Peroxide (Peterick)

I actually love grammar

"Explain." Lindsey's gaze is as contriving as I've seen it, unsuitable for the generally cheerful crunching around her eyes, and it elicits a fluctuating kind of terror within both Dallon and me, broadcasted by our reserved posture inside our parallel chairs as we confront the now conciliatory Ms. Ballato.

"There isn't anything to explain." My legs are becoming nomadic, willing my attention to follow it on its journey around the room, and to any person who doesn't know me, it would seem as though I'm lying — and truthfully, I am.

"Hush," she settles, pinning my mouth shut with a simple sound (it's not like I dare to cross her). "Dallon, what is your bearing?"

Charged by the sudden limelight beating down on him, he omits my anxiety for a priggish grin. "Well..."

"Don't ask him!" I interrupt, like a child hell-bent on getting their way. "He'll warp the story until it favors him!"

"Who's to say you won't do the same?" Lindsey attunes her brow higher on her forehead through the iniquitous silence, prosecuting me for a trained lie that I could never develop without partial verity.

"I don't tell lies."

An incredulous laugh flowers in Dallon's throat, but Lindsey gags him with a poised finger, beseeching me to continue.

"Will I be obliged to take you into different rooms for interrogation, or are you going to be cooperative?"

That threat extinguishes our squabbling, and the woman's mouth grips in endurance.

"Let's start with questions, shall we?"

Dallon and I nod sluggishly, resuming our fight within our peripheral vision so that Lindsey won't come over here and slap us for being so immature.

Put off by her own finesse, Lindsey leans forward onto her knees to obtain a more affable composure. "What launched the schism?"

My attacker exchanges a peculiar look with me, unsure of who will commence the answering process.

"Apparently having a psychologist is something to be ashamed of, according to Dallon," I dictate, stare hollowing out Lindsey's caliber as a distraction so that I can't view an objection from the assailant reclining beside me.

"Never said that," Dallon contradicts, burrowing his feet into the coffee table that's dismembering us from the currently cold-hearted woman. "Just didn't think you'd be the type."

"You've only known each other for a few days," Lindsey protests, bewilderment misting in her chocolate irises, the exact style as Gerard had when he said the same thing. "How do you determine if he's the 'type'?"

Musing percolates Dallon's flesh, an impish gleam mooring his lips upward. "Interesting, isn't it?"

"Hmm?" Lindsey's now even more miffed than she was, and it seems as though Dallon takes pride in her confusion.

"Interesting how I know so much." My attacker's direction aims to earn my recognition, a dart of hostility, only visible to me, nicking my casing.

"Anyway..." Lindsey's vision crosses between Dallon and me, examining the connection. "How did you interpret his remark, Patrick?"

"It was obvious that he was maligning me." I glance over to see a bemused Dallon, shaking his head towards his lap so it appears an internal monologue.

Lindsey is skeptical, depicting an alternate impression. "Was it?"

My hands soar through the air, exclaiming, "He's doing it right now!"