[March 15th, early afternoon]

[poeticprivilege]

Sitting in the British Literature classroom was a man who could have been mistaken for a student. Though he was sitting at the teacher's desk, he had his sneakered feet propped up on it, crossed at the ankles as he boredly sifting through a stack of papers. His dark gray pants were baggy, and covered in zippers and pockets, and he wore a white t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, an assortment of vividly colored paint streaks covering it. Occasionally, he'd reach up to run a hand through the strands of dark brown hair that fell over the side of his face, brushing them behind his ear, or look up from the papers as people passed by in the halls.

Faces are made at anyone who dares to stop and peek in.

Comments

[gentle]

N is a mixture of confused and super confused, and he looks unabashedly surprised, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights as he tries to figure out exactly what in the world is happening. yikes! this guy must be an expert on making crazy faces-- N is in awe of is talent but tries not to show it.

it almost appears as if he's retreating, head snapping forward as he takes a few long and hurried strides forward and disappearing behind the door's wall for a few long moments, but a mop of wavy green hair and a duckface so well-practiced it would put any broho to shame peer back into the room.

[poeticprivilege]

GASP. DUCKFACE. N, how did you know his greatest weakness? Duckfaces are right up there with dead baby jokes and Rush Limbaugh. He just cannot handle them. Congratulations, N, you won this round. He outright cracked up, his feet falling to the ground so that he could drop his head onto his desk.

[gentle]

sweet victory! N pulls back behind the wall to revel in his success, before gathering his bearings and taking a small step into the room, tall and composed and as cool as ever.

"now that we have gotten formalities out of the way," because that was all a formal greeting here in the states, right? "i must ask. what are you doing, lounging about in the teacher's desk. isn't that not permitted?"

[poeticprivilege]

Oh gosh. Wasn't N just the most precious thing? Calling him out like he was a knight in shining armor, and Kal was some hooligan besmirching the honor of a lady. There was only one thing he could do, only one suitable response.

He had to troll him.

"What's it to you, Duckie? It's a desk, it has a chair," he scoffed, rolling his eyes in an exaggerated manner, shrugging one shoulder. This is how apathetic teenagers act, right? "It doesn't matter if I sit here. Even if it did, what're you gonna do about it? Tell on me?"