theres something about him
The first day of school is always the worst.
You wake up with a splitting headache and wonder why you were still teaching when it was only supposed to be something to do while you tried to make it big as a movie producer. It paid the bills, sure, but it was hell to have to wake up at five o'clock every morning just to go and stay in one building, teaching bratty kids until 1:30 just to have to stay late and grade. It was repetitious and unrelenting. The cycle quickly became monotonous and taxing. In short, it was boring. You wanted the fast paced life, the one with parties every other night and red carpet walks, the life filled with one-night stands and gorgeous people. But you could only watch that life from afar. No one was interested in your masterpiece, Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff. It seemed like you were going to be stuck teaching for a while.
You heaved a sigh and pushed yourself up in bed, rubbing the heel of your palm against your stinging eyes while muttering curses under your breath. It was always the hardest to wake up on the first day. Your grumbles continued throughout the process of getting dressed in your red button down and black tie. They persisted when you tugged up your trousers and laced your loafers. They even endured while you made your morning cup of coffee. The apartment was empty except for yourself, your roommate having already gone off to work. You make a disgruntled sound when you find the note he left for you, done in dark blue ink on a light blue sticky note. It read "dave! i thought you should know that we're almost out of milk! also, we're having stir fry for dinner tonight so don't go out with your friends this time! –JE". You snorted at his excessive cheerfulness but it was just the thing you needed to brighten your day. He had a knack for making you smile.
After almost spilling hot coffee on your pants and gathering up your briefcase, you switched your customary shades for your glasses before trotting down the steps of the apartment building, glaring at anyone that got in your way. You locate your beat up, rust red Toyota Camry and pull out of the parking lot. Your mood improves when you flip on your iPod, silently thanking car makers for their ingenious addition of a port for one's MP3. You hum along with the music, smile stuck on your lips while you drive. That smile is quickly wiped away when some asshole that was overcompensating for his tiny dick cut you off in the turn lane, causing you to miss your light. You slam your head down against the steering wheel, your horn blocking out the expletives you screeched.
Today was going to be a long day.
"Alright, you're my homeroom. You kids only have to see me twice during this school year, if you're unfortunate enough to not have me as a teacher. If you are taking Music Appreciation, I'll see you in one of the following periods. So, kids-who's-last-names-start-with-Sta-to-Van, come up when I call your first name to grab your schedule."
You are perched on the edge of your desk, holding a large stack of papers in one hand and fiddling with a pencil with the other. You start to call out names, intentionally butchering easy ones while smoothly pronouncing the more difficult ones. There are a few kids out there that laugh when you mess up the pronunciation of "Robert", which you're grateful for. At least a few brats have been taught to have a sense of humor. The only two that you mispronounce for real are Vriska and Karkat. Who the fuck names their kids that?
The first one—Vriska Serket—saunters up to you with an almost fanged smile on her painted blue lips. You're mildly intimidated by her, what with the excess of spider web lace and blue. Her jeans are ripped down the thighs, intentionally frayed to add to a 'bad girl' effect. It suits her, you think as her Converse squeak against the ground. She's snatching up her schedule with her blue-painted index finger and thumb, shooting you a slight wink as she swaggers away. Her hips shake a bit too much for it to be coincidental. Sucks for her that you don't date students and aren't batting for the fish market. You prefer the sausage fest.
The second one, however, catches your attention. He's short and stocky, seemingly chubby but you can tell it's just muscle (you've lived around John long enough to be able to tell the difference). He's got his hands shoved into the pockets of loose grey jeans that lead down to ragged black Vans on his feet. He's wearing a baggy black turtleneck that he's practically swimming in, a head of black hair popping out of the neck. You can't stop a little smile from forming on your lips. You think this one must be a freshman, mostly because he's so small that you don't think he could be otherwise. He tilts his head up to look at you, little nose scrunched up in what you think is anger. His bushy eyebrows make it difficult to tell if he's pissed or not. The little guy's lips seem to be permanently set into a scowl but, surprisingly, it makes him a little cuter than anyone else. His eyes are rust brown, the pupils widening when they catch your crimson gaze. The thing you notice the most is his skin tone; a light, ruddy brown that looked like someone had added two creamers to black coffee. The bit you could see was smooth and unmarked by blemishes, save for the remains of nervous picking at the skin of one's face. Your lips curve up into a smile as he snatches his schedule from you.
The bell rings shortly after that. You realize you didn't even get to see what grade he was in.
It's sixth period and you are so done with everyone.
The headache you had had from that morning hadn't gone away in the slightest. In fact, you're almost positive that there was a crow in your head, picking at the inside of your skull. You feel the need to blow off some steam but you can't just leave and go to the gym right then and there. You've still got two classes to teach. It's not even teaching today, it's just introducing yourself and going over your syllabus. The first day is the most tedious of them all.
You don't even look up from where you're nursing a water bottle when the bell rings and sends the crow squawking around your head. You hiss softly and down another mouthful of water. The day had been surprisingly hot. You had long since rolled up your sleeves and exposed your muscled forearms to the cool of your lecture hall. The school had decided that Music Appreciation should have a classroom where sound could be heard from all around.
Only after the bell has rung to signal the end of passing period and your head has stopped feeling so much like it was about to split in half do you stand up and make your way to the front of the class. You grip your attendance sheet in your hand, gritting your teeth as you look down the names that you don't really recognize.
Except for that one.
"Alright, kids, this is Music Appreciation. It's probably what you're taking as a freshman to get an easy credit. It might be what you take as a sophomore because you have an extra period, why not fill it? Or maybe you're a junior that doesn't have anything better to do. But the seniors in my class? I think you guys are actually interested in what I have to say. So, thanks, I guess, for signing up for my shitty class," there's an echo of gasps when you cuss, "and, yes, that will become a regular thing. If it disturbs any of you kiddos, just let me know and I'll try to keep the foul language to a minimum. Just because I cuss doesn't mean you guys can. So watch your fucking mouths."
You stop to allow the giggles you know come after that line, eyes glancing up over the paper, a smirk quirking the corner of your lips up to expose a bit of pristine white teeth. You wink up at them before allowing your gaze to fall back down to the attendance sheet. You can't seem to pull your eyes away from the one on the very bottom. It was the kid you had seen that morning. He was a senior, it seemed. Interesting.
You start to call roll, eyes flicking up to put a name to a face every single time. The kid over there with a yellow shirt and 3-D glasses was Sollux. The one off to your right (was she wearing pink goggles?) was Feferi. A tiny girl wearing a blue hat in the shape of a cat (Nepeta) was seated in the top row, right next to a sweaty guy with broken sunglasses (Equius). There was one girl who wore red glasses that spiked at the corners, who was seated right next to that Vriska gal. There was a rope around the red-glasses girl's neck (name's Terezi, remember, Dave?) in the shape of a noose. A kid with a Mohawk in a wheelchair was in the very front (Tavros) while right behind him was another senior, this time with a head of messy black hair and Juggalo paint on his stoned-as-fuck face (Gamzee). A tall, busty, thick girl with long rusty red hair to match her body shape (Aradia) was sat next to 3-D dude and Sweaty. Right next to goggles was a kid with hipster glasses, a scarf and a streak of purple in the front of his perfectly coifed blonde hair. Eridan was his name. In the very back corner, the farthest from you, was a girl with impeccable fashion sense and cropped dark green hair, Kanaya. On the other side of 3-D was the one that had caught your attention, Karkat Vantas.
There were two things you knew about your class so far. One was that they were all likely mentally insane and had some weird ass tastes. The second was that you knew that this class was never going to be boring. The smile on your lips didn't leave this time around, your headache lessening the longer you looked at the short kid right next to the blonde guy with 3-D glasses.
Maybe this year wouldn't be so bad.