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vi. ink

It's in Physics, later that very day, that she runs out of paper. He sees out of the corner of his eye how she flips through her workbook, finally shaking her head and decisively propping her elbow up on the table, setting the sharp black nib of the vintage fountain pen against her fair skin.

Mr Joplin continues to drone on about subjects Lockwood has long since permanently established in his brain, like concepts of special relativity. They've been rehashing said subject over and over again and Lockwood, of course, has the whole thing down to Science. (So to speak.)

The dark-haired teen sighs and stares at his workbook, but he's too bored to actually do anything but sit there and complain in his thoughts about how bored he is. A glance at his silver wristwatch leads to him making the discovery that the lesson goes on for ten more minutes.

Great.

He lazily answers a few questions in his book, with his hand tilted so much that his methodical print turns cacographic and disorderly. It takes about thirty seconds for listlessness to still his chaotic script and turn him still again.

Looking up, he realises their teacher has once again gone off on a tangent, and is now explaining his good days as a businessman to the students, all of which are wearing varying degrees of a vigorously apathetic expression.

George, who sits in front of Lockwood, turns slightly and rummages through his bag, popping the skull on his desk and leaning back, examining the sharp, inert face. The teacher, obviously, doesn't notice.

Diagonally behind Lockwood, a glance reveals Lucy's figure, which is sharply outlined by the summer sun shining through the window, rendering her profile to a dark relief. She's still sitting in the same position, her pen gliding soundlessly over her skin like a dancer on an ice rink. Stylised flowers and vines wrap around her wrists, and birds of paradise are juxtaposed with elegant snakes.

Flat and one-dimensional, black and white, yet more animated than the whole classroom. Lockwood watches her furtively for a while, until she glances up at the board. He follows her line of sight to the projector, which is now for some reason showing a Calla Lily in full bloom, and the teen briefly wonders if he's found the wrong class and somehow ended up in Bio.

(Then he realises that Mr Joplin has been talking about the significance of Lilies in the life of a funeral director and relaxes.)

Looking back at Lucy, he watches her slowly construct a curly flower beneath her right wrist, giving it slender, keen leaves that mirror the ones their teacher is gesturing to. For some enigmatic reason, he is no longer bored.

He tunes into the lesson as Mr Joplin slaps his hands together, finally getting back on track. The old faculty member walks to the front of the classroom, announcing: "All right. As you know, we have one more partnered research project which will test your ability to produce an informational board given a limited time frame and your co-operation skills. I've already decided on the pairs, so I expect you all to get the highest grades possible."

Lockwood rolls his eyes. Oh, really. And what would we be writing on… the relativity of how your childhood stories have the ability to slow time right down? He slips his workbook back into his bag, in preparation for the bell to ring.

He doesn't like co-ed projects. Most times, he will suggest (or doggedly insist) on a post-school study session at the local library to organise their thoughts and board, then divide up who will type which paragraphs. In the end, both him and his partner will do their own thing and bring the printed sheets of paper back to school. Voila, one assignment ready for marking.

Totally retreating from society has its drawbacks after all… He's never been much of a team player. Even when he is working on a project with George, there is always some lingering awkwardness between them, an invisible barrier that Lockwood knows he has constructed himself. (It's necessary in order to conserve his mask.)

So, he's not looking forward to an afternoon of research together with a random stranger from his class whom he probably never had the curiosity to notice before. Come to think of it, who will he be paired-

"Lucy Carlyle and Anthony Lockwood."

…What?

He turns to her in disbelief and she's propped both her elbows on her desk, staring at him with that same deadpan expression, her fists gathered beneath her chin. The arms of her pea coat hang limply, exposing ruffles, twirls, flowers, borders, feathers, skulls, stylised ghosts and animals – a black-and-white landscape of pure spirit, of life.

She tilts her head at him slightly. (In another situation, on any other girl, it would have looked coy, coquettish, in fact, but with her invariable expression, it has an unnerving effect.)

And then the bell rings, and he sort of waits for her to say something sassy, or just cuss him out for her stupid luck, because Lucy Carlyle is by no means a clement girl…

She stands up, and, slinging her messenger bag over her shoulder (which makes the tattoos almost come alive) walks toward him.

"I'm feeling peckish. Let's discuss this over hot chocolate, shall we?"

His jaw drops before he can help himself.

(Her expression is brazenly rident all of a sudden.)

...It's too cliche, isn't it.

Review Replies:

Mayflowers123: Ta dah, I guess? I dunno, it seems a little fast. :/

Addicted to fandoms: Thanks! :D Here you go!

Merci, à bientôt! Review, s'il vous plaît! OvO