Having a tutorial of a life you hadn't lived before really came in handy for Malique. His body moved naturally about the halls, an ear set out for Peter's ramblings. He took note of his brother's change in demeanor ever since they boarded the bus. He had been quieter, restraining his nerdy quirk whenever people were around.
A memory surfaced in Malique's mind. One of his brother's. Childhood classrooms. Side-eyes. Laughter that followed answers given too quickly. His love for comics had been enough to earn scorn, especially from the girls. Enough that Peter had learned to dull himself, intentionally scoring below his potential.
And still, he'd remained in the top three.
'How iconic, a depressed kid from the beginning.' Yet Malique only saw him in good favor. His brother was strong. Not physically, but he was a Parker. He carried the quiet resolve of their uncle, Benjamin
'Now that is a man of interest.' Malique nodded to himself at the impactful figure of 'his' Uncle.
He glances at Peter fidgeting beside him in the lockers, his head kept turning about as if expecting a rock to get launched his way. After retrieving their books for the session – Peter's much bulkier than Malique's – Peter let out a sigh and closed his locker. He looked up at Malique and leaned in closer with a wry smile.
"Well, seems today is our lucky day, hu—"
SMACK!
A massive hand had descended upon the back of Peter's head. He lost balance and toppled over and dropped his tomes. But just before he could hit the ground, a firm hand caught him by the nook of his sweater, suspending him midair.
"Thompson."
The laughter had died down when they realized that he hadn't smacked the ground as usual. A cold shiver ran down Peter's spine at Malique's tone. He quickly scrambled to his feet and caught sight of the face off between Flash Thompson, and Malique Parker.
He gulped.
A crowd had started to gather. This was actually the norm. It was a ritual for Midtown High to have a laugh at the infamous nerds of the school. And often, Malique always talked smart and took most of the beating.
But today, he'd used lesser words, but somehow, they carried an edge to it. A promise of violence. He'd fight back if the first punch was thrown.
'Huh? Is he throwing me off?' Flash felt the tips of his fingers tingle.
He took a closer look at his favorite punching bag. His eyes, unlike before – whereby the only offence he did was glare at him in hopes of inflicting damage by sheer will – now…now he gazed at him with a level of mind. And the way he had caught his brother mid–fall?
'Nah! Ain't no way Parker is giving me the jibbies.'
Flash Thompson was a 6'2" hulking blond, with punk silver piercings sprinkled across his face. He liked leather jackets and religiously dressed in them despite the seasons. He had been the top dog all his life, his exceptional body structure engraved this superiority since his childhood. The weak ought to stay down!
The longer he stared at Parker's calm expression, the more itchy his knuckles became. That face, the Parker punching bag. He had driven his fist into that familiar face so many times that he'd lost count, be it Peter, or Malique, the violence in him fell in love with their meekness.
And yet, of the Parker twins, Thompson liked Malique best, because he fought back. And in his heart, the deepest, most hidden part that wasn't even accessible to himself, a part of Thompson encouraged Malique over the years, to keep throwing the next punch.
"Check around for the Teach." Thompson commanded and his lackeys spread out further into the hall, a circle had formed, cheers charging up the atmosphere like an underground boxing ring.
"Well then, Parker. Up for a morning workout?"
Malique grinned. The edges of his lips stretch further up into his cheekbones. The audience shivered at his expression. Thompson got much more riled up at the current Parker, he looked wild.
'Oh, this is going to be so much fuun~' Thompson cocked his arm back, the sleeves of his jacket reeled back.
°°° •••• °°°°°° ••••• °°°°°°°
"And so, what do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Parker?"
The room was stuffy with the scent of heat, cheap coffee, various perfumes, and immorality. The overhead fan whirred in protest, coughing down more heat and dust.
Malique sat straight beside Thompson. They were in the principal's office of course, and from Thompson's relaxed stance – he was yawning and casually flipping some article he had picked from the disorganized desk – this seemed to be a daily occurrence and as a Parker, he of course had had his share visits to this very office. Rather, more in consideration of the various educational scholarships he had been offered, only for him to turn them down, than being involved in a fist fight.
"I never, in all my experience as a nurturer of great academic talent, would've expected this barbaric behaviour from you, Mr. Parker. Truly, what a great disappoi—"
"Fat pricks always got something to say~"
Malique snickered under his breath and Thompson glanced at him in surprise before a smirk formed on his lips.
"What was that, Mr. Thompson?"
Jackson Edward Mcberry.
The hermit principal of Midtown High since the '90s, briefly replaced once, then quietly rotated back. He'd been the berry behind the desk ever since, growing plumper by the season.
Mcberry favored striped suits – obviously expensive. They had to be. It took a generous amount of fabric to accommodate his grape-like build, and nothing about him suggested he'd settle for off-the-rack.
"Nothing at all, Mr. Mac N' Berry." Thompson quipped.
The silence that followed Thompson's quip stretched longer than it should have.
Malique grit his teeth and did all he could to school in his expression, yet his ribs protested every breath. A dull ache bloomed beneath his pullover, settling in deep, familiar places. His knuckles throbbed in quiet complaint, skin split just enough to sting when he flexed his fingers. Across from him, Thompson lounged back in his chair like a king spared the gallows, though the swelling beneath his eye told a different story. The bruise was already darkening—an ugly violet bloom marring blond perfection. His bottom lip was split and there was a nasty discoloration across his right cheekbone, where Malique had landed a precise elbow strike.
Mcberry cleared his throat.
He leaned forward in his chair, the wood creaking under the shift of his weight, fingers folding atop the cluttered desk. His gaze passed over Thompson with practiced ease, lingered just long enough on Malique to register disapproval, then settled. Decisively.
"Fighting on school grounds," Mcberry began, voice smooth and rehearsed, "is a serious offense. One that reflects poorly on Midtown High's… values."
Thompson nodded along dutifully. Remorseful. The act was impressive.
Malique said nothing. He adjusted his posture slightly and felt the pull along his shoulder. Something had been wrenched there. There was a rhythm to his body's throbbing, and he smiled in nostalgia. He recalled his past life, how treacherous his journey to the top had been. Malique glanced at Thompson and a fire ignited in his soul.
'Worth it,' he decided.
"I'm disappointed in you, Mr. Parker," Mcberry continued, lips thinning. "Your academic record, your opportunities…one would think you knew better than to throw them away for barbarics."
Barbarics. Malique almost smiled.
"And you, Mr. Thompson," Mcberry added, as an afterthought, "while your conduct is… regrettable, I trust this was an isolated incident."
Thompson shifted, wincing despite himself. "Yes, sir."
Of course.
Mcberry's fingers drummed against the desk. There was a decision being made; one not guided by principle, but convenience. Donors. Parents with influence. Names that opened doors. Malique could feel it, the same way he'd felt Thompson's balance falter in the hallway, the exact moment leverage became victory.
Before Mcberry could continue, the office door swung open.
BANG!
Dean Harrington stepped in first, tall, severe, clipboard already in hand. Behind him loomed Coach Alvarez, Midtown's gym teacher, broad-shouldered and permanently scowling, eyes sharp as they swept the room.
"Sorry we're late," Harrington said flatly. "We were informed there was a physical altercation involving two repeat names."
Coach Alvarez's gaze locked onto Malique instantly. Took note of the bruises and cuts across his face, the bangs of his hair shadowed over his eyes, and despite his disheveled appearance, his breathing was rhythmical and his unasuming gaze trailed him too.
His stance was comfortable yet not unguarded. He had angled his seat in that the door was at all times registered within his peripheral, his feet weren't flat on the ground rather, they gently touched the floor at the balls of his toes. Malique nodded subtly once he'd confirmed their level of threat moreover, his shoulders didn't deflate in relief.
Alvarez was astounded, his interest in him expounding further. He had rushed over to the Principal's to meet the kid he'd watched the security footage. On his way there, he'd stumbled upon Harrington who's destination mirrored his and got filled in on who the underdog of the fight was.
Malique Parker!
"Well now," Alvarez muttered. "So, you're the Parker kid."
Mcberry stiffened. "This matter is under control—"
"—Not anymore," Harrington cut in, already flipping pages. "Hallway footage confirms mutual engagement. No instigation claims stand."
Thompson straightened. "Sir—"
"Save it."
The verdict came swiftly.
"One month," Harrington said. "After-school community service. Both of you."
Thompson groaned. Malique didn't react.
"And," the dean continued, glancing down his notes, "given your… academic disparity, Mr. Parker, you'll be assisting Mr. Thompson with remedial study sessions."
That earned Malique's full attention.
He slowly turned his head toward Thompson.
Thompson's grin was strained. He evaded his gaze.
Coach Alvarez crossed his arms, still staring at Malique. "Also," he said, eyes narrowing with interest, "whatever you used out there – that hip throw, leverage-based takedown – looked like judo. Or close to it."
Malique met his gaze calmly.
"I'd like to see you in the gym," Alvarez added. "Once you're healed."
Mcberry opened his mouth to object.
Harrington didn't look at him. "Decision stands."
Silence reclaimed the room, this time heavier, of finality. Malique leaned back slightly, ignoring the protest from his ribs. Forced proximity, he thought, glancing at Thompson again. How educational. His lips twitched.
This was going to be fun.