VIOLET SKY, takigawa chris yuu

━ chapter seven

act i

this shouldn't be happening.
( oh but it is. )

chapter seven

❛i kinda want to sit on his lap, is that weird?❜

━━━━━━

With the swift slide of the door, the attention shifts to Amara.

She stands there, equally awkward and guilty, trying to mask her grimace into something like repentance, because the haughty-looking, pinch-faced Seido teacher is glaring at her for the disruption.

It's almost like looking at the Japanese version of her mother.

She suppresses a shudder and quickly and politely states her piece, trying to make an appeal. She has a late slip from the office but she already knows this teacher does not like her — a student who, in the teacher's eyes, has the nerve to be late on the first day of classes.

It reminds her of the disruption that Seido has caused, despite how well the students have managed to blend.

Chris isn't the only problem coming from them, she thinks grouchily, listening to the teacher lecture her on punctuality and orderliness — Amara's skirt is slightly wrinkled — and casting furtive glances at the other students in 3-C.

She sees Chiyo has given her spot up to Hatanaka and she can't be too incensed about it because Hatanaka is really sweet and Amara doesn't recognize any of her friends in this class — aside from Chiyo.

. . . Fine.

But her resignation turns back into why me? when she sees that the only free spot is next to Chris, at the far back.

The teacher finally releases her from the humiliation party, a few of the students — ones from Seido, she concludes, since she doesn't recognize them — snickering quietly at her expense. Mercifully, her Machida classmates remain quiet and impassive, allowing her to scamper to the back with at least a fraction of her dignity intact. Chris moves the messenger bag sitting on the chair for her to sit down. She reluctantly sends him a grateful look and wonders, briefly, why no one snatched the opportunity to sit beside him.

He and the other pretty boys from his team are going to be making waves amongst the student body at Machida, she's sure of it.

Not to mention, he isn't dressed in the same informal manner that she's been seeing for the past months. No, he's in the school-mandated white button-up and tie with slacks; the thing most out of place is his hair, gelled back except for two strands. It's a good look, she admits, but she thinks she prefers his hair down.

The teacher resumes instruction, not without sparing her another disapproving look.

She keeps her bag on her lap, pulling out her pencil case and rummaging for a couple sheets of lined paper.

Chris is subtly evaluating her, chancing glances at cautious intervals. She's not quite sure what he's looking for and the fact of that seems to crawl under her skin and itch until heat settles in her face and the room grows stuffy.

"Stop judging me," she mutters.

"I'm not," he disagrees, his voice alluringly low; she suppresses a violent shiver and shuffles through her bag more hastily. "I'm just . . . forming my own thoughts."

You owe him nothing, you owe him nothing, you —

Even the persistent rational trail of thought is nothing against the indignation struck across her pride.