Post by twiff on Dec 29, 2008 3:05:27 GMT -5
It was an unbearably hot day. In fact, the Russian boy had skipped his morning jog because the sun was already blazing, in order to seek some cool solace within the confines of the dark, unexplored hallways. It also proved a nice diversion and curbed his mind and thoughts from constantly mulling over Luke – because it wouldn’t do to pine over someone whose interest seemed to lay only in his pants and nothing else. Not that Blaine was judging, but the connection he had felt to the other was apparently a one-way street, and for him to feel that way was completely alien. Rebuff was thoroughly unwelcome. But luck had never been his strong point and apparently it wasn’t going to change any time soon.
The wry smile that crossed his lips was completely out-of-fashion, but he was safe to allow the emotions to spread freely over his face in the empty classroom. Conditioned to waking early every morning, and skipping breakfast as well, Blaine had found he had far too much time on his hands and wandered into the class half-hour before beginning. He’d even beat the teacher, though by the looks of the books on the desk, they’d been and gone. The sun was absolutely pounding through the plated windows, so he’d had the added bonus of picking one of the few chairs in the shade, down the far corner of the room. But now, with the silence, all he could do was sit and think. He’d already lined his books on the desk, made sure his previous notes were prepared and his assignment was complete, neat and utterly correct. There wasn’t much more he could do.
Except, of course, thump his head down on the table in stress and normal teenage angst, the dull thud a comfortable and oddly comforting sound to resonate around the room. This was exactly why relationships and schools were strictly separated, and now he’d gone and messed it up for a pair of blue eyes and a fake connection with a boy he’d never met before. It didn’t matter how the other had made him moan and submit like he never had (and never would again.) Pen wound its way through fingers, tapping vigorously against the top of the table in an irritating staccato – but he only had himself to annoy.
And that’s how one would find him, Blaine York. Dressed in neat, well ironed school clothes (though a stray button was undone lazily at his throat,) with his strawberry blonde hair pulled tightly back into a small club at the nape of his neck, eyes looking hassled with lack of sleep. Books arranged in front of him in an anal fashion, lips curved into a musing, sad smile with he took in the glint of the sun off the windows.
And that annoying, tap, tap, tap of the pen.
Welcome to Spanish, people.
The wry smile that crossed his lips was completely out-of-fashion, but he was safe to allow the emotions to spread freely over his face in the empty classroom. Conditioned to waking early every morning, and skipping breakfast as well, Blaine had found he had far too much time on his hands and wandered into the class half-hour before beginning. He’d even beat the teacher, though by the looks of the books on the desk, they’d been and gone. The sun was absolutely pounding through the plated windows, so he’d had the added bonus of picking one of the few chairs in the shade, down the far corner of the room. But now, with the silence, all he could do was sit and think. He’d already lined his books on the desk, made sure his previous notes were prepared and his assignment was complete, neat and utterly correct. There wasn’t much more he could do.
Except, of course, thump his head down on the table in stress and normal teenage angst, the dull thud a comfortable and oddly comforting sound to resonate around the room. This was exactly why relationships and schools were strictly separated, and now he’d gone and messed it up for a pair of blue eyes and a fake connection with a boy he’d never met before. It didn’t matter how the other had made him moan and submit like he never had (and never would again.) Pen wound its way through fingers, tapping vigorously against the top of the table in an irritating staccato – but he only had himself to annoy.
And that’s how one would find him, Blaine York. Dressed in neat, well ironed school clothes (though a stray button was undone lazily at his throat,) with his strawberry blonde hair pulled tightly back into a small club at the nape of his neck, eyes looking hassled with lack of sleep. Books arranged in front of him in an anal fashion, lips curved into a musing, sad smile with he took in the glint of the sun off the windows.
And that annoying, tap, tap, tap of the pen.
Welcome to Spanish, people.