A short little thing I felt like writing.
A Bird Loves A French Fry
The class was silent, the students heads were bowed, their brows furrowed in concentration. The teacher, a wisp of a woman with wide eyes and virtually no lip, sat like a nervous little mouse in her desk chair. She was a substitute, filling in for the burly man who usually taught this particular class. Her hands twisted and her gaze flickered, her experience telling her that the children were going to test her, play with her emotions, see how far she would bend before she snapped like a twig. Only she had never before taught a class full of genii. They just sat with their work (a complicated set of questions she herself couldn't understand) and let their pencils fly over the pages.
One particular boy, who had a head of shimmering blonde hair and was the wearer of a misleadingly sweet looking face, was working particulary fast, murmering to himself and constantly tucking away a strand of that long golden hair behind his ear as it fell onto the page before him. The teacher hasd mistakingly called him a "miss" ealier in the class. She couldn't bear looking at him for too long. He had cunningly led her into a phsycological trap after that particular mistake that had left her feeling embarrased and dim witted. She didn't want to think about it.
Another boy, a seemingly careless and disheveled redhead, sat behind the blonde spit fire, yawning every few seconds and watching the place under his desk. His pencil remained untouched. The teacher didn't bother telling him to work, didn't feel like finding out what he was doing. She wasn't looking for another fight over intellegence with this group. She knew she would lose. Even though the teacher didn't feel like caring about what Matt was doing, she watched him. When he reached for his pencil, eyes flicking guiltily behind those strange goggles and cheeks a warm red glow, she turned away. Maybe gaze alone could make a student realize they were meant to be working.
Matt, though, had no wish to work. He was scrawling suddenly across the edge of his Maths homework not because he wanted to do anything involving Math (the game of Mario Cart under his desk was more interesting than the equasions on it) but because he felt that if he didn't do this while he had the courage, he would never do it at all. Mello's back shifted in front of him and he swallowed, tearing off the piece on which he'd written and curling it into a ball. When Mello's body moved just right and the teacher's gaze drifted away, he tossed it lightly onto the desk in front of his friend. Then he felt like he might throw up.
Mello, who had been working diligently in an attempt to finish before (and better than) his rival, the snowy haired Near, jumped when the note landed on his desk. He turned instantly to Matt, took note of the scarlet of the boy's face, smirked, and opened the note slowly. If this was what he thought it was, he wanted to drag it out and make Matty squirm.
The note started "Dear Mello. I love you..." And Mello had his gratification. He smiled ear to ear, ready to taunt Matt about the look on his face (though the look on his own was probably equally embarassing). Then he continued with the rest of the note.
"Dear Mello. I love you more than a bird loves a french fry. Have you seen a bird with a french fry? They tear that thing to shreds! I reckon I like you enough not to rip you up and swallow you though."
Mello chuckled and turned partially around to smile lazily at his best friend. Poor Matt, who thought (rightly) that Mello was laughing at him, hid his face in his arms. He thought (not so rightly) that Mello didn't feel the same way. Maybe their friendship was over.
Then a new piece of scrunched up paper landed with faint crinkle on the light wood of the redhead's desk. Matt opened it with trembling fingers, as though unreveling the doom of the world.
"Well. I hope you'd swallow."