((Demetri Futscher continued from Jawbreaker))
Demetri liked the sun on the skin of his neck. Warm, toasty. He wasn't a sunbather or anything because he was way too pale for that shit, though. But he'd make an exception for two minutes on such a nice day as this. Nice: good-looking day. Nice, good-looking day.
Like, yeah. Stacking the adjectives seemed to emphasize his point like liberal bolding and underlining. Better than actual bolding and underlining. Demetri had learned his lesson about that after ninth grade English. Fuck, he cringed just thinking of his old work. All the formatting shit he'd tried just to make his original characters seem more emotive. He'd gotten a few good comments though. Shitty spelled comments, but he'd leave up that old Fanfiction.net just for the fans, and all that.
Demetri's long fingers worked the lock to his locker. Combination of the lock, 16-32-21. The lock clicked open and it was kind of loud. Kind of a comfort noise, if he had to be blunt about it. These were the years he was supposedly going to be looking back on fondly. He didn't know how it all added up, but maybe it'd be the case that when he had his own kids and shit he'd be fondly remembering this corner of GHHS where all the lockers lined up against one wall.
Kinda dull and unremarkable though. Shit, he hoped he ended up with a better memory than this junkass hunk of steel. Wasn't like he had control over that sort of thing though. His brain was like, some big ass mystery and shit.
Good philosophizing though. He was feeling the work out on his brain muscles, and trying to remember the fleeting moments of cool thoughts and shit that he could try to get inspiration from later. Something about, like- his school locker, or something. He was shutting it, with a clanky slam. He had his Calculus A textbook in one hand, in a shitty awkward grip of three fingers and his thumb that was kinda sore and painful already. He weakly groaned to himself and tossed the book. It narrowly missed the keyboard of the computer lab terminal he'd sat himself at, then he sat himself at the seat. He pulled it in with a lazy drag of his legs.
He was doing a report on proofs and postulates. Verbally proving fundamental calculus identities, at least three. Probably five, if he could figure out, like- how the fuck did you 'write' this shit out? It was math. Math wasn't written. It was done. But he'd figure it out, he had all lunch period. He cracked a knuckle or two and got to work. How to open up the topic? Some shit like 'It is my personal and intellectual speculation that the basic laws of mathematics are derived from integral functions of algebraic expressions'. Big words, all academic sounding.
Demetri focused, and paid little attention to his surroundings as he hunched face first and half into the keyboard.
Blaise
'The further that you get, already. Stubborn skin thickens, an attempt to understand.’
Blaise
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Demetri had been followed. From where, from when, who cares? The real questions were by whom, and why. Both answers would come quickly enough as he felt breath right next to his ear.
"Your week is up."
Blaise kept a firm grip on the back of his chair to keep him from spinning away. They'd dressed for business today; a crisp, white dress shirt, a long flowing navy overcoat with black jeans tightly cinched around their waist by a fine leather belt. The dark chestnut undercut wig they wore was the only thing that could even generously be identified as an accessory. Simple, elegant, to the point. When Demetri finally saw them, they wanted to convey their message clearly. This was not a typical day, and they had none of the playful air that usually surrounded them. Normally their voice was full of flair, but as they whispered in his ear it was flat and monotone, devoid even of their usual accent.
This was not a game. In a brighter mood Blaise might have been impressed by how much of a shift he'd caused. Demetri had, completely by accident, stumbled on one of a handful of things in this life that they handled seriously.
"Where's my fucking money, Demetri?"
"Your week is up."
Blaise kept a firm grip on the back of his chair to keep him from spinning away. They'd dressed for business today; a crisp, white dress shirt, a long flowing navy overcoat with black jeans tightly cinched around their waist by a fine leather belt. The dark chestnut undercut wig they wore was the only thing that could even generously be identified as an accessory. Simple, elegant, to the point. When Demetri finally saw them, they wanted to convey their message clearly. This was not a typical day, and they had none of the playful air that usually surrounded them. Normally their voice was full of flair, but as they whispered in his ear it was flat and monotone, devoid even of their usual accent.
This was not a game. In a brighter mood Blaise might have been impressed by how much of a shift he'd caused. Demetri had, completely by accident, stumbled on one of a handful of things in this life that they handled seriously.
"Where's my fucking money, Demetri?"
"Hold on and let me get it. It's up my ass."
Whoops. He hadn't intended for that one to be so easily turned into a gay joke.
What the hell was Blaise even wearing and why did they look like they were wearing a tent? She, Demetri reminded himself. But with that whole pronouns thing, way Demetri liked to think of it was that it wasn't really any skin off his bones. 'They', anyways. 'They' was fine, 'they' was cool because it technically made perfect sense. It was being used the way the word was meant to be used. No problem-o. Making up new words was the line though, because making up new words was just retarded, like, the existing words aren't good enough? Not enough speshul to go around? ... So, yeah.
They were all up in his personal space. Demetri's operational definition for his personal space was somewhere a few feet short of where Blaise was shoving their ugly shapeless lips. Demetri straightened up, defensively crouching right into the computer desk. He had some distance now, tactical maneuvers accomplished. His head pivoted on his neck, he glared at Blaise from a side angle.
"My week is up as of day after tomorrow." That was how it worked, anyway. Date of last transaction, not first. Anyone who didn't respect this pretty much universal and standardized code- as far as Demetri was concerned, because it just made sense- was just trying too damn hard. "You can drop the Mafia act already."
Demetri casually slouched against the edge of the desk and it pressed into the non-existent fat of his waist. "Besides, I honestly expected you to just steal the money back at some point. I've been watching my wallet and my folk's bank account carefully for the past few days now." And, to clarify, the part about his parent's bank account was obviously not true. Just quip material.
Whoops. He hadn't intended for that one to be so easily turned into a gay joke.
What the hell was Blaise even wearing and why did they look like they were wearing a tent? She, Demetri reminded himself. But with that whole pronouns thing, way Demetri liked to think of it was that it wasn't really any skin off his bones. 'They', anyways. 'They' was fine, 'they' was cool because it technically made perfect sense. It was being used the way the word was meant to be used. No problem-o. Making up new words was the line though, because making up new words was just retarded, like, the existing words aren't good enough? Not enough speshul to go around? ... So, yeah.
They were all up in his personal space. Demetri's operational definition for his personal space was somewhere a few feet short of where Blaise was shoving their ugly shapeless lips. Demetri straightened up, defensively crouching right into the computer desk. He had some distance now, tactical maneuvers accomplished. His head pivoted on his neck, he glared at Blaise from a side angle.
"My week is up as of day after tomorrow." That was how it worked, anyway. Date of last transaction, not first. Anyone who didn't respect this pretty much universal and standardized code- as far as Demetri was concerned, because it just made sense- was just trying too damn hard. "You can drop the Mafia act already."
Demetri casually slouched against the edge of the desk and it pressed into the non-existent fat of his waist. "Besides, I honestly expected you to just steal the money back at some point. I've been watching my wallet and my folk's bank account carefully for the past few days now." And, to clarify, the part about his parent's bank account was obviously not true. Just quip material.
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Blaise eased back and smiled over his shoulder, but there was no emotion in it. He had more spine than they'd expected, which is to say that he had any at all. Maybe he was so used to being bullied that it took more than a break from routine to scare him, or maybe he thought Blaise couldn't do anything to him.
That couldn't be allowed to continue.
There was no pride in that thought. On a personal level Blaise cared for Demetri's opinion even less than they cared for most. If he wasn't a regular in their games they probably wouldn't note his existence in the sea of swaggering man-children George Hunter High had to offer. Gambling was built on a single concept, though: Risk. Risk was the only reason to gamble in the first place. If you had nothing to lose, then you weren't going to make a very interesting player.
Money meant next to nothing to them. They gained it, they lost it, and their circumstances changed very little. Losing some small sum to a dishonest idiot wouldn't bother them. However, Demetri had played like he had nothing to lose, and had lost, and had tried to skip the consequences. Obviously the stakes weren't high enough for him to respect them.
They could fix that.
They gave him a pat on the shoulder before turning to leave. "Next time," they called out, "you will come to me. You will beg me to take what's mine. I hope, for your sake, I'm feeling generous."
That couldn't be allowed to continue.
There was no pride in that thought. On a personal level Blaise cared for Demetri's opinion even less than they cared for most. If he wasn't a regular in their games they probably wouldn't note his existence in the sea of swaggering man-children George Hunter High had to offer. Gambling was built on a single concept, though: Risk. Risk was the only reason to gamble in the first place. If you had nothing to lose, then you weren't going to make a very interesting player.
Money meant next to nothing to them. They gained it, they lost it, and their circumstances changed very little. Losing some small sum to a dishonest idiot wouldn't bother them. However, Demetri had played like he had nothing to lose, and had lost, and had tried to skip the consequences. Obviously the stakes weren't high enough for him to respect them.
They could fix that.
They gave him a pat on the shoulder before turning to leave. "Next time," they called out, "you will come to me. You will beg me to take what's mine. I hope, for your sake, I'm feeling generous."
This reminded him of something... he guessed, if he had to say.
Kind of a stretch, but.
It was like that shit they liked to talk about on /fit/. When they talked about the power of confidence and projection. 'The key to attracting women', supposedly. Simply put, Demetri didn't really attract women. It was probably a number worse than zero because he probably outright repelled chicks. That was obviously a big hit on his confidence, because it was like: 'what kind of loser is this bad around girls' and shit just spiraled from there and he felt like a useless asshole. Incapable of projecting a PowerPoint, let alone masculine and alpha confidence.
So. If he had no confidence, who the fuck was this bitch to have any of their own?
It was just posturing. Asinine posturing, no doubt about it. Hyping up the rumors about themselves until they could get high off their own fumes. Demetri knew what was up. He wasn't an idiot.
His chair spun and his shitty scuffed-blacked sole sneakers clapped against the squeaky tile of the computer room's floor. He grunted out as Blaise continued to stalk away.
"Polite. That the sort of hashtag Tumblrinas are using now? Shitty action movie one liners?" Demetri smirked, probably just to himself. "You don't scare me."
Kind of a stretch, but.
It was like that shit they liked to talk about on /fit/. When they talked about the power of confidence and projection. 'The key to attracting women', supposedly. Simply put, Demetri didn't really attract women. It was probably a number worse than zero because he probably outright repelled chicks. That was obviously a big hit on his confidence, because it was like: 'what kind of loser is this bad around girls' and shit just spiraled from there and he felt like a useless asshole. Incapable of projecting a PowerPoint, let alone masculine and alpha confidence.
So. If he had no confidence, who the fuck was this bitch to have any of their own?
It was just posturing. Asinine posturing, no doubt about it. Hyping up the rumors about themselves until they could get high off their own fumes. Demetri knew what was up. He wasn't an idiot.
His chair spun and his shitty scuffed-blacked sole sneakers clapped against the squeaky tile of the computer room's floor. He grunted out as Blaise continued to stalk away.
"Polite. That the sort of hashtag Tumblrinas are using now? Shitty action movie one liners?" Demetri smirked, probably just to himself. "You don't scare me."
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But Blaise was already gone, even before they had left the room. They'd already said too much. Gotten a little too deep into the role. It was gaudy, if amusing.
That's what it really came down to; even insisting to themself that it wasn't a game was part of the game. If you wanted to be effective you had to slip completely into the skin, no matter how confusing or ridiculous it may look. When Blaise indulged themself with something like this it became reality for a time, no matter how brief that indulgence lasted. The need to punish Demetri would burn bright inside them until it was no longer useful or interesting, and nothing else could overshadow it.
At least until roughly 2:26 PM when they became bored again and forgot about him. Some new obsession had eclipsed their attention, and just as important as the ability to slip in was the ability to slip out. No trite comparison could be made to flipping a switch or taking off a mask or other visual metaphor, because each of those tasks implied some sort of effort. It would take effort to restrain their impulses, while it cost them nothing to lean into them.
Life was easier this way. It lacked accountability.
They forgot about their money, and their threats, and their anger. They wouldn't even remember what they had done until Demetri found them again.
That's what it really came down to; even insisting to themself that it wasn't a game was part of the game. If you wanted to be effective you had to slip completely into the skin, no matter how confusing or ridiculous it may look. When Blaise indulged themself with something like this it became reality for a time, no matter how brief that indulgence lasted. The need to punish Demetri would burn bright inside them until it was no longer useful or interesting, and nothing else could overshadow it.
At least until roughly 2:26 PM when they became bored again and forgot about him. Some new obsession had eclipsed their attention, and just as important as the ability to slip in was the ability to slip out. No trite comparison could be made to flipping a switch or taking off a mask or other visual metaphor, because each of those tasks implied some sort of effort. It would take effort to restrain their impulses, while it cost them nothing to lean into them.
Life was easier this way. It lacked accountability.
They forgot about their money, and their threats, and their anger. They wouldn't even remember what they had done until Demetri found them again.
2:30 PM that day and Demetri wasn't smirking anymore. Hadn't been for a while anyways as of end of lunch period. Final period was history and history was that usual boring shit where old and long dead people were recorded making irrelevant quotables.
--
Lunch period next day was a carefully planned out affair. He was tackling the first bullet point in the agenda. A literal bullet point recorded on his phone's notepad app, which lacked functionality. But whatever when the price tag was zero dollars zero cents.
First bullet point in the agenda was pick up cafeteria lunch. Demetri qualified for reduced price lunch as of three months ago when the engine in Dad's company van had stopped working: Dad had taken out a loan and tightened the purse strings at home to pay off the interest. That was how an honest working man did things, 'course, and Demetri was proud to do his little part.
Not like he liked school lunches anyways, free or not. At the end of line all he had to hand to the stooped and short- all he really saw when he looked her way, all the other details had become irrelevant- lunch lady was a flimsy cartoon of chocolate milk and the voucher card with his picture on it both in one fist. She confirmed the card without even looking at it and Demetri handed her a dime and a nickel.
After that whole business was done with the next bullet point to handle was grabbing his French textbook from his locker. He went on down and did that.
16-32-21.
Same usual pile of scattered papers shoved between books and shit. He wasn't even interested in that sort of thing, describing something he'd seen a thousand times before in his life.
But something was different. That green and white coloration was like a scantron sheet, and Demetri didn't even know what the fuck one of those was doing in his locker. He was pretty confident he'd remember putting something like that in his locker, like... a practice test from Math 2110 down at the community college. Only class he was in with scantrons still. Had to be.
There was something written on it in a really red color. Like, hurt-to-the-eyes red or something.
He glanced the way of his backpack.
No way... Couldn't fucking be.
--
Rest of the bullet points didn't matter. This next one was something he was forced into, and he was positive he wasn't happy about this.
Pretty fucking horrified, in fact.
"Blaise. The fuck is this?"
He kept her distance from her as he charged up to her, and then flailed and staggered his way into hovering nearby.
--
Lunch period next day was a carefully planned out affair. He was tackling the first bullet point in the agenda. A literal bullet point recorded on his phone's notepad app, which lacked functionality. But whatever when the price tag was zero dollars zero cents.
First bullet point in the agenda was pick up cafeteria lunch. Demetri qualified for reduced price lunch as of three months ago when the engine in Dad's company van had stopped working: Dad had taken out a loan and tightened the purse strings at home to pay off the interest. That was how an honest working man did things, 'course, and Demetri was proud to do his little part.
Not like he liked school lunches anyways, free or not. At the end of line all he had to hand to the stooped and short- all he really saw when he looked her way, all the other details had become irrelevant- lunch lady was a flimsy cartoon of chocolate milk and the voucher card with his picture on it both in one fist. She confirmed the card without even looking at it and Demetri handed her a dime and a nickel.
After that whole business was done with the next bullet point to handle was grabbing his French textbook from his locker. He went on down and did that.
16-32-21.
Same usual pile of scattered papers shoved between books and shit. He wasn't even interested in that sort of thing, describing something he'd seen a thousand times before in his life.
But something was different. That green and white coloration was like a scantron sheet, and Demetri didn't even know what the fuck one of those was doing in his locker. He was pretty confident he'd remember putting something like that in his locker, like... a practice test from Math 2110 down at the community college. Only class he was in with scantrons still. Had to be.
There was something written on it in a really red color. Like, hurt-to-the-eyes red or something.
He glanced the way of his backpack.
No way... Couldn't fucking be.
--
Rest of the bullet points didn't matter. This next one was something he was forced into, and he was positive he wasn't happy about this.
Pretty fucking horrified, in fact.
"Blaise. The fuck is this?"
He kept her distance from her as he charged up to her, and then flailed and staggered his way into hovering nearby.
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Smoking, like most enjoyable things in life, was not allowed on the grounds of George Hunter High. They preferred it this way really. It added a bit of rush to their breaks and made sure they looked for solitude before relaxing. Nowhere too private, but enough that any of the busy staff likely wouldn't catch them. So when this lanky, indistinct manchild stumbled his way over along their plume of smoke, it would be too strong to say that they were impressed. Intrigued. Mm. Maybe. Yes. Intrigued, mostly because they had no idea what he wanted. They leaned against a wall adorned with the school's finest dumpster and kept to their cigarette as he trembled with rage, trying to figure out where they'd seen him before. What slight was he hunting them down for? The paper in his hand seemed important from the way he waved it about.
A group project? No, no, they would have kept track of that, too messy to ignore.
Had they tried to ruin any relationships recently? Mm. Nothing of importance. This one didn't seem like the romantic type anyway.
They were drawing a blank, but they took their time staring and puffing away without response. He could wait, especially if they couldn't remember him. After half a minute or so, they stomped out their cigarette. "I don't know. The fuck is it, Mr..." They mimicked a rough version of his protests back to him, but his name wasn't coming to him. The sentence hung in the air for a few moments before they finished it with a dismissive grunt.
A group project? No, no, they would have kept track of that, too messy to ignore.
Had they tried to ruin any relationships recently? Mm. Nothing of importance. This one didn't seem like the romantic type anyway.
They were drawing a blank, but they took their time staring and puffing away without response. He could wait, especially if they couldn't remember him. After half a minute or so, they stomped out their cigarette. "I don't know. The fuck is it, Mr..." They mimicked a rough version of his protests back to him, but his name wasn't coming to him. The sentence hung in the air for a few moments before they finished it with a dismissive grunt.
Demetri hadn't even seen the wisps of Blaise's mouth breathing, shit was too indistinct and hazy, but he'd smelled his way through it alright.
Hiding behind a school dumpster with a cigarette in hand. Shit, Demetri would have whipped out his phone and taken a quick shot. Should've, could've, would've but, like. Chances were he'd get the business end of a fist for trying to blackmail a loan shark to their tent-ass face. He was just being cautious, really.
Yeah, because his hand had lingered on the hem of his phone-engorged pocket but then pulled away. Nervous kinda hand cramp.
Staring match on top of it all. Demetri wanted to say something to break the silence but he couldn't think of anything by the time Blaise started.
"The fuck is," and Demetri's tone continued to generally evolve from the initial outrage: the mirrored outrage, the warbling outrage, and still more stages of punctuated equilibrium to come in the foreseeable future. "... Nh.. This." The evidence was in his own hand but he still fumbled with it, and felt the burn in his cheeks much as he felt the cramping of his digits. He almost hissed at himself. He hated looking like a dumbass, least of all in emergency times like this.
"The fuck," and he hit a good high note on that, to his own mind-snarling frustration. "Is... eh, fuck..." He waved the scantron sheet at their face as if that made his point on his own behalf.
".. You- this, this is a legit federal crime, you know?" Or whatever it legally was, Demetri definitely knew it in how it felt to him, in how rushed his delivery was. "This answer sheet is college property- I could get kicked out over this shit! And the worst part, you know, is that you were kind enough to leave a note attached that definitely proves I'm not responsible, so hey-! Thanks for screwing up, yeah?" He stood his ground. A good step or two back away from Blaise, because if he was close enough to put his hands in their personal space they were close enough to put hands through his.
Hiding behind a school dumpster with a cigarette in hand. Shit, Demetri would have whipped out his phone and taken a quick shot. Should've, could've, would've but, like. Chances were he'd get the business end of a fist for trying to blackmail a loan shark to their tent-ass face. He was just being cautious, really.
Yeah, because his hand had lingered on the hem of his phone-engorged pocket but then pulled away. Nervous kinda hand cramp.
Staring match on top of it all. Demetri wanted to say something to break the silence but he couldn't think of anything by the time Blaise started.
"The fuck is," and Demetri's tone continued to generally evolve from the initial outrage: the mirrored outrage, the warbling outrage, and still more stages of punctuated equilibrium to come in the foreseeable future. "... Nh.. This." The evidence was in his own hand but he still fumbled with it, and felt the burn in his cheeks much as he felt the cramping of his digits. He almost hissed at himself. He hated looking like a dumbass, least of all in emergency times like this.
"The fuck," and he hit a good high note on that, to his own mind-snarling frustration. "Is... eh, fuck..." He waved the scantron sheet at their face as if that made his point on his own behalf.
".. You- this, this is a legit federal crime, you know?" Or whatever it legally was, Demetri definitely knew it in how it felt to him, in how rushed his delivery was. "This answer sheet is college property- I could get kicked out over this shit! And the worst part, you know, is that you were kind enough to leave a note attached that definitely proves I'm not responsible, so hey-! Thanks for screwing up, yeah?" He stood his ground. A good step or two back away from Blaise, because if he was close enough to put his hands in their personal space they were close enough to put hands through his.
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The note was easy enough to read even if the oversized gnat wouldn't stay still. Clear letters. Very neat. You couldn't identify it readily as theirs, but it was something they were capable of at least. Why they'd done it was still a mystery; did they play cards? That seems like a lot of effort to go to over cards. Effort wasn't their style. At least not today. Maybe it was another time. Keeping track was so dull. Whether it was or was not their work, they could appreciate the simplicity:
"I don't know where you got that, but you shouldn't let anyone else see it. Whoever found it did you a favor; see?" They pointed to the message. "It could have been turned into faculty. Whether you dropped it or sold it or left it sitting out like a moron, they could have testified so easily. Relax, Mr..." Again their voice faded off into a silent, bored stare and a cough. "You got away with it. Good job. It's none of my business."
They started to walk away before pausing and holding up a finger. "But whatever you did...don't do it again. The next person to catch you can't be so charitable, mm?"
NEXT TIME A TEACHER FINDS IT
It must have loomed large over his head for him to have gotten so worked up. For all his blustering it sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than he was them. Well. They could work with this. An amusing distraction before class, even if they weren't certain they were responsible. A case this flimsy was demanding to be picked apart. In place of their cigarette they reached into their jacket pocket and withdrew a sucker. Lime. Dum-dum. Poor choice but it would suffice. They preferred to stay occupied when doing business."I don't know where you got that, but you shouldn't let anyone else see it. Whoever found it did you a favor; see?" They pointed to the message. "It could have been turned into faculty. Whether you dropped it or sold it or left it sitting out like a moron, they could have testified so easily. Relax, Mr..." Again their voice faded off into a silent, bored stare and a cough. "You got away with it. Good job. It's none of my business."
They started to walk away before pausing and holding up a finger. "But whatever you did...don't do it again. The next person to catch you can't be so charitable, mm?"
Demetri tracked the lollipop as it entered the picture. Wasn't like Blaise was pulling a shank or one of those prison-type things they probably did in their free time but Demetri was pretty on edge all the same.
"I didn't- did not- sell or have anything to do with that shit.. Only one pair of hands are dirty in this transaction." Demetri wasn't sure he sounded tough enough. He'd tried to really sell all the extra emphasis on his words. Hadn't sounded this shrill since his balls had first dropped, like, two years ago or however long it had been. Hadn't been that wrong.
Where the fuck his brain was going he didn't even know. It was randomly exiting the scene like Blaise herself was trying. And Demetri in all his wise wisdom was just gaping fish-like. That was it, yeah. The whole slack jaw mouth breather thing the kids with the 'sperg operated on. Demetri was fucking it up, and goddamn Blaise for putting him in this situation in the first place. Why the hell had they had to get involved? Demetri hadn't done a damn thing wrong.
"I have no idea what you're trying to pull," Demetri echoed the disbelieving tone of his own thoughts, wounded, vulnerable. Animal screech. "No- no, you can't do this, can't get away with it."
A second passed and Demetri tried to say something of substance.
.
.
.
"I didn't- did not- sell or have anything to do with that shit.. Only one pair of hands are dirty in this transaction." Demetri wasn't sure he sounded tough enough. He'd tried to really sell all the extra emphasis on his words. Hadn't sounded this shrill since his balls had first dropped, like, two years ago or however long it had been. Hadn't been that wrong.
Where the fuck his brain was going he didn't even know. It was randomly exiting the scene like Blaise herself was trying. And Demetri in all his wise wisdom was just gaping fish-like. That was it, yeah. The whole slack jaw mouth breather thing the kids with the 'sperg operated on. Demetri was fucking it up, and goddamn Blaise for putting him in this situation in the first place. Why the hell had they had to get involved? Demetri hadn't done a damn thing wrong.
"I have no idea what you're trying to pull," Demetri echoed the disbelieving tone of his own thoughts, wounded, vulnerable. Animal screech. "No- no, you can't do this, can't get away with it."
A second passed and Demetri tried to say something of substance.
.
.
.
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Shit. When had seconds become minutes?
Or that was how it all was in Demetri's head. Goddamn palms sweaty, goddamn raging justice boner limp. He was the fucking wronged party here. He had all the reason to be outraged but his candle was like...
burning, snuffing out? Did he have a candle? What sort of image was that phrase even supposed to summon forth? And yeah, there his brain went. Meandering somewhere far away from this place called here, because in this particular locale it so happened that Blaise d'Auschwitz was melting his brain out of his skull with her silent, sneering stare and her bone dry frowning lips.
"You..."
Choking breath. His lips were pretty dry. He needed to lick them a little, but he'd look like a fucking tool. But.
He did already. Why was his heart pounding so loud? Could she hear it, fucks sake? Was he really, really about to pussy out when all he had to do...?
Was finish that question?
Don't. Do it.
Don't fucking-
Jesus.
Demetri pulled a ten spot from his wallet with weakly trembling, scrambling fingers and threw it at Blaise with a half-hearted wadding up, so it flew about a quarter of the distance between them. All he could see that whole time? NEXT TIME A TEACHER FINDS IT. He could hear it, he could feel it burning onto his skin.
"I'll get the rest for you after last period." He almost couldn't even hear himself. Was he fucking mumbling?
He had last words. Flippant. Defiant.
Or maybe he was just kidding himself, and it was probably that one when he started walking away while feeling the burn of a glare on his back as he shuffled away.
((Demetri Futscher continued in Watch The Sky))
Or that was how it all was in Demetri's head. Goddamn palms sweaty, goddamn raging justice boner limp. He was the fucking wronged party here. He had all the reason to be outraged but his candle was like...
burning, snuffing out? Did he have a candle? What sort of image was that phrase even supposed to summon forth? And yeah, there his brain went. Meandering somewhere far away from this place called here, because in this particular locale it so happened that Blaise d'Auschwitz was melting his brain out of his skull with her silent, sneering stare and her bone dry frowning lips.
"You..."
Choking breath. His lips were pretty dry. He needed to lick them a little, but he'd look like a fucking tool. But.
He did already. Why was his heart pounding so loud? Could she hear it, fucks sake? Was he really, really about to pussy out when all he had to do...?
Was finish that question?
Don't. Do it.
Don't fucking-
Jesus.
Demetri pulled a ten spot from his wallet with weakly trembling, scrambling fingers and threw it at Blaise with a half-hearted wadding up, so it flew about a quarter of the distance between them. All he could see that whole time? NEXT TIME A TEACHER FINDS IT. He could hear it, he could feel it burning onto his skin.
"I'll get the rest for you after last period." He almost couldn't even hear himself. Was he fucking mumbling?
He had last words. Flippant. Defiant.
Or maybe he was just kidding himself, and it was probably that one when he started walking away while feeling the burn of a glare on his back as he shuffled away.
((Demetri Futscher continued in Watch The Sky))
V8 Vibes:
V7 Vibes: