:3:
Regan had already endured several boring classes already when the time for English had ticked ever closer. She made her way to the room and quietly sat down at the back of the class undisturbed, considering that Mr. Moriarty hadn't showed up to teach quite yet. She called out to Kate, who'd just walked in clutching her books tightly. The girl ignored her, instead opting to sit with some other screeching girls who all seemed very eager for the arrival of the teacher. Regan shrugged. That was her choice. But she couldn't help the twinge of guilt associated with snubbing a friend purely because of her own unfounded, personal conflicts. Regan, indeed, was not the most sensitive individual - which was why she didn't identify with having that many friends. She was just disappointed that Kate seemed to have forgotten that.
"Move, move, move!"
Regan was forced out of her reflection as she looked up to see Moriarty pushing his way through a few unsuspecting students with a heavy looking box that was practically over-flowing with books. He drops it on his desk with a thud and a well-deserved, suffering exhale. He dusts his hands off and turns to face the class - the last few stragglers who'd yet to have seated themselves racing to sit down. Regan watched him throw a sideways glance to Kate in the front row, who'd hiked up her skirt far above the level deemed appropriate in the dress code - and was twirling a long lock of red hair in her fingers. Regan stopped her hand from all but hitting herself in the forehead.
Mr. Moriarty cleared his throat, "Now, we've a bit of a chaaaange," Regan furrowed her brow at the strange enunciation of the word. It was almost as if he though his Irish lilt wasn't unsettling enough - and he needed to add more eccentricities to terrify his students. "To the curriculum."
Murmurs.
"Nothing major, I assure you. Just a bit of switching and shuffling around of things. See, I'm supposed to be teaching you poetry at the end of the year - but, I'm soooo changable!"
He grabbed an armful of the books and set to handing them around the classroom. Regan watched as the rest of the class thumbed inquisitively through the pages, straining glean any indication of what the books were. She was the last to receive the book, presumably because she was in the back corner, but in her heart she was hoping that her class wasn't so distracted by the books - she'd just feel safer. Mr. Moriarty strode towards her and handed her the book. She didn't intend to look up at him, but it happened anyway. And for the second time since she'd met him she was sucked into the intense, unbroken, unblinking eye contact. Regan cleared her throat and pried the book away from him. Moriarty smirked, might've mumbled something that sounded a bit like 'enjoy' - but she wasn't one-hundred percent, and he returned to the front of the class.
Lord George Gordon Byron: an Anthology of Major Works, was inscribed in black cursive on the cover of a squat, red book. She could've thrown up. She didn't even know what thing in particular gave her the most discomfort, his association of herself with Lord Byron through last name, the awfully uncomfortable eye contact - or the dream.
"Lord Byron is one of my favourite poets, and I'm sure you'll all see the same beauty in his work as I do."
She looked up. He met her eye and sneered darkly.
"Now can anybody tell what period his work is from?"
A painful stillness.
"Anybody at all?"
She kept her eyes down, and pretended to be very interested in the dents on the corner of the book. She looked over at the table next to her. Strange. Hers was the only copy that seemed to be older.
"Regan!"
She looked up. "Romantic, sir." she demurred.
"And that is how we answer questions in class, take note children."
Regan glanced over at Kate, who was looking very non-childlike as she bent over her desk to retrieve a pencil. It was almost laughable, however, how much interest Mr. Moriarty was giving her - none, that was. And Kate was trying desperately hard. Suddenly, it was difficult for her to feel any sympathy for her attitudes towards her friend at all. Regan might have been behaving very irritable and snarky lately - but at least she wasn't trying to tap into her inner Lolita and seduce this man who was at the very least in his late twenties (early thirties was more likely, now that she looked closer). She didn't see the appeal, in all honesty. She supposed he was physically attractive, with his well-kept and groomed appearance, sharp jaw - and the way he moved with fluid, almost snake like movements. But it was all just cancelled out by his innate creepiness, and unsettling personality.
"- from 1820 to 1900,"
And besides, what did she honestly expect? Even if she did receive any attention from him, it would only be because he was disturbed enough to consider under age girls romantic partners. But then there was the whole 'love is blind' reality, but at first glance she highly doubted that the self-absorbed, impeccably preened man before her felt much love for anything besides himself.
She must've really drifted off, because the next thing she noticed was the screeching of chairs on wooden floors as the class raced off to lunch, each of them systematically handing their books back to the teacher. She forced herself up from her chair, taking care to do so gently - she found the screeching noises that chairs made to be utterly infuriating. In typical fashion, she was the last in line - and her only potential back up, Kate, had already left with an exaggerated swing to her hips.
Regan approached Mr. Moriarty's desk and placed the book on the edge. "What are you doing?" she questioned quietly.
Moriarty watched the last of the class trickle out before he spoke, "Teaching, I hope. Why - what do you think I'm doing?"
Regan held up the book accusingly. "Lord Byron, really? 'Any relation to Lord Byron?'"
"I had a feeling you liked poetry." he said evenly.
"No! - I mean, I don't mind it, but I don't understand..."
He let out a deep, throaty cough as he adjusted himself in his chair. "May I?" he asked, gesturing at the book she was clutching.
Through gritted teeth, she managed a "Please."
The man took the book gingerly and flicked through the pages. "I found..." flick, "A poem..." flick, pause, flick, flick, "That reminded me of... Here it is. Stanzas for Music."
"Of what?"
But he just looked knowingly up at her from behind the book. "There be none of Beauty's daughters
With a magic like thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed Ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lulled winds seem dreaming:
And the midnight Moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep;
Whose infant's asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean."
Her face flushed with the heat of every embarrassing moment she'd every had the displeasure of experiencing in her life. She stared at him like a deer in the headlights, not knowing what to say - and unwilling to say it even if she knew what, for the fear of misinterpreting the situation. Not that there was much to misconstrue, he was looking up at her with a smug expression that was almost doing a good job and hiding the anticipation in his eyes - he was just waiting, quite literally on the edge of his seat, for her to say something.
"How tragic it must be," he quipped after the tension in the air hung between them like the heaviest of chains, "To be lost for words at a pivotal moment. You can leave now."
"... You want me to stay, then you want me to stay?"
"What can I say... I'm changeable. It's a weakness with me... But to be fair to myself - it is my only weakness." Moriarty jeered.
"Besides the narcissism?"
"I consider that a strength." he mused darkly, his voice taking on a moan quality that made her feel uneasy. "You know what - you should take your copy home tonight, get reading. I'm positive you'll be enraptured." he purred, handing the book back to her.
It was also at that moment that she noted this classroom was right next to the music rooms, as a sudden crescendo of unmistakably Baroque music rose up and penetrated the wall between the two rooms.
A smile twisted across Mr. Moriarty's face. "Johann Sebastian would be appalled, no?"
Regan managed a smile before tentatively shoving the book into her bag and quickly legging it to lunch.
"It's so unfair." Kate complained.
Suddenly, it seemed, that her friend finally chosen to express interest in her. Regan was returning her things to her locker when Kate had ambushed her and was now proceeding to complain to her. "What is?"
Kate huffed. "You're getting all the attention."
Regan laughed. "Attention, sure... Uh, what attention is this?"
"From Mr. Sex." she purred.
And all Regan's things went crashing onto the floor. She groaned and knelt to gather her things back together. "Is that what we're calling good ol' Jim Moriarty now?"
"How could you not!" she sighed, clutching her hands to her chest. "The way he just... He just has a way of saying things you know? It's sort of like that aristocrat thing, innit? Painting poetic pictures with his words..."
"Ah-huh." was all that Regan could offer and she stuck the books in her locker. Her breath hitched at the sight of the red one. Best not to get Kate going off anymore, right? She quickly stuffed it back into her back and shut the locker.
"And the way he moves... All dangerously."
"Sure."
"Do you think he smokes?"
Regan let the smallest of smirks twist across her face. "Oh, definitely." she lulled, beaming at her friend. It was much easier to keep things from people when you didn't have to play the 'I don't know what you're talking about' card.
"Hot...!" Kate said to herself, as if it were a particularly violent curse. "And you're getting all the attention..."
Here we go, Regan rolled her eyes.
"Why!" she complained. "I try, am I not attractive enough?"
"No, you're pretty Kate. You know that."
And he isn't the kind of guy to go for pretty, is he? Regan thought. Not just pretty. That'd be too easy.
Sorry for the short chapter, but that's as much plot as I wanted to cover. :)
Obviously, the poem is by Lord Byron and not myself.
Please be sure to review, positive and negative - any review, really, are all welcomed and encouraged. :3