"THIS IS INSANE!" Brian squawks. "You can't just quit!"

Desmond's brow furrows. He inhales, preparing to respond, but his breath hitches, caught on four different answers he just can't seem to cough out.

Hafsa answers for him, her back still turned as she gazes out the window overlooking the campus. "That's not our decision to make."

With crossed arms, Solomon leans further into his seat with a pensive expression. "If Desmond wishes to leave the student council, we cannot stop him."

This only angers the pigeon further. He stomps up to the secretary and slams his hands on his polished desk. "Am I in Crazy Town or something?! Don't act so cold towards your friend! What is wrong with you two?!"

He points an accusatory finger towards the male and then female feline, the tip of which is blurred by the tears that begin welling in his eyes. "We can't let him quit! We gotta convince him to stay, no matter what it takes! He's part of the student council!"

A black-nailed hand gingerly pats Brian's shoulder, cutting him off. He looks back and is met with Desmond's weary but smiling face.

"That's enough."

"But—"

"They're right." The ram affirms, squeezing the trembling shoulder in reassurance. "This is my decision."

His senior's irate expression crumbles. "But why?"

"It's just not my path. I want to focus more on my studies and on ram fighting."

A lie, but a white one. What's the point of explaining the whole sordid affair? It's like his brother said, he deserves a fresh start. And the student council… it's nothing but stale endings. He only joined in the first place to feed his ego and chase power, something that has no appeal to him now. Even Hafsa understood it; that's why she didn't bother putting up a fight when he told her.

"Are you… really sure you can't manage student council at all? Even if we give you a smaller role?" Brian sniffles.

"I'm sorry. It just didn't work out." The sheep tousles the top of Brian's feathered head, jumbling his plumage up into a fluffy tangle. "Besides, it's not like I'm being shipped off to the other end of the world. We'll still see each other around."

The mop-headed bird lowers his head in resignation, tears freely flowing from his beady eyes. "It's not the saaaame…"

After many minutes of assuring Brian that they were still friends, Desmond finally manages to calm him down to a compliant state. Though his beak is still curved in a quivering frown, and his eyes still overflowing with waterworks, he settles on squeezing the ram half to death.

"The office won't be the same without your sass, Vice President."

"That's former Vice President to you." Desmond gives his back a hearty slap, but his playful demeanor quickly fades once it's time to bid farewell to the caracal.

He stiffly extends a hand to the taller male, who accepts in an equally stiff manner. They lock eyes; not in hostility, but in acknowledgement. There are many words they would like to say to each other: words of contempt, of congratulations, of warnings, of condescension, of petulance, of appreciation… those remain locked between their hands, as colorful and contrasting as their fingers that link their skin in a perpendicular chain, exchanging them as saliva would in a childish pact. With a final handshake, these words are forever sealed.

There is only one obstacle now that impedes the Vice President from the exit of the office he once called his own, and that is the carnivore who defined his beginning and end as a member of the council. The serval looks at him expectantly, not daring to emote past an infuriatingly unreadable neutrality.

"Thank you for your service." She says, offering her own hand. "You'll… be missed."

The ram gazes down at her exposed palm. To hold her hand now… he almost chuckles. Irony seems to be his best friend nowadays.

It may be a formality, but Desmond thanks the universe for one more opportunity to hold that cruel hand. He can't help but wonder what she's thinking right now. Is she glad be holding his?

"Good luck with everything. It's been interesting."

Those are the last words uttered by the Vice President Sheep Desmond. As the now ordinary student Sheep Desmond exits the room and veers down left to the stairwell, one thought repeats inside of Hafsa's mind over the slowly fading footsteps.

His handshake is much gentler than his first one.

Principal House rearranges the stack of paper to face upright and gives it some gentle taps against his desk until all sheets are neatly in place.

"Yes, it all looks to be in order," He says, placing the pile next to an even bigger pyramid of paperwork. "Thank you for your timely submittal. I will relay the news during tomorrow morning's announcements. It is a shame about Sheep Desmond."

Hafsa nods. "He was a good VP."

"Yes, excellent student, he is…" The goose mutters. He seems to always have his mind somewhere else nowadays. "Most unfortunate. Well, I trust you and your deputies will begin preparations for the reelection process, yes?"

"Of course, sir. We can begin applications for candidacy the week after spring break."

House honks out an annoyed exclamation, the mere mention of the dreaded vacation ruffling his feathers. "That blasted spring break… Desmond chose a very inopportune time to retire."

"…It couldn't be helped."

"Nothing can these days…" The principal sighs. He removes his glasses perched on his bill to wipe them with the microfiber cloth he keeps in his breast pocket, but the frames slip from his hold and impacts against the edge of his mahogany desk, landing on the floor with a clatter.

The waterfowl snakes his lithe neck down to the floor, searching for his lost spectacles. After some rummaging, he reemerges, sadly holding onto his glasses with fresh cracks embedded in the lenses. With a dejected frown, he tosses the busted specs onto the desk, and they slide to a stop a few centimeters from the serval. The fractures in the glass refract light in strange and beautiful patterns on the rich brown surface.

"How fitting…" House bemoans. "You can spend your whole life caring for your glasses, but it only takes a split second to break them. If only fixing something was as easy as breaking it. Then maybe there would be hope in the world."

The goose's tired eyes fall on Hafsa, and he remembers she is still there. "Oh, but how foolish of me, feeling sorry for myself in front of a student. You're free to go, dear. I apologize for my little rant. It's been… a tricky start to the year."

"I understand, sir."

Hafsa bids a final farewell to Principal House before quietly leaving. Solomon waits for her a few paces from the door, his tufted ears perking up once she emerges from the office.

"How did it go?" He asks, reaching for her hand.

She accepts, interlacing their fingers together with a smile. "All good. House seems really out of it."

"It's no surprise." Solomon grimaces, sparing a pitying look at the closed door. "Students are unenrolling each day. Even without DAVID's interference, the herbivores are too distrustful."

"Herbivores…" Hafsa repeats absentmindedly. "It's all 'herbies' this, 'carnies' that. We can't be that different."

"If we weren't, then these types of issues would be solved within a day." The male strokes the back of her hand with his thumb. "Intertrophic politics will always be a problem."

"Yeah…"

Solomon studies her face, trying to discern what precisely made her response sound so gloomy. "You're a generous soul, but I'm afraid not even an animal of your caliber can solve the intertrophic crisis, Hafsa. Don't try to shoulder a responsibility like that."

"Generous…" The spotted cat snickers. "Not the word I would use."

Her boyfriend raises a brow in amusement. "Would you prefer the word charming? Perhaps adorable? What about marvelous?"

"Stop that…"

"Brilliant, incredible, accomplished, enchanting…"

"I'm dating a thesaurus…" Hafsa jokingly slaps her forehead in disbelief, which also conveniently hides her burning face.

"I can go on for hours. You know how I love to expound." Solomon chuckles. He begins to walk off, guiding Hafsa by the hand away from House's office and their upsetting discussion.

It seems to work, as the serval remembers something she's been meaning to ask as they descend down the stairwell and out of the Emzara building.

"Solomon, I was wondering…" She begins. "Do you think I should go back to the cheerleading team?"

The caracal certainly didn't expect the sudden turn of subject, but obliges and considers the question. "I imagine your scar will raise a lot of concerns…I wouldn't like you to be barraged with uncomfortable comments. Carnivores are under enough scrutiny as it is. I suppose my answer is if you were to return, I would worry for you."

"I see…" Hafsa feigns interest in the scenery, turning her head away from her partner to hide a melancholic smile. "I thought you'd say that. Don't worry, I wasn't planning on going back. I just wanted to know your thoughts."

"Testing me already?" Solomon teases.

"As if I need to test you."

"Then suppose I test you. Do you think I should run for Vice President?"

Hafsa's tail flicks. "Yes. I assumed you would. You'd win."

"I'm honored you can read me so well."

"You're just like me, after all." Hafsa tightens her grip on his hand. For some reason, this only uneases Solomon.

"We would still need someone for secretary, then."

"I think the runner-up would take it." The serval says. "Getting into student council is CV gold, no matter the position."

"You and me as president and vice… not a bad idea, right?"

"Worked out pretty perfectly. You must be relieved Desmond left."

Solomon's step hitches for a moment before catching up with Hafsa. "I wouldn't say relieved. What makes you say that?"

"I know you didn't like him." Hafsa explains with peculiar casualness. "And now it'll be me and you, like you said. Overall, you must be relieved."

The male's jaw can't help but slacken in surprise. "Am I so cruel in your eyes? The Vice Principal and I —well, former Vice Principal— had our differences, to be sure, but I would never celebrate his resignation. Frankly, you seem the most content with this situation."

Hafsa shrugs. "I guess we can't read each other as well as we thought, then."

Solomon's eyes narrow. "Would you rather… the sheep as your vice instead of me?"

"Whose hand am I holding now?"

As taken aback as he is by her petulant answer, the sentiment still serves to assuage his jealousy. "Let's change the subject."

Change the subject they do. By the time the two arrive to the front of the female carnivore dorm building, the tense pseudo-argument is all but forgotten. The caracal plants a goodbye kiss on his girlfriend's lips, and with a hesitant farewell, watches her enter the dorm. Inside her room, Hafsa greets Molly, who noisily chows down on a packet of deep-fried mealworms.

"Hey, loverboy." The Pallas cat mumbles over a mouthful of chewed up sectpro. "How was student council? Not that I care."

"Eventful. Not that you care."

"You're goddamn right." Satisfied with their heart-to-heart, she swallows another fistful of mealworms.

With an amused eyeroll, Hafsa excuses herself to the bathroom. There she sits on the lowered toilet lid and hunches over to rifle through her bag. She pulls out a crumpled scan of something she had discovered while preparing Desmond's resignation documents: a copy of his school profile.

She inspects the print until she gets to the interesting part. Just like she had read and reread in the student council office, it states March 20th under date of birth.

March 20th?

It's just like him to not tell anyone. Stupid, proud sheep. A sharp acidic pain stings her throat. Despite his pride… She's sure he would have wanted to celebrate with the student council and his friends. Were it not for her.

She's done enough damage. Frankly, she's too tired to think about it. When the ram told her he was to stand down from his role as VP, a part of her certainly felt relieved; thinking they could stay as just friends is a wholesome notion, but an unrealistic one. It's best if they are out of each other's lives for good, or as good as possible when they are still in the same academy. The thought of him finally being able to live happily, unbothered by a lecherous predator like herself, dulled any other objections she might have. After all, this is all her fault.

She has no right to feel upset, she has no right to feel entitled. She chose another path, so she has no right to mourn what she willingly relinquished. It's a path she will find happiness in, and one he couldn't possibly be happy in.

So she'll just wish him a happy belated birthday.

AN: Thank you for reading! A shortish chapter I thought was good for catching a breath. Pacing is vital during emotional turning points, but oh so frustrating to impatient authors like myself.

Take it easy and stay safe.