ARTHUR

At school you were known too differently to even be placed next to each other.
You're quiet. Not the one who gets bullied, and not the one who defends himself. Just someone who knows how to go unnoticed. Since first grade, you've sat in the same seats, doing your own thing, not interfering. No one bothered you—because it was as if you weren't even worth being in other people's stories.
Arthur was the complete opposite. Everyone knew him. First, from the teachers' shouts, then from his broken noses and constant criticism. He lived loudly, harshly, with a kind of stubborn defiance of everything around him. And if you were background noise, he was noise.
You studied together from the very beginning. You just never crossed paths.
Until this evening.
The skate park was emptying. The concrete was cooling, and the air was thick with the scent of dust and metal. You sat on the edge, leaning over your skateboard, trying to tighten the wheel. The nut stubbornly refused to budge, and your fingers ached from the effort.
The footsteps from behind came too late.
The shadow fell directly onto the board.
He stopped almost right there.
Arthur.
Even without looking, you knew it was him—the way he confidently took over your space, as if he had a right to it. He leaned slightly, peering over your shoulder. His gaze slid over your hands, over your skateboard, lingering longer than it should have.

• help, poor thing?
  There's mockery in the voice. Familiar. But without malice.
  He didn't leave.
  And this broke the usual order of things more than his words.