Taste and Touch

1

Perth Tanapon's fist visibly clenches on top of his desk when the faint scent of cinnamon hits his nose.

He doesn't even have to look up.

Fucking Santa walks into the lecture hall, down the steps, past the rows of students, and takes his usual seat in the middle, right side.

Perth hates him.

Hates the insufferable know it all and his massive five subject notebook, along with his two pens.

Always two.

Always on the left side.

What kind of notebook even is that?

Santa fucking writes in it throughout the entire lecture whenever his hand isn't in the air and his stupid mouth isn't already answering the professor's questions.

It looks like a torture device.

Jesus Christ.

And who the fuck needs two pens?

Fucking Santa, that's who.

Perth hates his annoyingly big brown eyes.

Hates how he can clearly see the different shades of brown from all the way at the back of the lecture hall. Hates the way Santa's dark, slightly messy hair falls over his forehead, hiding just enough of his face to make Perth want to know what he'd look like if he pushed it back himself.

Hates the soft curve of his lips, usually covered in some stupid lip balm that makes them stand out against his skin.

Hates that he remembers the exact white shirt Santa wore two Fridays ago.

Hates that he remembers the way it fit over his shoulders.

Hates that he notices things like that.

Especially when he has no business noticing anything about fucking Santa.

Santa's entire existence is offensive.

Insulting, even.

Perth glares at the back of his head.

"You're doing it again."

Ohm's voice comes from beside him.

Perth doesn't look over.

"Staring at your everyday first period fantasy," Ohm drawls before correcting himself. "Actually, terrifying him."

Perth doesn't bother answering.

It's a waste of five fucking seconds.

He leans back in his chair, breaking the candy in his mouth in half. He pushes it against his cheek, rolling it around with his tongue.

His eyes drift back to Santa.

Hates how he watches him wrap his lips around the straw of his iced coffee.

"Anyone?"

Their professor asks the question like he does every day.

And, like every day, Santa's hand shoots into the air.

The professor smiles.

Perth bares his teeth.

Fucking teacher's pet.

"Mr. Pongsapak."

Santa answers.

And the sound of his voice nearly makes Perth snap his pen in half.

Perth waits until class is dismissed.

He watches Santa carefully pack his notebook into his bag, tuck his pens into the small compartment on the side, pick up his half finished coffee, and turn toward the aisle.