You name is Dave Strider and you are currently failing biology.
That's not to say you're bad at biology, or that freshman biology is even that difficult of a course. No, you failing biology has much more to do with a certain someone situated a mere foot and a half in front of you. If he wasn't constantly distracting you from whatever it was the teacher was droning on about, genes or something, you have confidence that you'd be more than capable of maintaining your usual C+ average. Not bad for never actually bothering to do your homework.
His name is John Egbert and you've had a crush on him for as long as you can remember. Not that you've ever actually talked to him.
John is the only person you've ever encountered that is capable of piercing the Fort Knox of indifference and irony that is a Strider, and you have no idea why. It's not like he's trying. He doesn't even seem to know that you exist, not that you haven't spent good amount of time wishing he that did. Wishing he would talk to you. Wishing that you were friends, or maybe something a little more than just friends. But that's all they are, wishes, and even though you know that you just can't seem to help yourself.
The obnoxious chime of the school bell snaps you from your latest John-induced reverie, and you groggily attempt to shake away the various fantasies swirling about your head. Thankfully your imagination is usually good about keeping it PG-13, because walking out of biology with a boner would definitely soil your carefully cultivated reputation of just all around not giving a shit. Sometimes the more heated dream make-out sessions start pushing your limits, but you just think about one of your bro's smuppets and their plush rumps and it generally calms you down pretty effectively.
The things Dirk does in the name of irony, now that's devotion. You hope one day you can live up to his legacy.
"Mr. Strider, could you please come and see me for a minute? I'll write you a pass to your next class."
You reluctantly meet the gaze of your teacher, Ms. Maryam, seated at her neatly organized desk nestled in the corner of the room. You bite back a groan as you trudge over, slinging your backpack haphazardly over your shoulder as you brace yourself for the bad news that you know is coming. Considering how you did on the last couple tests - scratch that, pretty much every test you've taken in this class - you know there's no way this is good news.
"Sup?" You cringe at the slight crack in your voice, damning puberty to the deepest pits of Hell. You suck in a deep breath in an attempt to regain your cool.
"Mr. Strider I'm certain you're aware that your grades in my class this year have been well below satisfactory. That being said, I'm sure it will come as no surprise when I tell you that if you don't pull them up to passing in the very near future you will be forced to retake biology in summer school. There are many different options you can pursue to address this problem, but my personal recommendation for your case would be that of tutoring via myself or one of your peers. Would you be willing to take me up on this offer?"
"I guess...," you grudgingly agree after a moment of tense silence locked in her constantly-analyzing gaze.
The idea of giving up any of your precious free time isn't exactly appealing, far from it actually, but it doesn't seem quite as bad when compared with the idea of giving up a large chunk of your summer. That's just downright inconceivable - especially for something like biology. It's been bad enough taking the class with nearly constant John-staring to distract you from the monotony.
"Good. Now, I stay afterschool until five on Tuesdays and Thursdays to conduct tutoring sessions for struggling students like yourself. Some of my more successful students also sacrifice their free time on these days to help out their fellow peers, and if you would feel comfortable with the arrangement I would be more than willing to assign one of them to you. If you would rather receive your tutoring directly through me I can't make any promises that you will have my full attention one hundred percent of the time."
"Uh, I'm fine with whatever," you assure. You figure enduring an hour of some random nerd helping you with your homework, helping you grasp the concepts that serve as background noise to your sexual fantasies, was better than attempting to figure them out by yourself.
"Okay then, I have just the person in mind for the job. He's actually in your class, but I don't think you two are friends."
One side of your mouth pulls into a smirk at the thought of any of your friends staying afterschool to tutor anyone in anything.
"Either way I'm sure you two will get along. He's very bright so I have the utmost confidence he'll be able to handle anything you may throw at him. What day should I tell him to be expecting you?"
It's Wednesday. You briefly run through your unbelievably tight schedule before deciding with a sigh, "Tomorrow, I guess."
Everyone wants their time with the Strider. Best to get it out of the way as soon as possible so you have time to focus on the more important things. Your sick-nasty beats take top priority.
"Okay, great. It's good to see you getting a jumpstart on it. Now that the matter is settled, you can head on to your next class. Let me just write you that pass I promised." She quickly scrawls something onto a sticky note before handing you the small square of lime green paper. You nod curtly in thanks before turning on your heels and practically flying out of the classroom.
"Goodbye Mr. Strider, have a good afternoon," she calls as the door slams shut behind you.
You take advantage of the convenient opportunity presented to procrastinate going to class for a while. You finally slip into algebra one about thirty minutes late. Mr. Vantas grudgingly accepts your note, knowing there's nothing he can really do about it no matter how much he hates you, and continues his tirade on functions as you slip into your seat at the back of the classroom.
Despite Ms. Maryam's reminder in class earlier in the day you don't remember tutoring until halfway through your walk home. You seriously contemplate just ditching before making the trek back up to the school. The things you do in the name of summer vacation, I mean really.
You enter to a classroom littered sparsely with students. Most of them are paired off or gathered in small groups, but a few have chosen to remain in quiet solitude, hunched protectively over their various papers and binders as they scribble furiously at some worksheet or another. Out of habit your eyes are drawn to John's usual spot near the center of the room, and you're more than a little shocked to find that he's actually there. You briefly consider pinching yourself to make sure this isn't just another fantasy your hormone-addled brain cooked up, not that you'd be all too concerned if it was.
You will possibly-imaginary John to take to his shirt off, and you're slightly disappointed when he doesn't. Guess it's real then.
"Nice of you to join us Mr. Strider." A smirk curves one side of your teacher's jade lips. "John, your pupil is finally here. He's thirty minutes late, but at least he made it."
John's head snaps to attention at the mention of his name, his blue eyes locking with the tinted glass of your pointy anime shades. He smiles toothily at you and your heart flutters nervously in your chest. Man, you have it bad, but you already knew that.
"Mr. Strider, unless complications arise, John here is going to be your tutor, do you have any problems with that?" It's all you can do to shake your head. "Get to work then. You only have twenty minutes left."
You stagger over to John, grabbing the desk to the left of his and shoving it as close to his seated person as you possibly can. When you sit down you can practically feel the heat emanating from John's lightly tanned skin, and you feel your own pale flesh tingle pleasantly in response.
"Hi Dave! I'm John, but obviously you already know that," he squeaks chipperly, his cheeks flushing a light pink. He's even more adorable face to face. Like a kitten or some shit. "You ready to work on some biology?" He gathers up the stray papers scattered on his desk, leaving behind only the latest biology assignment, before shoving the small stack into a blue folder tucked away in his backpack.
You nod, desperately wanting to say something but unable to move your lips, and take out your own crumpled worksheet after a few seconds of digging through the hopelessly chaotic depths of your backpack. While you're at it you tug one of the black ball-point pens out from your jeans pocket.
"Okay, first question, 'what does DNA stand for?' Any ideas?"
John looks at you inquisitively and you wish more than anything that you knew the answer, but you don't. You shrug your shoulders as nonchalantly as you can, cringing internally at how stupid you must look to him.
John just brushes it off, "Okay, no big deal. That's why you're here isn't it? The answer is deoxyribonucleic acid. Try to remember that, biology is mostly just memorization anyway. Try your best to get it all to stick, and if we have time I'm gonna quiz you over everything when we're done."
John writes the answer down on his paper, and you copy it down onto yours, glancing at his the messy gray words as you write because you have absolutely no idea how to spell de-oxyclean-whatever-the-fuck. You continue this process for the next twenty minutes, hurriedly jotting down the last answer as Ms. Maryam stands by the door whistling the jeopardy theme song to herself. It's a not so subtle hint to get the hell out of her classroom and let her go home.
John and you scramble out of the room as soon as you finish, John wishing Ms. Maryam a good evening before coming into step beside you. He asks you if it's okay if he walks with you for a bit, to which you can still only nod because you have yet to gain the capability to speak in his presence. He immediately starts chattering about various inconsequential things, his tone light and conversational even though he's practically being forced to monologue. You listen eagerly to his fluffy, meaningless words, just enjoying the sound of his voice.
When you're eventually forced to part ways you finally manage to squeak out a soft, "Bye," but you're not even sure whether or not he actually heard it, or if it was even in the hearing range of ordinary humans.
At home that night you're strangely tolerant as about the billionth pile of smuppets tumbles down on top of you from some seemingly innocent place or another. Nothing is capable of ruining the lighter-than-air feeling that seems to encompass your entire being. It's just Dirk being Dirk after all.
With John as your tutor you're more than happy to stay afterschool, and you show up to Ms. Maryam's classroom at 4:10 on the dot twice a week so you can bask in his presence for as long as physically possible. If you just-so-happen to learn about biology in the process, so much the better.
You did seem to be learning too, the gradual rise of your test scores was testament to that. John is a good teacher, his presence as patient and soothing as a cool summer breeze as he calmly works you through everything you need to know. You're sure that if you ever tried to teach someone like you it would likely end in gratuitous violence. Sure, they say patience is a virtue, but you've never been what most people would consider virtuous. Why would patience be an exception?
John on the other hand is virtuous as fuck. You don't think you've ever met anyone as innocent in your life. You've yet to hear him cuss or make anything close to a sexual innuendo, and you're about ninety percent sure his laughter is only polite when you do. He's just too embarrassed to admit he doesn't have a clue what you're talking about.
And yes, you're finally able to talk to him. It took you about three sessions to work your way up to it, but you've both managed to fall into a sort of easy banter. It's mostly centered around whatever it is you're working on with him, but sometimes you manage to steer the conservation onto more personal topics. You've managed to gather from your efforts that he can play the piano, he has an almost irrational hatred of baked goods for whatever reason, and that he fancies himself an amateur computer programmer.
While you'd like to say that John has come to consider you a friend he has yet to actually talk to you during school hours, but if you're being fair though you haven't actually tried to talk to him either. You spend class everyday worrying about it, minutes and hours of your precious John-time wasted wondering if he only puts up with you during tutoring because he's forced to.
You try to convince yourself that he always at least appears to enjoy your company during tutoring, but it's about as useful as putting a band-aid on a broken bone. The few fantasies you actually drift off enough to have keep ending with him pushing you away or slapping you as soon as your lips meet.
You snap after about a month of this torture. After about the millionth imaginary 'I just don't like you that way' speech, you ferociously rip a piece of paper out of your doodle-filled, mostly just for show, notebook, jot down a single, barely-legible, word, crumple it up, and throw it on the ground as discreetly as possible. When Ms. Maryam finally turns her back to the class to write something on the board you poke John softly.
He jumps about a foot in his seat at the unexpected contact, his head jerking about widely to try and find the source. When his eyes lock onto you, eyebrow raised in question, you smile guiltily and point at the wad of notebook paper by his feet. Spotting it, he manages to pluck it off the ceramic tile just as Ms. Maryam turns back around.
You watch as he tries to discreetly flatten it back out. You hear him chuckle softly to himself before scribbling down a response and tossing it back towards you. You're so excited for his reply that you don't even bother to wait until Ms. Maryam turns her back to snatch it up.
uh, hi to you too? i can't believe you're seriously doing this.
You're eyebrows furrow in confusion, and you voice your question on paper before passing it onto John like before.
i can't believe you, the Dave Strider, cool kid extraordinaire, is passing notes like he's in elementary school. and to me of all people. if you need to talk there's this thing called pestering. it's much more efficient.
You're smirking as you read this, shaking your head to yourself as you write your response. You're doing an internal happy dance at even the slight possibility of getting his chumhandle, so happy that you don't even care how lame you're being. You don't let yourself dwell for more than a second on even the possibility of his rejection as you wait for the paper to fall back onto the floor.
my handle is ectoBiologist
The paper is immediately abandoned as you stealthily-as-possibly whip out your phone under the desk, opening up your Pesterchum app and entering in his supposed handle. Sure enough as soon as the name pops up on your chumroll a new chat window opens up.
- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 10:43 –
EB: hey dave!
TG: sup john
EB: is there any particular reason you wanted to talk to me? Something ms. m was saying that you didn't understand?
TG: no just wanted to talk
EB: about what?
TG: i dont know stuff
TG: awesome stuff
EB: you're weird.
TG: no im not
TG: im awesome learn the difference
EB: that's what everyone around school says at least.
TG: do you not agree?
EB: no i do.
EB: doesn't mean you're not weird.
TG: why dont we talk?
EB: but we do talk. we're talking right now.
TG: thats not what i mean and you know it
EB: i didn't know you wanted to talk to me outside of tutoring.
TG: i do though
EB: why?
TG: why wouldnt i?
EB: because you're dave strider and i'm john egbert.
TG: so?
TG: what does that have to do with anything?
EB: guys like you don't talk to guys like me. it's like one of the basic rules of high school.
TG: screw rules
TG: what do you mean guys like you?
TG: and for that matter what do you mean guys like me?
EB: you're popular dave. i'm not.
TG: why would you say that?
EB: because it's the truth. you're really cool dave and i'm just some loser.
TG: no youre not
TG: dont say that
TG: why would you say that?
TG: youre the coolest person i know
TG: just after me of course
EG: riiiiiiiight /ROLLS EYES
TG: its true
TG: we should hang out more
EB: really? like when?
TG: we could eat lunch together
EB: i don't think so…
TG: why not?
EB: it's not that i don't want to…
EB: i'm just kind of
EB: scared of your friends.
TG: really?
TG: why?
TG: theyre just a bunch of idiots mostly
EB: a bunch of cool idiots.
TG: nah theyre not nearly as cool as you
TG: and we dont have to eat with them if you dont want
TG: we could eat by ourselves
EB: really? why?
EB: why would you want to abandon your friends for me?
TG: like i said youre way cooler than them
EB: you're weird.
TG: that again? youre like a broken record
TG: hey that would look awesome on a shirt
TG: like all 8 bit and shit
TG: yeah that would be hella sweet
EB: weirdo .
TG: by weirdo do you mean yes dave of course ill sit with you at lunch how about today?
EB: of course, what else could it possibly mean?
TG: no clue
EB: where do you want to meet?
TG: by the cafeteria entrance?
EB: works for me.
TG: do you have any idea whats going on right now?
TG: in class i mean
EB: kind of. i'll probably just read the textbook tonight to get any details i missed.
TG: nerd
TG: cool nerd
EB: well i sort of need to know all this stuff so i can teach it to you.
EG: wait. is that why you're in tutoring? because you just don't pay attention in class?
TG: maybe
EB: what have you even been doing during class all year? pestering your other friends?
TG: yeah sure lets go with that
EB: lazy weirdo.
TG: at least i go to tutoring cut me some slack
EB: yeah yeah.
EB: oh there goes the bell. see you at lunch.
TG: see ya
- ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 11:00 –
You only have to sit through one period before your lunch date with John, but time is at a near standstill as you doodle idly in the back of Mr. Vantas's classroom. And yes, by the way, it is a date.
Even if he doesn't know it yet.
This is one of the many moments you've had over the years where you've wished you could time travel. Just skip all the bullshit and cut right to the good stuff. Kind of like twisting open the Oreo to get at the white cream in the middle, because screw the stale chocolate cookie part. And that's what John is. He's the deliciously sweet cream in the middle of the Oreo of your life. Oh yeah, we're getting all deep and metaphorical up in this bitch.
When you actually take a second to look down at your paper you realize you've drawn about twenty different little pictures of John varying in skill and detail. Some of them are pretty decent while the others are just plain shit. You flip to a clean sheet in your notebook and try to listen to Mr. Vantas's shouting in a half-hearted attempt to distract yourself from the slowly ticking clock, only to be reminded of how much of a tool your algebra teacher actually is. Man, does he like to shout. You've always thought that he would benefit greatly from some anger management. That or some quality weed. You know a clown that could hook him up.
You flip back over to your previous page and continue your mindless doodling, watching the tiny red second hand make its revolutions across the white face of the clock.
After only about two minutes of this you feel like banging your head against the desk. How did you get through class before without pestering John? You can't even remember anymore. Unable to resist the urge, you check your Pesterchum app to see if ectoBiologist is online again. Sadly he's not. Stupid John and his wanting to learn things, actually paying attention in class while you're sitting here bored out of your mind. How dare he be a good student at the expense of your entertainment?
When the bell finally rings you're out of there like a bat out of hell, or some other horrible cliché used to emphasize something's speed. You make it to the cafeteria entrance in record time, if there is in fact a record for running the fastest from algebra to the cafeteria. If there is then you're certain you owned that shit. You lean back casually on the wall next to the door, looking a whole lot more calm than you're feeling. It's mostly because of your shades. It's hard to get a good read on someone's emotions when you can't see about three-fourths of their face.
You wait for John what passersby would have assumed was patiently, but was actually almost completely and totally the opposite of patiently. Like you said before, you're not a patient person. When you finally see John approaching, you practically maul him. He's lucky he's not covered in giant claw-marks when you're done with him. Maybe one day he will be?
Kinky.
"Oh, hey Dave…"
John looks nervous and exposed, like he's standing in front of a large audience buck-naked. Your thoughts then proceed to head down a less-than-innocent avenue at just the passing notion of a naked John. You manage to shake yourself out of it pretty quickly though, knowing full well that time with real, fully-clothed John is much more valuable than a naked, imaginary John. Of course the most valuable time of all would be spent with the real naked John, but you try not to let yourself dwell on that too long or else you'll be in desperate need of a cold shower. You're already almost there after your minute or so with a naked imaginary John.
Smuppets. Plush rump. Puppet sex. Your bro fucking a felt abomination.
Yep, that killed it.
It's admittedly a bit awkward as you both stand there silently, but you find that you have once again lost the ability to converse with your sexy boy crush. Hopefully only momentarily. The tight situation in your pants certainly hadn't helped you out there.
All the confidence that had allowed you ask out aforementioned crush in the first place is gone with the wind, and has been replaced with a sickening stomach-full of the very unstrider-like anxiety that had plagued you on your first day of tutoring. You can sense this lunch is going to be important, nothing short of a turning point in your relationship with John, but whether or not you'll like where this turn takes you has yet to be determined.
You put on one of your famous Dave Strider smirks before you turn and face the large metal doors looming to your left, knowing the fate of your heart lies behind them. You try your best to clear out the mental blockage clogging your throat as you tug one of the doors open, gesturing dramatically with both arms for John to enter first as you prop the door open with your foot. It was the gentlemanly thing to do after all. And okay, maybe it was a little fun fucking with him.
John chuckles and rolls his eyes, but shuffles inside anyway. You follow closely behind, your peers' eyes burning your skin like smoldering cigarette butts as they fix themselves on the unexpected sight the pair of you makes. You want to tell them all to take a picture, but all you can manage is a softly mumbled, "Where do you wanna sit?"
You couldn't care less as long as John is comfortable, and from the way he keeps fidgeting with the hem of his shirt you know he isn't. You can't really blame him since you aren't either, even though yours has more to do with just being within a foot of him than the stares of your classmates and supposed friends. They can all go to hell for all you care.
"Um…," he stutters, and you can't help but be transfixed as he worries his bottom lip with his over-sized front teeth. It is so. Damn. Hot, by the way. At least it is to your flamboyantly gay young libido. "I usually sit over there."
You don't even need to look where his long, slender finger is pointing to know that he sits by himself at a table situated in the most isolated nook of the expansive room. Biology wasn't the only place you ogled John Egbert, but it wasn't like you could fail lunch.
After more grandiose hand gestures on your part and some self-conscious blushing on John's you both make your way over to the empty table. After he takes his usual seat you internally debate the merits of sitting across from him or beside him before finally settling into the seat to his right. You may not be able to look into his eyes as easily as you'd like, but the ability to maintain a close proximity to his weedy form is worth it.
You've noticed that you've slowly become addicted to the smell of soap and freshly baked cake that seems to permeate his very being. It's a scent you'll forever associate with John Egbert. Unfortunately this association may lead to you sporting an erection on your birthday, but if everything goes the way you want that may just come in handy instead of forcing you to spend some quality time alone with handy.
John pulls a brown paper sack out of his backpack before dumping its contents onto the table: some kind of sandwich, an apple, a bag of chips, a Capri-Sun pouch, and what looks like a zip lock containing half a dozen chocolate chip cookies. Remembering his hatred of baked goods you're a little confused by this inclusion but decide not to question it, instead pulling your meager lunch out of your backpack.
A bottle of apple juice.
Your bro had long ago given up on packing your lunch, and you had long ago given up on attempting to stomach cafeteria food. This of course leaves you with precious few options regarding your mid-day sustenance. The one you choose the majority of the time is just shoving a bottle of aj into your bag as you complete your usual rapid scramble out the front door. It leaves you ravenous when you come home, but you can't be bothered to bring more because it would mean either digging through your sword-filled refrigerator or likely booby-trapped pantry moreso than you already have to.
A day in the life of a Strider is never dull. Dirk does his best to make sure of that.
"Is that all your eating?" John asks through a bite of bread and what now appears to be ham and cheese. His lips tug into a frown at your nod. It's not a good look for him. Well it is, but it's not nearly as attractive as some of the others you've seen him sport.
Without a second thought John starts ripping his sandwich down the middle, and without a second thought you attempt to stop him. Your attempts only grant you a glimpse at another one of John's looks, and what a powerful look it is.
You are nothing but a lump of putty in John's hands as you watch his plump bottom lip jut out slightly farther than the top one and a pleading twinkle invade the calm, clear depths of his cerulean irises. At that moment you would have given him whatever he wished, and so it was that you grudgingly consumed half of a ham and cheese sandwich, half a bag of chips, and an entire zip lock bag of surprisingly good chocolate chip cookies John proclaimed he couldn't stomach even looking at.
You manage to convince him to eat his entire apple because he forced you to eat all of his cookies. It's a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
As John chomps away at the juicy flesh of the apple, you find yourself transfixed by his lips for what isn't the first time and what will likely not be the last. The delicate pink skin shines with the fruit's sticky juice, and you can't help but contemplate the possible taste of John's mouth, the likely softness of his moistened lips, and what it would feel like and taste like if you kissed him. The long suppressed urge is the strongest you've ever felt it, and so intoxicated are you by the addictively sweet fragrance perfuming the air that you're finding it almost impossible to resist.
The cacophony of voices that had once surrounded you both is drowned out by the steady rhythm of John's crunching echoing loudly in your hazy thoughts, and before you're even conscious of what you're doing you've pressed your lips to his, every single one of your wildest dreams and wishes and fantasies manifesting right before your scarlet eyes.
Except he's not kissing you back. He's gone stiff as a board and the cafeteria surrounding you has gone silent from the shock of the coolest boy in the entire school not only kissing another boy, but kissing one of the most unpopular boys in the entire school.
You pull yourself away almost instantly, abandoning your 'cool kid' persona as your heart shatters painfully in your chest. You can feel the hot tears stinging your eyes and streaming down your cheeks as you practically leap out of your seat and snap up your backpack, yearning to get as far away from John as you possibly can before you manage to make an even bigger fool of yourself.
You sprint out of the cafeteria, out of the school, off the campus, and down the street to your apartment at top speed. You're fairly certain you're nothing but a multi-colored blur to those observing your impossibly fast gait. You keep pinching yourself in the hope that the situation is some horrendous nightmare, but you find it time and again tragically real with each burst of sharp pain.
If Dirk is home you don't see him as you fly through the cluttered living room and barricade yourself in your bedroom. You never want to leave its safe seclusion.
You don't show up to school for two days. During that time John tries to get your attention with a practically continuous stream of pestering, but you can't bring yourself to read the lines of blue text. You aren't quite ready to face John's assured hatred of you for humiliating him in front of everyone. You don't think you'll ever be though.
You can't even numb your almost unbearable emotional pain with your beloved apple juice, the amber liquid only harkening back memories of your monumental fuck-up. You doubt you'll ever be able to drink it again. Now that you think about it, you probably won't be able to eat cake anymore either. Nothing that reminds you of John.
Three days after the incident your bro buckles down and forces you to confront your own personal hell, spouting something or other about failing and summer school in one of his rare attempts at lecturing you. He's never been very good that the whole parenting thing, but you know he tries his best.
You can't really bring yourself to care about whatever Dirk's stern, clipped sentences are trying to convey. Completing your classes at John-free summer school suddenly doesn't even seem so bad. In fact it seems like a blessing more than anything else, but Dirk is unwilling to see reason and physically drags you out of the soft comfort of your sheets and into the shower. You don't have the energy to fight back. Not that you would really have much of a chance against the broad, well-muscled frame of your older brother anyway. Not without some kind of shitty sword in hand at least and even then the chances of you taking him down are still pretty slim.
You don't show up to the school until fifteen minutes after the late bell. You're white-blonde hair's a complete mess, you're sporting a pair of mismatched socks, and you're at least sixty percent sure your t-shirt is on backwards. But why does it matter anyway? It's not like you had anymore dignity to lose at this point.
If anyone's staring at you or teasing you it doesn't penetrate your aura of shame and self-loathing as you shuffle into your first period class. Psychology with Ms. Lalonde passes with you staring fixedly at the clock perched just above the projector screen, not that it's exactly unusual behavior for you in her abysmally boring class. The only difference is that now instead of yearning for the slender black hands to move faster and end your suffering more quickly, you yearn for them to slow down in the hopes of delaying it. Nausea churns your stomach at the very thought of your second period. At the very thought of having to face him.
You manage to stretch your journey to Ms. Maryam's classroom out long enough that the bell chimes just as you step inside. You stare pointedly at the ground, determined not to look at anyone – especially not John – as you take your seat.
You can feel the almost constant vibration of your phone in the pocket of your jeans. You can hear the soft scrape of paper balls on the tile floor by your feet, and breathy whispers you can't quite make out. Even so, you don't let anything pull your gaze from the swirling brown pattern of the faux wood grain that makes up your desktop.
Each breath you pull into your lungs burns like fire, plagued by the same smell of soap and freshly baked cake that used to send you acrobatic fucking pirouetting off the handle. In a good way of course. Each pound of your broken heart shoots pain through every single one of your lightly-muscled limbs. You've never wanted to abscond so badly, but you force yourself to suffer the punishing sensations as a sort of penance for your lustful thoughts and actions. It is nowhere near as much as you deserve.
Your eyes snap back into striking focus as your lips are accosted and it takes every ounce of self control you possess not to snap to the defensive. Well, you snap to the defensive, but you manage not punch the owner of the pleasantly soft lips that's currently attempting to shove their tongue down your throat. You do grab hold of the owner's shoulders and push them away from you though, so you can attempt to get your bearings and figure out what the hell is going on.
"…John…?" His cheeks are flushed the color of a ripe tomato, but he's staring directly into your eyes. Or, well, your glasses at least. He looks like he's about to throw up. "What are you doing?"
"I-I'm kissing the guy I've had a crush on for a while now. A really great guy too, probably the best guy I've ever met. He actually kissed me the other day, but I was too stupid and too surprised to react. Then he went and disappeared before I came to my senses anyway. I tried pestering him all weekend to tell him that I liked him a lot and that he shouldn't have run away, but I didn't get any answer. When I finally saw him again in biology he ignored me the entire period so when the bell finally rang-."
He was getting visibly more and more nervous as he went on in his explanation, so you decided to be merciful and put him out of his misery. The best way to do this was with your lips of course. Suffice it to say you were both late to third period.
CH: And so begins our journey, one down only 119 more to go. If you wanna get in on all of this sweet flushed action just feel free to put us on author alert. New stories will be published once a week, each starring a different beta couple. Thanks for reading! :o)