Mytho's delicate, marble-white fingers pluck up the little slices of tangerines from the clear bowl.
He stares at the fruit like they're more wallpaper decorations than edible, and Fakir loses his patience, removing the tangerines from his grip.
"C'mon, we're gonna late for morning classes… …" he says grumpily, tugging on Mytho's wrist.
The other boy remains unmoved in his chair.
Fakir glares into those golden, blank eyes, slapping Mytho across the cheek harshly. "I said get up, NOW," he says in a growling, authoritative tone.
Mytho only stares up, feeling nothing, even as a red-faced Fakir violently shoves the bowl of tangerines onto the dormitory's wooden floorboard, slapping Mytho once more and throttling him by the collar of his white nightshirt.
It means nothing. They mean nothing.
Princess Tutu isn't mine. WELCOME TO THE ANGST STATION! I WILL BE YOUR CONDUCTOR THIS EVENING FJHDFHJFDHJK