2.1 | renegade effect (on hold until 2024)

09 | phosphene

p h o s p h e n e : the colors or stars someone sees after rubbing their eyes

***

THE AIR CONDITIONING IS BROKEN.

Cohen sits back in his seat until the small of his back hits fabric, legs stretched out. A baseball cap rests on top of his head and holds wavy hair as it peeks just a bit from the bottom. The volume of conversation rises, a small cacophony of youthful chatter, lingering above his cares and instead settling below where his rib cage ends (which still feels sore from the previous beating he'd taken, god, fuck those people).

It is easy to feel out of place. The electric pulse racing through him paired with the purple and gold string only the two of them can see sends a delightful shiver racing up his spine, a little unwelcome but crushed by the overwhelming weight of colors. Cohen weaves his eyesight through a line of students sitting in front of him and sees the messy collection of study guides and gel pens—a welcome distraction. He feels hot, too, sweat making his hoodie uncomfortable as it sticks to his skin. The center of his palms fill with potent smoke.

As a fill-in teacher's assistant, he knows Scout Taylors is doing the best she can. She's not a graduate student with a degree—Cohen knows all of this, and his stomach drops as he glances at the dark circles from underneath her eyes, sinking further with gradient exhaustion. His soulmate stands at the podium with a laptop balanced on her left hand, a half put-together powerpoint displayed on the screen, an oversized sweatshirt drowning her frame in layers of thick cotton. She stands tall, still, back a bit straighter than usual, tendrils slipping past the elastic and tumbling down in front of her collarbones.

In this aspect, he's more than grateful for the hat. At least now, he can hide his emotions. He can hide that glint in his eyes that screams: I want you, I need you, will you have me?

Cohen wants and wants and wants. He feels it edge above his bones, a constant grinding that leaves him breathless with a dark inkling of desire swirling on his pulse point. She's standing there with a half-glint that shines dangerously, and he thinks, I wonder what that feels like, chest tightening with such longing that it aches. Because maybe he does believe in magic. Maybe Cohen does believe in the gold and purple string attached to their fingers and sonatas in the moonlight and the sensation of blood being wiped clean from his fingertips.

I want you.

I want you like the moon wants the stars.

I want you like a perfect remedy.

He sucks in a breath. Holds it for a few seconds, releases it slowly. Why him? Why now? Are these answers he can find without tearing apart the universe and inspecting the glitch in time?

"Anyone?" Scout is looking at the class. Some students drop their gaze wordlessly to their beat-up sneakers, others still lazily swirling pencils around the tops of their notebooks as they avoid the question. Cohen reaches up and tugs the front of his cap further down his forehead and grimaces as the full heat of the room hits him once again, a bit stronger now with the rising sun. "Please tell me at least someone's been listening. I don't think I have in me to read all of his notes out loud again."

The students laugh amongst themselves, a light atmosphere restored once more. Cohen melts into his seat and keeps his legs crossed. Something tugs at the base of his stomach, and while he might not necessarily know what it is, his subconscious does. It flares with just the right angle, glimmering, boiling like water inside of a pot as the gas engulfs the base. Jimin told him he'd be bored to death ("I know we're killers, but you'll literally want to die") in class, and so far, he's been right.