Second chapter's here!
I knew I could live through this. A few more hours, and I'd be at home, locked in my room, flipping through mixtapes and volumes of yaoi manga. Just a few more.
I sat alone in a corner of the cafeteria, hugging my bag like a frigging stuffed animal, keeping an eye out for any immediate signs of danger (like Florence, I mean Bakura!)
I reached into my backpack and pulled out a pen and my sketchbook. I uncapped the pen and opened the sketchbook.
I doodled. I drew the Village People doing the YMCA as stick -people. I made a rough sketch of my father's face, and I gave him devil horns and a handlebar moustache. I giggled, and defaced him further with a goatee and a frigging monocle. I scribbled out the shape of the baby from the cover of 'Nevermind.' I replaced the dollar bill on the hook with the Millennium Rod. I drew a cat with an angry expression. It looked a bit like Bakura's expression, so I made the cat into a Bakura-Cat. I gave it spiky fur and made its eyes more evil.
The more I looked at it, the more ridiculous it looked. And the more sense it made. The guy was really like a cat!
Next to the Bakura-Cat, I wrote, Dedicated to a Fluffy Nothing who called me a bitch. You are my kitty and this is what it looks like when you poop.
I snickered at my own avant-garde humor. That made no frigging sense at all.
"What's so bloody funny?"
SHIT.
I snapped the sketchbook shut and shoved it into my bag, tossed in the pen, zipped it shut, and clutched it to my chest. I looked up, shaking, at Bakura himself.
I swallowed and did the asspull.
"I was just thinking how frigging funny my corpse will look after you're done with it. You know, with the arms torn off."
His eyes did a thing. I'm not sure how to describe it, but it's as if he was taking me seriously, and his eyes reflected that.
"Is that an offering?"
"N-no. Just a joke."
"You. Me. Hallway. Now."
I gulped and dropped my bag, and followed him into the hallway. The second we were out of sight, he shoved me into the wall. It hurt, to say the least. Then he let me go and backed off.
"You're lucky you're pretty. Otherwise I'd beat you into the next bloody century."
"That's only eight years away, Fluffy. Seven years and a few months, exactly."
"Keep calling me Fluffy and I'll show up at a reunion party with your bloody name on my fists."
I snorted and replied in a horribly faked English accent.
"And what? Pour some hot tea over my crotch?"
I saw a look of discomfort pass over him until it was replaced by anger.
"I'm not British, you moron!"
"But you are totally gay."
He winced at this.
"No, I'm bloody not!"
"You called me pretty, you're the gayest gay guy since frigging Elton John!"
"I thought you were a girl is all. It's not like it's easy to tell the difference, anyways."
"Yeah, you're righ- HEY! I am not feminine!"
"Could have fooled me. You're just like the hair-bleaching, body-tan-salon abusing, brainless bitches I see all over every bloody school! And what the hell's up with your clothes?"
He gestured to my shirt, which was formerly a purple t-shirt I modified to show off my abs.
Oh, if only you knew how long I had subjected myself to sunlight while nearly naked, would you understand how raving mad that statement made me.
"I do not bleach my hair, my tan is almost completely natural, and I AM NOT STUPID!"
"Well, if you aren't, then explain why you decided to screw around with me."
"I did not want to screw around with you!"
He snickered at that, for some reason.
"I think you're the gay one."
"I'm completely heterosexual!"
"Oh? Because in science I could have sworn I heard you whistling The Village People."
"Lots of people like The Village People!"
"And Elton John?"
"Oh, come on, nobody would guess unless he walked right up to a guy and kissed him on the mouth!"
He rolled his eyes.
"This conversation is over. Tell anybody I'm gay, and your face won't save you next time."
He just turned about and walked away.
I fucking knew it! I complied to my desire to get the last laugh, and I did.
"You're not British, you're just gay!"
And that's all for now, folks.