Fate. A predetermined supernatural power. The will of the universe. Fate is order. It writes, and rewrites, gives and takes. It spins vibrant red strings that flow into the world and connect people who are destined to meet, to love, to share a story...
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I jolt awake, my eyes opening to vacant honey-brown ones. Violently slapping the hand on my shoulder away, I back up in my seat and press myself against the wall. I look around in a frenzy, taking in the brightly lit classroom and the hunched backs of the students in front of me, breathing hard as I try to escape my daze. A second passes, and my math teacher's monotone voice floats into my ear, calming my nerves. Dream. Fuck.
I veer sharply to my right and fix my half-dead bastard of a benchmate with a glare. He doesn't react, keeps his impassive eyes trained on the teacher. Another second passes. "I didn't fucking ask you to wake me up, so don't expect any gratitude, got that?" I couldn't catch much sleep last night because of the shouting, but I hate owing anything to people like him.
His gaze briefly lands on me before flicking back to the front, and the sight of that blankness in Kurumi-senpai's eyes pisses me off. It's impossible that they're so closely related. Her kindness, her vitality-he doesn't have even a fourth of it. Cocky fucker thinks he's too good to grace me with a response.
"Tch." I cross my arms and fix my eyes on the window, the very sight of that loser sending a pang of annoyance down my spine. The near-choking tie, the coarse, chunky, and incredibly itchy-looking ugly light blue sweater, and most of all, the wrongness of Kurumi-senpai's features on his face, all make me feel extremely unsettled. I'm very familiar with his particular breed of assholes. Unfeeling, self-centred, adamant, and cold. Puppets to ambition. Fucking robot.
The teacher drones on, and I don't feel like listening, so I lean forward and distractedly drum my knuckles against the desk before me, ignoring the sting that travels up my fingers, only to catch a slight movement from my right. He's looking straight at my scraped and bruised knuckles, a small crease forming between his eyebrows. I knew it. Weak.
I peel at the raw skin on the back of my hand, satisfaction climbing within me as I watch the crease on his face deepen. A memory flares up in my mind-of my mother pushing my younger body into foreign hands, diverting her eyes from my bloodied knee. I can't look. I can't look. Beads of blood form on my joints as I pluck harder at the wound, a different but more familiar sort of irritation creeping in. Weak.
"Stop."
Shaking fingers suddenly close around my wrist, halting my movements, and I finally raise my head to stare him down. "What are you doing?" he asks impatiently. I twist my hand out of his grip. "Don't touch me," I spit. "Bastard."
He turns his face away, breathing raggedly into his lap. Can't even stomach the sight of a little blood. Fucking loser. A moment later, he lifts his head without looking at me, and I scowl, confused, as I watch his hand shoot up into the air. The teacher adjusts his glasses before giving him the go-ahead. "What the fuck are you-" I hiss, panic seizing my breathing, but he stands up like he doesn't hear my protests at all.
"Sensei, Ren is bleeding," he says, eyes hollow and voice clear. "Please allow him to go to the infirmary."
I almost laugh. This punk never fails to disappoint any of my expectations. He's doing everything she would do. If there's something you can't deal with, send it away. It's as easy as that, right? The teacher's gaze shifts to me. "Ichijo, come here." I do as he says without sparing another glance for the loser. Seriously, just fuck him. Fuck him.
