Request for BrooklynRageComing
Alfred F. Jones. The Alfred F. Jones. The star football player, everyone's best friend, the student council president. That Alfred F. Jones.
Not that there was any other, you just had to be 100% sure you weren't mistaken when the tall, tan, handsome blonde boy with stunning cornflower blue eyes hidden behind his wire glasses asked for your help with a question on the History handout that your teacher had given you.
His voice was low when he leaned over to your desk, a broad grin on his handsome face. "Can you help me with number 12?"
You didn't know why he was being quiet. Or why, when you responded, you were equally quiet. The class was chaos, but you still whispered back, "Yeah. It's in the second paragraph on page 496."
Flashing a bright grin at you, the teen ducked back to his desk and his textbook, finger following the words as he read them. He jumped a bit when he found the answer, happy to have the question solved. Then he looked back at you, making your heart stop.
"(F/n)!" You heard someone call as you walked into the nearly empty classroom.
Everyone looked up from whatever they were doing before the bell to start class rang and saw Alfred flying towards you. When he crashed into you, all the air escaped your lungs in a whoosh and you were left stunned, arms weakly wrapped around the football player as he encompassed you in a bone-crushing hug.
Laughing a bit, you shifted so that you could breath easier. Though your friend still didn't let go.
Instead, he turned you around and started walking with you pressed tightly against him. All the way over to your desks across the room. Then he let go.
Grinning at the guy of your dreams, you wrinkled your nose at him. "What was that for?"
Alfred just shrugged, sitting in his desk, "I wanted a hug."
You held back a loud laugh and sat on his desk, swinging your feet over the edge. Al looked up at you with his bright blue eyes and you looked away, blushing a bit.
Thankfully, he ignored the blush, continuing with the conversation as if nothing had happened.
"So, (F/n)," Alfred's voice brought you back to attention, "Who's the lucky guy you're going to ask to the dance?" He nudged you with a goofy grin, attempting to annoy the answer out of you.
Another bright blush covered your cheeks as you hid your face under your mop of (h/c) hair. "Just some guy," you muttered, praying Al wouldn't press any further.
He did. "Come on!" he whined, leaning back in his seat, "I'd tell you who I'm asking!"
"I dunno," you laughed a bit, avoiding the energetic American's bright gaze, "I was just kinda hoping we could go together." Your voice slowly became quieter, though Al still heard it. He was silent when the bell rang and you slipped off of his desk and into your seat. The classroom filled as if nothing had happened.
After class, you quickly ducked out of the room, but waited for your close friend at the door. When he finally made his way out, the majority of the kids had already shoved their way past you to lunch. Alfred, however, had a slow pace and a look of dread on his handsome face.
Your own smile dropped when he stopped in front of you, hand buried in his golden hair as he explained that he was going to sit with some guys with the football team as opposed to you.
Alfred F. Jones didn't call out your name as you walked into second period the next day, nor the next. He didn't crush you in his tight embrace and waddle over to your desks. He didn't sit with you under the small saplings surrounding the quad at lunch or break. He didn't walk you to your car or help you with the door that always got stuck.
And he certainly didn't ask you for help on question number 12 on any more worksheets.