Summary: I used to watch him from the corner of my eye. He was like poetry, and he always smelt like fresh cigrettes. SxS AU
I didn't see him until lectures the week after. Though this time, I didn't stare. I didn't even sit near him. I chose instead to move all the way to the other end of the hall.
"What's going on?" asked Tomoyo.
"Nothing," I lied, "I just thought that a change would be nice!"
She looked at me funny before sinking into her seat. The lecture commenced. I will not stare I will not stare I will not stare!! - is what I willed myself, but before those three glorious hours were up I'd tried to ogle him no less than eight times.
"Are you alright?" whispered Tomoyo concernedly.
I nodded and smiled not a little sheepishly.
Perseverence! I told myself. And then I wondered why my conscience sounded like Mickey Rooney. The minutes wore on like they were running a marathon through a river of treacle. I bowed my head in frustration. I wanted to get out of there. But I couldn't. Because apparently this history class was necessary to appreciate art and music in it's proper context.
Eventually though, and many hundreds of groans later, it did end. And then I was depressed because my artist was obviously going to ignore me and simply walk by out through those doors, never to be seen again-
He was standing by my desk, his charcoal-gray backpack slung over his shoulder. I couldn't look away.
"Hi," I squeaked.
"Saturday morning, same place." he said. "Come around eight."
"O-okay," I stuttered, because he was so intense in that moment, so beautifully intimidating, that I wanted to do nothing more than just stare and stare and stare.
But of course he walked away. And of course, Tomoyo was waiting, arms crossed and eyebrow raised, for an explanation.
I felt elated but wasn't exactly sure why.