Marshall didn't hear a word from his "enemy" the next morning.
Not that he had expected joyful conversation over cheese and crackers, but it was beyond bizarre that the two shared three classes together and the prince had not glanced in his direction or spoken of last night even once. That's a total of 120 minutes shared together in mutual ignorance. And Marshall had meticulously counted out each and every one. He excluded lunch for "technical purposes"(i.e.: he ate his meal alone in a bathroom stall).
Ordering him around and raising my voice has got to give him an excuse to be a greater dick, to me, right? Marshall asked himself, doodling nervously alongside the rings of his faded notebook paper. Not to mention the whole 'other' incident... He's got enough dirt to take me down forever. Lee's eyes narrowed as the graphite formed a multitude of abstract swirls along the surface of the sheet of stripes, concentrating heavily on the thick arranged loops that fell messily into place.
But why should I care? It's good the jerk is leaving me alone. He hut Simone, and that's cruel even for his standards. Marshall's pale and shaky left hand reached towards the desk and smeared the design, allowing the dark marks to grow lighter and bleed into one another, creating representation of his current state of mind; dark, light, and generally muddled.
Marsh's bully sat directly in front of him. This positioning allowed a very convenient view of the back of his neck, which in itself was disturbingly better looking than the faces of everyone else in the entire academy. Not that that was saying much.
The prince sat stone still, like a work of art, like the sort of Greek sculpture you find in museums. He probably took some fancy schmancy posture classes when he was younger.
Marshall Lee cursed himself silently for the less than subtle stare fest, and returned to rapidly rubbing his No.2 pencil along the ripping paper. It was one of those erasers where it simply smudged all your broken lines together more than anything else, so erasing anything was essentially a big old waste of everyone's time. He did it anyway.
The pattern of loops faded into a new image Marshall found himself involuntarily sketching along the margin, head meeting limbs, long and slender legs attaching to pristine ankles. "Mister Lee? Care to share your talents with the class?" Marshall froze. He was almost impressed to be receiving this kind of attention from such a distant seat. Not nearly as impressed with why he was receiving it.
The prince had turned back in his desk just the right amount, smirking vainly about the whole ordeal, as if he had some sort of telepathic snitching powers. He just always had to take credit for everything. Marshall nearly swallowed his tongue trying to gulp all his problems away. He quickly folded either hand on top of the spare sheet of notebook paper, looking totally not suspicious at all in the process. Believe it or not, this pattern of movements did not go completely unnoticed, and his chair buddy arched an eyebrow accordingly, gaze flickering downward toward Marsh's quivering hands.
Marshall was now certain that everyone in the room could hear the extremity of his heartbeat. He stood up with a wobble in his leg, crammed his now crumpled creation into his pocket, and loudly proclaimed, "I-I've got to go to the nurse's office!" before scampering out the door. To be fair, this wasn't exactly false. He was probably pre-panic attack.
The dark haired boy had passed by approximately five classrooms and two broom closets (who needs that many broom closets?) before he realized that he was being followed. However, before he could process how to react to this information, the prep kicked the underside of his leg, sending his victim into a classic backwards tumble. -10 Points, for the violence and lack of creativity. Boys and their violence.
He fell with his palms facing outwards, soft parts slapping against unwashed tile. When it came to being violently forced up against random pieces of school property, this wasn't Marshall's first rodeo. He then proceeded to glare at his perpetrator, "How'd you even get out of class?"
"I can do whatever I want is how."
Fair enough. He stuck his hand out for the other, and for a hot second Marshall thought the prince was genuinely looking to help him up. At least, until he remembered his crumple-y, paper-y counterpart. Marshall quickly slipped the scrap into his pocket, clambering back into upright position on his own.
"Is that all you want of me? Curiosity killed the cat you know."
The other just smiled. Took a step closer. Had this hallway always been so empty? Where were all the other skippers and student disappointments?
"Figured you'd prefer me dead."
Marshall could feel his own face reddening, skin hot as summer in July. And those shaky hands... He could run, but in doing so he'd only increase general suspicions. He could try to talk his way out, but in what fictional high school story scenario had that worked, ever? His companion still held his hand out, just waiting. Marshall felt cornered. He felt like a child. He chewed on his lip, took a gaping step back. He could now feel cool metal up against his back. Wrong place to take a step back.
When Marshall was younger he lived by a lake, not right by it, but close enough to reach it in say- a 15 minute walk. He and a couple of the neighbors' kids would go skinny dipping, any day of the season, so long as the water hadn't frozen clean over.
The locker metal was colder than any of those nights, so cold it seemed to sear right through the fabric of his shirt and into his skin, reminiscent of the sensation of dry ice.
"I could take you easy."
Poor phrasing at best. But perhaps the Prince would ignore such irony, for old time's sake. He stepped closer in symphony with his response. To be fair to this description, it is worth mentioning that he also lived and breathed in symphony. Everything on time and miraculously blended together.
"I don't doubt it."
"It isn't even your business."
He was wearing more of a subtle pink look today, nothing more than a ring of velvety fabric around his neck. How did he get away with dressing this way, acting this way? So openly and unapologetically flamboyant. Perhaps it was his boldness in doing so that made doing so possible.
"Not really."
So much for trusty pals Logic and Reason. The nerd was now significantly closer than before. And Marshall had neither the space nor patience to outmaneuver him anymore. He was unsure of whether or not he was being intimidated, or simply out-gayed. He felt a stream of breath drift ever so meekly across his shoulder, breath that wasn't his own. That was eons too close for him. It would be..bad to stay like this.
He felt a hand reach into his pocket..His pocket! Marshall snapped out of his lovesick trance and reached downward, but said pocket was now emptied and he just looked really lame in doing so.
The Prince carefully reopened the paper. Gently. He did everything so gently, except when he didn't. He peeled each fold apart ad if he were picking pale white flower petals, and each and every one was of utmost importance. Marshall chanted along, in his head of course: He loves me not, he loves me not..
He nodded at his findings, as if examining some uppity scholarly thesis statement. Like there was a lot of worthwhile content to assess and analyze, and not just a handful of mindless doodles. Anything to make the moment last longer, anything to make it more dreadfully humiliating.
Marshall tried to grab the paper back, as if it weren't already too late, as if any of it could simply be unseen via sleight of hand. He grabbed more skin than anything else, and just that mingling saw the return of those aforementioned sparks. One might even say he "had it bad".
"I-I have to go to the nurse's office.."
The Prince rolled his eyes at the notion. Could be he thought the statement ridiculous, could be he just wanted to roll his eyes for a bit. After all, he did so greatly enjoy making others feel stupid.
"Bullshit. You took your pills this morning. And you aren't even hyperventilating anymore. When you get all anxiety-y, then we have the chest heaves, but now..." He reached out and laid one flat palm on the other's chest, waiting, "Nothing. Except a suspiciously fast heartbeat. You may be able to fool the occasional middle aged English teacher, but you'll find I know a bit more about the nuances of medical science."
Always with the bragging.
"Or maybe you just know a bit more about me."
"What was that?"
His gaze, in contrast with the locker door which he had just now slammed his hands against for dramatic effect, was hot. He was waiting to catch Marshall in a lie, daring him really. Waiting for a display of weakness, or at the very least discomfort. But instead of asking again he simply changed the subject.
"You know, I've always thought my eyes to be my greatest physical quality, but based on the... area you designated most of your attention to, I suppose you disagree."
Marshall awkward-coughed his way into a retort. Weakness given. Success! Level complete.
"As if you have any way of knowing that's you."
But the Prince just nodded, real slowly. A stray piece of pink hair flitted betwixt his left eye in response to this movement, and Marshall got this sudden urge to correct it for him. As if he was in any way obligated to. But at the same time, he felt suspicious of even this minor detail, like this had been done on purpose, like he was being teased by even this intricacy. Like he was trying to see just how low he would stoop.
But the other just cooed sympathetically. Fake sympathy, but equal parts titillating in Marshall's book.
"You're right...solely relying on your short term memory like that, you really couldn't bring that much realism to the table. Not your fault really, you just lacked a reference."
His hand was still on the other's chest, but now it was sort of swaying, back and forth, blades of grass dancing blissfully in the wind. He smiled. And Marshall exploded on site. All his hypothetical guts were strewn about the lockers and the tiles, symbolic of his less than hypothetical tidal wave of emotions.
"Want to change that? "