A rose could never be judged for its beauty. An alluring scent, passed on from lover to lover and marked as a flower of elegance. Blood red petals and an inviting bright green yet sharp stem supporting it. Let it lay upon a grave, for it marks a sign of respect and grief when it wants to. A rose will always stay the same, may it invoke the core feelings within you. Or perhaps, if you must, let it fall from your palm and lay back in the dirt and soil forgotten and open to shrivel up and fall apart.

An ache in your heart as you watch something so beautiful change.

An ache in his heart as he grieves for something that isn't there, that never has been.

The cops weren't initially informed of his disappearance until the school called, turning into a missing person's report. They checked high and low, searched all throughout the city. But when they came up blank there wasn't much hope left. They tried contacting his parents, but they didn't pick up the phone even after calling more than once.

A seven year old had been abducted, the police claimed, a seven year old was taken and Roseville lost a resident. The heroes of Lucent Tower gave their little speeches, gave their words of reassurance and then stuffed a 50 dollar bill in their pockets and went on with their day. And just like the heroes of New York, residents of Roseville stopped caring. The report got dismissed and authorities stopped trying to find the boy, saying it was a lost cause.

But was it really a lost cause when they found him a whole year later?

Out of breath, hair muddled, slight case of frostbite from wandering around without proper clothing in the winter.

They were able to get his body to heat back up to a reasonable temperature, but otherwise it was off to the orphanage when they declared his parents not capable of taking care of him.

And two years later around this same time, ten years old and slightly less malnourished, his heart still aches the same.

He'll never know why his heart aches so much around this time or why the orphanage caretakers give him looks of pity while every other kid exudes joy. Despite it not being that long he forgets every now and then why he was left stumbling around in those snow inundated woods, why his body felt picked and prodded at. A distant memory in the back of his head was hard to access, all he could register was how cold he was, how close to death the people who found him said he was.

He never understood the excitement around putting up a tree from outside and decorating it with lights. All the talk about Santa, a man he had seen briefly on TV. A man in a bright red outfit breaking into your house in the middle of the night to deliver wrapped presents, definitely did not sound like a hazard. The songs that the orphanage blared to keep the kids in spirit, while Terro crumbled and moped in a dark corner losing his spirit.

He'll never know why Christmas was so important, so happy-go-lucky and cheery. He saw the 25th of December as just another day of the year, more time spent sleeping in a ratty bed with bed sheets drenched in filth and bedbugs at the ready to feast on his flesh for a midnight snack.

Ms. Edith often offered him new sheets, but Terro always declined without hesitation. He'd grown to get used to the rough effect it had on his skin when he slept on it, a new sheet would just irritate his skin even more. There were also times where he felt bad about asking for new things from her, so it wasn't abnormal for his lips to stay sealed.

The orphanage didn't have much funds, half of everything was either falling apart or straight-up broken. And with no money to replace things in copious amounts, you weren't to take anything for granted. The kids wore clothing until they had rips and tears in them, and most didn't even get replacements and just kept the clothing that was drastically ripped and torn beyond repair.

Terro had a few wardrobe pieces that were like that, almost all of his 'good' clothing missing or stolen by other kids that had got access to his bags. They couldn't afford having separate rooms so each room contained 4 beds, and with not much room for closets they were left to stash their belongings under or on their beds with them.

He could remember for the longest time just watching them take his stuff but never intervening. He'd look on with a dry look and hardly any movement, just a slight blink but he was so still it was a mystery if he was even breathing. He didn't speak often, only spilled words from his lips when he had to speak to a caretaker, so he never spoke up for himself.

The kids called him weird, they called him all sorts of things but half of the words he either didn't know what they meant or he didn't care enough to focus on them. He was grateful they were never physical with it, but that didn't mean things couldn't start to change. He was small, but undoubtedly nimble. Fists weren't an option when you were small in size but he still had speed on his side, good thing to know speed didn't leave him for dead.

It must've gotten noticeable. His avoidance of other kids must've been the reason for the pitying looks then, that had to be it.

"Terro, it doesn't hurt to speak up for yourself." He remembered Ms. Edith voicing her concerns to him one afternoon after lunch.

He looked at her cautiously, arms crossed over his chest as he slowly nodded.

"They'll keep walking all over you otherwise." She said once more, concluding the conversation there.

He thought he'd test out his new silver tongue, a little raw from not being used but he could manage.

The group of kids that liked to gloom his day because they're just that great had just trashed all his school work, and all he could do was watch. He didn't really like school work anyway, it hurt his brain in several ways and he preferred to be sleeping right now. It's fine, maybe there's some scotch tape that he can piece his worksheets back together with, no need to get tempered.

But it was the more he watched them tear apart his things that his fist clenched and his nails dug crescent moons into the palm of his hand.

"You gonna say anything, rat?" He could recall one of the kids saying, but his eyes kept glued to all of his things on the ground.

He finally looked up at them. They were older than him which meant they were also taller and much stronger than he was at merely 10 years old, maybe they should get the hint and pick on someone their own size.

"Well? It's less fun when you're silent." The same kid pestered.

So they wanted a reaction out of him? He'll just give them more than what they were asking for.

"You guys should try picking on someone your own size, I did nothing wrong to you." In the spots his voice would usually crack, it stayed smooth.

He reached down to grab what was left of his stuff, curling his fingers around his books. He didn't catch their expressions as he was leant down, so he continued.

"We all can't get what we want. I can't get a moment to breathe and you guys can't seem to get parents that love you enough to adopt you." His lips formed the words with confidence, as he began to look up from his pile of school books.

But it all faded to black.

Cold, inky black.

His body felt like it weighed nothing, and yet he felt heavier than a skyscraper.

He felt like he was swimming through the dark crevices of his mind as his body laid slack, no sense of mobility.

He felt himself get farther and farther away.

He felt himself slip through quicksand.

But then he could hear his heart thump again, he could smell.. chemicals.

And he woke up.

A frown didn't look so good on Ms. Edith's face, her pointed yet worried glance casted down on him where he was positioned on the hospital bed. His head, two pillows stuffed behind it to reassure support, ached. His face felt like it was blistering, as the heat gathered and rushed to his cheeks as he looked away.

But she didn't look away from him, she only let out a dejected sigh.

His eyes flew back to her after a moment of suffocating silence, and his heart crashed against his ribcage so furiously he felt it would beat right out of him if he didn't slow his breathing. He could feel the tremble crawl up his spine and the slight shudder that would build up, the ache on his face still, but a prominent line drew itself clear through his cracked lips.

A disheartening frown to mirror Ms. Edith's.

As she pulled the hospital chair closer with a fondant, yet subtle screech on the floor, her eyes glistened. Looking into her eyes Terro could see himself. He could see himself looking back through a shattered glass view, a murky sky narrowing its eyes at him. A rainy day where the grass becomes mush and you feel the sudden chill of November, a breeze trail up your arms where goosebumps mold themselves and a chatter of your teeth to fight off the cold that never goes away.

It's weird, because he can still feel that same breeze even when he looks away. He feels the hair stand up on his arms, but shuddering can only bring him looking back to his caretaker.

She had her hand rested on the edge of the bed next to him, almost hesitantly. That little weight on the bed next to him gave him the strength to breathe again, the strength to fight off the cold and escape a cold breezy winter day. It gave him the strength to ignore the sound of a heart monitor that thumped from behind him, or an IV drip dug into his arm.

He moved his none IV drip stabbed arm with a wince, pushing himself closer only slightly.

A winter's cold breezy day had no weight on him anymore, frostbite could never in a million years stand a chance. No matter what needles were dug into him or what fist came crashing down on him, he could will himself enough to read the expression on her face. A look of worry and concern, of surfacing tears and fear of the unknown.

She cared.

And a small smile could find itself crawling up his lips, eyes glistened over.

Because as much as it ached to even blink, Ms. Edith was no longer the only weight on the edge of the bed.

A small, agile hand found itself resting atop hers

He could remember looking up from where his hand sat on top of hers. She looked in more pain than ever as she started to mouth a teary 'why' in reference to what even happened. Why he was laying on the hospital bed, why he still felt the pain circulating around his face.

But it didn't take much for him to catch on, because he himself already knew the answer.

And cracked lips learned how to operate again.

"I spoke up for myself. I did it because you asked."

And that's when the floodgates for Ms. Edith decided to open, as she sobbed and looked away.

Time could only tell, but maybe just this once let it melt the snow. The chill in the air would no longer be felt.

And maybe that's all it took. A punch to the face and laying stiff and sore in a hospital bed, to learn that the ache in his heart wasn't gonna be forever. That he could push it to the back of his head and not worry about what never worried about him. A frozen over heart now finally able to beat properly.

Beyond repair, sure. Loose screws chucked away and systems collapsed, wires missing and gears not turning properly. But he'd risk the winces of stitches.

An ache in your heart as you watch something so beautiful change.

And a bandage over his heart as he learns that not everything has to be fixed to work properly.

__________________

Present moment
______________

 

The teen huffed. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

The door didn't want to budge. Key shoved into its slot and hands planted firmly on the knob with a grip boasting capabilities of hanging on through a tornado, Terro went to war and back trying to fight the door open. He's responsible, not in the sense you would call an adult with a normal patience meter responsible, but he fits the bill nicely.

But then you take into account the amount of bills that have been piling up over the months from him refusing to pay the full price of living in his apartment. He's honestly convinced working at a hotdog stand would dispense more money in his pocket than being a barista would.

Okay, so maybe he isn't that responsible. He pays only a handful of everything and leaves the rest for when he feels like it, call it prioritizing the things he can afford.

"What is it, barricaded? It shouldn't be this hard to open the damn thing." This time he took it upon himself to ram his whole body into the door, sighing when there was no avail other than his body reeling with soreness afterwards.

At a point he had to use the wall as support, his limbs felt overworked and every time he even as much as moved black dots clouded his vision. He could feel the sweat dripping off his clammy forehead and the inky strands of hair doused in grease that clung to the surface of it. His face was completely reddened and he was overheated, he couldn't think silently without his continuous staggered breathing being the core ambiance.

He was glad he was the only person in the hallway at that moment, it served to save some of his dignity. But dignity wasn't really his main focus here, a good fixup of his door just opening like normal and him being able to crash on his janky loft bed would be just exquisite. The way the bed creeks and shudders under his weight despite how thin he is was always something to look forward to, a thing that racked his brain as a sense of familiarity.

In that given moment he wanted to cry. He wanted to curl up into a ball and cry until he either passed out or couldn't remember anything. If he can't get into his apartment he'll just make amends with the floor and learn to adapt to waking up with a sore back every morning, but you won't catch him in an alleyway heckling people to give him spare change. Sleeping outside doesn't allow you to control the temperature, and he enjoys a much more cozy sleep than one that offers frostbite as a gift for the morning to come.

Frostbite was unpleasant, the way your fingertips would lose all circulation and your skin would turn blue from the restricted blood flow. Surprisingly the reason for it actually makes sense, your body is drawing all of the blood away from the more useless areas of your body and directing the blood to your vital organs to keep you alive.

Which I mean that's cool, worth taking note of. Definitely hitting up the educational category, that's always neat.

But I digress.

The hum of the downstairs lobby caught in his ears as he tried at the doorknob again, only responding with the clink of a lock in place and the enraged groan of the teen.

He'd lived in this apartment for about a year now, coming on two. This was notably the third time he had gotten locked out of his apartment, but the sickening sound still haunted him, reverberating in his ears long enough to irk at him. His face took to heating up as he took a step back, letting out a breath that rocked his frame. His arms, hardly thicker than pipe cleaners, wouldn't be robust enough to wrench the door off its hinges - not like any normal person would be able to do that anyway, so it was made clear that he couldn't overcome his little ordeal with brute force.

But oh, where should he look? Not his best interest to go probing through a supply closet that probably houses the corpses of dead insects, because when was the last time this place even had a janitor.

Two lefts and one right brought him to a burgundy door, a sign reading in bolded letters 'don't open, knock' hanging on for its dear life only supported by thin string and a poorly screwed in nail. Terro, a mocking chuckle erupting from his throat, entertained the idea so willingly of him being in the same position as that sign. Hung so high yet dangling so low, sign having a bit of an indentation surrounding the words 'don't' and 'knock' where you could see the inner layer of the wood - spruce wood if he had to guess considering how light it registered on his eyes. And even if said eyes veered carefully towards the sign and read its words intently, it was just as sudden as for him to reach out and curl his boney fingers around the doorknob.

His grasp kept firm even if the smells that poked from under the door were disorienting.

A smell so retched, strong enough that the white cloud that trickled out from under the door, that curled and twisted, circulated from under him to enter his oxygen bubble and for his eyes to glisten. He could feel his eyes water over at the herbaceous stench, herbs that seeped into his airways and made it hard to breathe. His lungs didn't seem to want to function the way they're supposed to as his hand ripped off the doorknob and came up to his mouth and nose to shield it from any more smoke getting in.

A pained, half-suppressed cough dashed violently up and out of his chest, just barely muffled by his hands as his still watering eyes shifted back to the door. He contemplated backing away, maybe locating a different opportune or means of getting himself back into his hellish apartment without having to challenge himself not to get instant lung cancer.

Would've been the dream, however he knew the fire escape was too debilitating to carry his weight and despite his courage and determination to not sleep through the night on carpeted flooring in a very public and open hallway, that was just his unreasonable side speaking. It often tends to linger its head around the corner freely when he's trying to make logical decisions.

He'd rather climb up a shaky staircase that would be bound to collapse from under him than to hold his breath long enough to ask for a spare key. Now to anyone else the former sounds like a drastic take for hating the smell of cigarettes, but when it comes down to it he doesn't think his lungs would be able to take it.

But, to his own testament, he does seem to have his head screwed on and adjusted at the right angle.

Blinking the nearing tears away he removed a part of his hand crafted shield and threw it onto the doorknob, ripping it open the second the pads of his fingers could touch the smooth wood. And oh golly — oh mother of everything distasteful and wrong, mixed in with a dollop of disgust — his lungs were now burning and his whole esophagus felt as if a container of lighter fluid had just been harshly poured into it.

His breaths became more ragged behind his hand, soon joined by his other hand, as he squinted his eyes to force the brewing tears from spilling out. The more he stepped in the more it became toxic to breathe, and one little search around the room was enough to make his lungs feel as though they've crusted up and turned a smoky black from exposure alone.

Ashtrays and cigarette remains all sat strewn candidly around the uncomfortably small office, and if you thought it got worse you're damn right, a work desk overclouded with mountains of cigarettes was made very apparent the second his lanky legs walked themselves in.

The sign on the door was a complete reflection of what the entirety of the inside looked like, thrown about and hard to look at - mainly because of the clouds of smoke and the eye watering business, but visually the place still looked terrible.

The paintings that were hung up on the walls weren't even really hung up, either hanging sideways or flat-out taped to the wall in an uncaring manner. Multiple piles of garbage bags idly gathered in the back wall of the room furthest from the work desk which was facing the door.

And of course, his landlord.

A very homeless looking landlord.

The little adjustable lamp on his desk showered enough light to showcase his bored expression, an annoyed one at that, holding a cigarette off to the side.

His flaky white curls of hair sprinkled like drizzled cake frosting on his head, and his eyes looked straight at him with a molding look that mustered ire served fresh and with a side of 'please get the fuck out.'

But atlas, it took Terro's eyes one more circle around to finally come to terms with the fact that yes, this was really happening, his landlord probably had lungs of coal and he was coming to him about his locked door as if ignoring the scenery around them

But it helped to get his mind off of the abysmal smell. Because holy shit - maybe air freshener would do this place some good. Admittedly he hated the smell having grown up in an orphanage that relied on it religiously, but he could handle the artificial aromas of fruit more than he could handle cigarette burns in his throat.

It took a gulp, more than actually. It took a look to the door, a shove of both of his hands into his jeans' pockets, and a scrunch up of the face as he eyed that mountain of cigarettes again.

His lips parted, even though he dreaded what would enter in afterwards.

"So.. I take it, you smoke?"

Small, not hard to pronounce and easy to roll off the tongue.

It took a second for his landlord, whom he found out upon first moving in was named Randall but he just didn't care enough to memorize it in the moment, to finally acknowledge him verbally.

"Can I help you?" Eyes sharp like daggers narrowed onto his, clearly not leaning into the humor and instead opting to have more of a biting tone. Well then, great first impressions.

"You can, actually. You could start with getting rid of the tobacco smell." He sassed quietly, eyes back to wandering around.

This seemed to strike a nerve in the man ahead of him, no matter how small the comment was. The grip on his cigarette almost seemed to crush it, and his stare only seemed to get harsher and harsher.

Through acidly yellow gritted teeth, "Didn't the sign say to knock before entering?"

"It did, however I opened the door," Terro turned to the side and exaggeratedly gestured to the very clearly open door, lord almighty he felt bad for the other residents of the complex for now having to endure the smell because they probably could with how putrid it was. "and I think we both know that I did not give a shit about what the sign said."

"And so you think it's alright to just walk right in?" The man huffed.

"Buddy, pal, the facts are laid right in front of you. If I didn't think it was okay I wouldn't have walked in, are we on the same page here?" The words left the teen's tongue bitterly, but it was posed more like a genuine question than anything.

The man — Randall, his mind tried suggesting — took to shuffling things around on his desk instead of staring.

Terro was quiet for a good few seconds, expecting a retort but when matched with silence his posture laxed a little. He sighed, crossing his arms over his chest as he leant up against the wall. Unfortunately for him the walls were caked and infused with smoke, so the second his back touched the wall some ash got onto his windbreaker. He didn't make a fuss about it, but it didn't stop him from immediately trying to scrub it off with his hand either.

"What do you want?" His landlord's voice piped back up, which made Terro instantly stop what he was frantically doing to look back up.

The thought sat persistent on his mind and the words clung on to the edge of his tongue as the gears and cogs worked furiously to push out syllables. When faced with reality he froze, and took a minute dissecting his internal thought process. A quick theory suggested bringing up his whole 'locked out' situation would be embarrassing, but the other half rolled out the words anyway.

"A spare key." Three words, and his mind was so worked up about that?

"What-" The now befuddled man opened his mouth to speak.

"Spare key. Your shitty ass door locked on me and now I can't get back in. I came here because I figured you would have a backup copy of mine, it's all I need and I'll be out of your hair." He worded slowly.

The man groaned and pushed up from his chair, walking over to some cabinet pushed up in the corner with the garbage bags that Terro hadn't noticed until now. And in the shadowy, unlit distance he could hear the sound of drawers being pulled open and slid shut. It didn't take long before footsteps started nearing their way toward and eventually Randall came into his line of sight again.

"Don't lose it, or you'll give me a reason among many others to evict you." He jabbed the key carelessly into the teen's chest, not even giving him time to grip onto the key before letting go and starting in the direction of his chair.

Terro scoffed, but with ease caught onto the key before it could fall to the nasty ground - just thinking about the germs that probably swam around in the carpet was enough to make him shudder in disgust as he walked out and pulled the door closed behind him.

The key itself wasn't interesting looking, just plainly silver with a few ridges. It was small in his calloused hands, he can honestly understand now the ease that is losing your key.

And as he walked the way back to his door and fiddled with the key, he grimaced at just the thought of even trying to sleep.

The thought plagued him, ate at him, devoured him whole despite not having much meat on his bones to feast on.

But after a long week of stress, maybe it would serve him some good to attend school.

To see Darren.

___________________

 

Roseville High was what hell would look like if rebuilt on earth. A nice school perhaps, fancy doors and a giant parking lot, windows that swallowed up a good portion of the walls they were plastered onto. But what the school made up for outside with expensive brick walling didn't necessarily mean it would make up for what goes on inside.

The backside of the school looked quite terrifying, flipped over picnic tables and trash just littered around with no guarantee of where it would land. And now that it was coming on to winter everything was covered in a thick layer of snow.

Nearing winter time, the teachers refused to keep the inside heated, practically allowing the students to freeze to death under their scrutinizing gaze.

It was a giant maze disguised as a school, there were more spare classrooms than actual primary classrooms. They had to hand you over a map when you first attended the school, otherwise you'd be left stranded for a couple of hours or more before a teacher would encounter you and yell at you to get to class.

Terro's first priority above all was checking in with the front desk, and so that's what he did.

Upon walking to the entrance of the front office, he watched as another kid stormed out. Terro wasn't exactly a morning person, and nor exactly was he a morning person when he was late of all things, but that sophomore kid really made him doubt his annoyance with the situation.

He was annoyed at the much more simple things in life, like how at the cafeteria the vending machines refused to work and served up quite possibly the worst vending machine snacks. The chips were always stale, also just not enjoyable. He hated looking like a total maniac as he'd bang on the glass screaming different alterations of "You piece of fucking shit!"

He always wondered how the glass didn't break, he banged pretty hard. Must be the extensional dread in his life coming to embody things as a means of reprimanding him for all the things he's done.

The receptionist looked up at him, blowing out an exasperated sigh.

"Name?" Followed by the clacking of a keyboard.

"Terro." Spoke the ravenhead in question.

"Last name?" The clacking paused, and the woman looked up.

"Vasher." He tapped his foot, eyes darting over to the clock that hung above the door.

Period 2 just ended, shit. He was not looking forward to gym class.

"And what's your excuse for being late?"

"Uhh,' He paused, taking a moment to sit down in one of the chairs by the window. "Bus. The bus came late, that's why." His voice grew distant.

Her eyes flicked to the computer and then back up at him. She looked conflicted, doing another double take of the computer screen. "It.. says here you don't take the bus."

His foot tapping faltered.

"I think I slept in then."

She stared down at him, but inevitably shook her head and started typing something out on the computer. "Just head to class."

Without having to tell him a second time he got up from his chair and proceeded out the door, giving the receptionist a little wave. Because yeah, he is that person.

 

------------------

The locker room was, well, a locker room. He closed the door behind him and kept his eyes glued to the floor. Quiet chatter found itself buzzling in the locker room, laughter and the sounds of locker doors slamming shut to fill in as a consistent after tone. He wasn't a big fan of the whole changing in front of everyone policy, would rather just pick a fight with Trey Keller even though he knew his bulky frame would send Terro into an early grade.

You would think that doing his.. nighty routines would add significantly to his complexion, but that couldn't be more far from the truth. If anything it took more away than gave. He lost time, lost weight, lost a perfectly good sleep schedule, which not that anyone cares but he depended on that sleep schedule to keep him sane.

A little bit of pity muscle wasn't gonna do jack shit against the likes of Trey Keller.

The dream is that you can hope however, but hope doesn't really exist.

Because fuck that.

Pulling open his locker door, because of course they didn't allow them to have proper locks, he just grabbed whatever attire he had stuffed in there. Plain shorts and a tank top, he can do that. He can most certainly do that, beats the gross and uncomfortable texture of sweat pants rubbing up against his sweaty thighs.

Tugging the items on really made him hyper aware of his paper-thin arms. He was aware before, but now it just made things a whole lot worse. He searched around to see if anyone else was looking, breathing a little heavier than he was before. Nobody was looking in his direction, nobody. Nobody even cared to throw a glimpse in his direction but he still surveyed the room.

It was always interesting to watch people. He'd never admit to judging people's appearances based on their clothing choice, but it just felt like something he did on impulse. Just like the quarters he picked up off the floor and claimed was good enough currency to pay his bills for the month, he did this as well on impulse and he was not guilty at all.

Plus, look at it this way, it was only an innocent little observation.

The locker room wasn't even hot but he felt like he was cooking, a trail of sweat running down his forehead.

He sweats, sometimes sweats too much and he's not even carrying out physical activities.

He almost thinks he sweats as he watches everyone else race out of the locker room, ready and geared up for gym class.

But he just stood there, eyes panning back over to his locker.

Maybe he could just hide in the locker room, nobody realistically would know until they all came back at the end of the period.

But he knew, dreadfully, that he had to go out. Hated the reality of it, but it was school.

 

___________________________________

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
____________________________________

 

His eyes travelled across the page, soaking in the words broadly. Something about the way metaphors and symmetry spoke to him far beyond just words on paper. He could remember as a child when the stories about monsters under your bed or a wardrobe opening up into a whole new world captivated him. He could remember crawling up into his tremulous twin sized bed at the orphanage and hiding under the blankets, using only the provided light from his side table to read the various books he gathered to himself.

It was a childlike giddiness that followed him into his teenhood every time he opened up a new book, every time he smelled that new book smell or even flipped open a book he already read countless times prior. Every journey he read about was special, rooted within him and he couldn't bear to have it any other way.

A quick whistle from the gym teacher brought him back to his senses, and it took all the credibility in him to look up from his book.

Of course Terro had been sitting, or rather hiding in the bag compartment where everyone would store their things. It was a small little hall that at the end had stairs that led up onto the stage, but he shuffled himself in and kicked his feet to rest against the wall in front of him.

Whatever basketball game that had been going on quickly halted, but Terro's direction narrowed its way back down at the book resting in his lap.

Beowulf was staring up right back at him, the book he'd been reading for the past half of the semester.

He recounted where he was and continued reading, falling into the steady flow of being washed away in a fable.

Burt the universe really wanted to test him, really wanted to try him for all he was worth today.

As he was reading a basketball had flown past him, echoing down the hall and interrupting his reading. It almost hit him square in the face, but even without physical contact still knocked the wind out of him. He watched as it rolled and swayed before coming to a stop, and he dared a glance at the person who threw it. It had to have been thrown at him with intent, the game couldn't have just lost their ball.

"Hey asshole, can't you see I'm reading? Would really appreciate it if you took your one person basketball game to the corner of the gym-"

"Whoops, sorry. Lost my grip on the ball." And oh fuck he actually made an effort of shooting up to his feet after hearing that voice.

Dirty blonde almost chestnut hair, muscular and yet lanky frame, piercing green eyes and a smirk that he knew from anywhere. A smirk that crawled under skin, but all at the same time charmed him to a degree.

He huffed out a sigh, eyes narrowing.

Soren fucking Stawarski.