

There was something about police stations that really put Ryan on edge, more so than usual.

Ryan James was a boy without a surname. A boy without a family to take a surname from. So, he stuck with a middle name in place of it. But even that was used far less than a particular tone he heard every other day which may as well have taken the place of his first name. A voice of a sharp, loud 'Ryan!' in the heat of a fight while his fist met cheek, or wall, or stomach or anything it could possibly meet. Which might have been why he was at a police station to begin with.

Not only was Ryan James a surnameless boy, but he was also a boy of sorrow. Pitiful, constant sorrow he rarely let bore on his lips. He had the story, the generic backstory of an innocent boy turned villain. Lost parents, too much violence both from himself and the people around him, and a temper. They worked against him. Or, he at least wanted them to. Yet, that wasn't the case.

People fawned over him.

He didn't understand why. Well, he didn't for a while. Then he realised that the appeal of fixing broken things was stronger than he first imagined. No amount of dirty glares, venomous words and sometimes fists to cheeks would deter the people who couldn't take what he had to offer but would accept what he wasn't willing to give.

It was almost disgusting.

But this? This was far worse.

Police stations were a weird mixture of busy and so oddly void all at the same time. He could hear life further in, he could see the people sat at reception send him and his friends glares every so often. Every once in a while, people would pass and look towards them all. He knew what they saw. A rough boy, his nose still bloody with his equally as bloodied friends who only ever caused trouble.

It made him sick to his stomach and he wasn't sure if it was because it was true or because he wished it wasn't. No matter what it was, it didn't change the fact that their perceptions of them were probably correct.

"James," a voice caught him, pulling his attention from the far wall full of posters about being safe, following the law and current events. Instead, he met the grey eyes of a boy he almost hated as much as he hated the place he sat in.

"Dick."

Ricky. Richard. Dick. Or, to Ryan and his friends, Dicky Ricky. A foul boy, tall, slender, mildly attractive and as punchable as they come with a smirk that bore the horror of Ryan's hatred, the aggression, the violence, all in a single slanted smirk.

He was the reason they were all there.

He stood silently at the entrance of the station, guided by a police officer who abandoned him and went to the front desk while he approached. It looked like he was caught despite his earlier attempt at running from what had put them all here in the first place.

A fight. A typical fight that usually wasn't a big deal. Only, their timing was off and it just so happened that a police car was passing them by when things took a turn for the worst. Of course, Ricky and his friends went running while Ryan and his friends were left to deal with the mess. It seemed by the lack of company with Ricky, that he wasn't as fast as his friends were.

At least they weren't at school though.

"You could at least give me a warmer welcome, James." Ricky remarked as he stood over Ryan with crossed arms, looking down at him as he practically laid in his chair, mostly hanging off of it with his legs pushed out in front of him. "You're lucky we were stopped because by the looks of you, you were losing that fight."

Ricky was blatantly subtle, just like always. A flick of his chin in a certain direction, a swirl of his finger. He never said anything outright. Crime ran through his blood like water ran through streams. It was just the way he was, it was a way of life, or, his life at least. Yet he was so unsubtle at the same time. He couldn't distinguish the right time and place from the wrong. This certainly wasn't the place to be having an argument.