Unkind

What A Beautiful Boy He Is

As if teaching ideology in English class wasn't ridiculous enough, Keating now is standing on his table. Always with the strange and non-normal methods. Not that Minho is against it. In fact, for once, in his years studying at Welton-Keating is a fresh, new breeze. However, one can only say he enjoys spectating, and not to actually engage in their teacher's antics.

"See, the world looks very different from up here," he'd told them, hands in his pockets. Then he demanded his students to also stand on the table-to go and see for themselves that the things they believe they know aren't always it. That they have to look at it in another way. Another new angle. Perspective. Sure, Keating may have a point, but did Minho really have to stand on a table to do it?

"Come on, Mr. Lee," Keating encourages him, "even though it may look silly, or wrong, you must try."

Thank you for stating why I shouldn't be doing it; Minho thinks to himself.

Nonetheless, he carries on and climbs the table. Minho stares at thin air, until something peculiar catches his eyes-or rather someone. Sam hasn't moved from his seat, arms crossed over his chest and gaze fixated on his desk. Keating calls for him, but he refuses to acknowledge the teacher until he eventually gives up, somewhat sympathizing for whatever reason Sam was looking sullen for.

But Minho doesn't care. Nor he is in any position to, anyway. Sam had always played the victim in every dispute he'd started, and as the president of the academy's student committee, it's gotten quite infuriating to turn a blind eye to it-as per Nolan's behest. When in fact, Sam's father had always been behind his son's exception from the absolute punishment-to send him packing. Minho would hear Sam boast about it to his friends, claiming that he can do whatever he pleases. But, laying low after the fight with Minho would be the wisest decision to make because trying to negotiate the classic forgive-and-forget notion with Minho's father would deem possible only when pigs fly.

"Here, take my hand," Chris offers a hand to him, concern evident on his face. "Everyone else wants their turn too."

Minho looks back and realizes he's caused some sort of traffic. He takes Chris' hand and hops from the table, the wooden platform resonating a thud under his feet.

"Thanks," he smiles at the other boy. He didn't miss the blush spreading on Chris' face though. Then images of the conversation they had from the other night starts to flash inside his head. Mostly of Chris in such short distance that he could feel his breath against his own, and how close their lips were-how close Minho was to winging the inevitable-locking their lips.

Curse himself for being gay.

Curse Chris' genetics for giving him a pretty, and kissable mouth.

Minho can only hope he wouldn't be so keen to devour them when given another opportunity to.

"Boys, you must strive to find your own voice," Keating states, now off the table and gazing up to the others as they take turns to climb the table, "because the longer you wait to begin, the less likely you are to find it at all. Thoreau said, 'Most men lead lives of quiet desperation', but don't be resigned to that-break out!"

Keating keeps encouraging the rest to take the activity seriously-to ponder what he just told them, all the while on top of the table. Minho sits back to watch, catching the amused expressions his classmates' faces display. Not for a single moment he'd seen the same people enjoy attending classes until now.

Soon enough, the bell finally calls an end to the class. To which Keating goes, exclaiming, "there-there you go, Mr. Priske! Thank you! Dare to strike out and find new ground," then he gathers his personal things, put them inside his handbag. Walking towards the door, he adds, "now, in addition to your essays, I would like you to compose a poem of your own-an original work."