Disclaimer: I don't own Sayonara Zetsubou Sensei
Inkstains
Posted June 9th, 2008
"I'll share a story with you." He speaks, eyes shining feverishly bright against the dim of the classroom, figure almost a shadow against the wall. Jun frequently lingers after class like this. Just long enough to make his presence known, just long enough for Nozomu to realize it's not idle chatter when he recommends a novel or two and asks the time. The man is tired - he doesn't want to listen to his students any more than he has to - and so he sighs in exaggerated defeat, and allows him to talk as he packs his briefcase for the walk home.
There is a boy, and a girl, and a romance. A misunderstanding. Half-way through his glasses are resting on his bangs and he's wiping away his tears with fingers, long and pale. When Jun is finished he is crying, and his student's low, slow smile seems close to teasing. Almost friendly. He chides himself on letting down his guard - it won't happen - because, after all, no one will ever open his heart.
The teacher tries to recover, adjusts his glasses against the bridge of his nose, picks up his things. Despite this, a heavy weight settles itself on his shoulder. A hand, holding him back, dragging him down, down. And for someone with a name like his, it's nothing new. Cultured, this boy is too cultured for his own good.
Fading light drifts in from the classroom windows, blurring the world with hues of grey and white, monochrome vision. Absently, he notices the almost girlish curl of his eyelashes. The way he stands so confidently with his back to an empty desk, staring, with the closed spine of a children's book resting against the smooth skin of his wrist. The title is too faint: he can't read it, and he tells himself that no, he never wanted to.
There are words, casual and fleeting and simple. He doesn't understand, never understands, and they're going in circles and circles and circles. Nozomu is pretending he doesn't know, Jun is pretending not to notice, both of them ignoring how quickly time is slipping by. This is one day of many, from as far back as he wants to be able to remember, and feels as if his back's against the wall.
And, the scent of chalk fills the air. Neither of them are talking now, but….
"I-I'm leaving." He says, suddenly nervous. He has things to do, he explains, and his student watches him as he edges towards the door, looking back as if he half expects the boy to follow. All too aware of what will happen next. So Jun picks up his leather bag and falls into step behind him, the school almost eerily silent in the sleepy after-hours of autumn. There is a shock of touch – mistakenly, mistakenly they have brushed limbs – but he allows himself to smile, just a little.
Outside, it's raining.