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how a boy from los mochis, sinaloa ended up in london, was a mystery to everyone.
james looked white. olive, tanned skin with green, hazel nut, colored eyes and lightly roasted hair that was often just called light brown. he was six feet and a couple inches tall, a beard growing strongly on his face. the facial hair made him look older, everyone doubted he was 17 and assumed he was just one of those kids who kept getting held back. some even assumed he was a new teacher.
however, his mature appearance wasn't what left everyone stunned, it was the way he spoke- or rather what he spoke. refusing right away to speak english to his peers, everyone was left with their jaws on the floor. no accent, no mispronunciation. james spoke spanish, but not from spain. no one in spain had an accent like james'.
"an' where are you from?" the history teacher asked on that fateful day. james understood english, and he didn't mind the accent that came along with his english words but he refused to be understood by others.
"soy de mexico." he seemed to speak only to the teacher. [i'm from mexico]
"hm," mr. bens had lived in spain for a couple years and was forced to pick up spanish. "well, welcome to london! m'sure you'll have a lovely time 'ere."
"la neta, no me gusta ni madres." [to be honest, i fucking hate this]
"sorry to 'ear." james thought the way everyone spoke in london was annoying. they all sounded so stuck up, but he knew they were no better than everyone else.
when james took his seat, everyone followed with their curious eyes. no one saying a word to or about him. he caught their stares, his burning hatred for his peers being fueled by every pair. before moving there, james didn't care about the country. he had visited once on a school trip, and he thought it was okay. but something about having to live there, just sparked a burning animosity.
james hated the weather, hated the people, hated the food, hated everything.
everything and everyone but him.
when james first saw him, the foul taste in his mouth seemed to go away. suddenly, he didn't mind london and it's gloomy weather. he didn't care if everyone thought he was weird or stuck up. he didn't care if all the food tasted gross and had little to no flavor, because all the flavor and sweetness and sunshine had been used to make him.
his name was george and he approached james during lunch. his blonde curls struggling to stay in their intended position and his shy, green eyes refusing to look at james. he would've thought it was rude and snobbish if it wasn't for how nervous and cute george was. james knew that the other boy meant no harm, for he could do nothing wrong.
"h-hey," george twisted a lose thread around his finger, his black cardigan dripping off his slim shoulders. his left arm hugged his stomach while his right played with the thread and sleeve of the left. "m'george."
