Jamison throws his books on to the long, oak finish table and tosses himself onto the matching bench. The library is always deserted around lunchtime, which is awesome, because he hates having his concentration interrupted by the blowfish sounds of seniors kissing or some cackling chorus of teenage girls devising ways to win their crush’s hearts, and whatever else the student body tended to use the library as a safe haven for – as opposed to actual studying or self-improvement.
He has a hole in his sweater and he knows he should have just swapped it out for something less conspicuous but dammit. Damn all those rich kids that mock him in the halls with their upturned noses and latest ensemble of fashion trends to use against him. Sometimes his face goes red with anger just thinking about them and how materialistic they truly are.
Jamison hates his classmates because, rumors notwithstanding, they didn’t put effort in to anything and still seemed to have everything and it was a hollow victory to Jamison to have the entire world at your feet without trying. Lazy, spoiled, dimwitted, and all the other traits that he seems to loath the most. It isn’t jealousy.
A small, warm hand snakes to the back of Jamison’s collar and rubs his neck, and if he hadn’t already smelled that terrible perfume, he might just have turned around with a waving hand – establishing space between them first and asking questions later. But the smell persists and Jamison’s shoulders slump ever so slightly until he can no longer stand it and idly flicks his hand around, trying to brush off the contact altogether. The lithe girl slides in next to him, so close that their shoulders mash together instead.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Jamison spills with obvious disinterest, pulling one of his books in front of him to try to find the page he was reading last. The girl ignores his request without a care in the world, almost as if she didn’t even hear him at all and slides her hand under the table, stroking it up Jamison’s thigh. “You know, I hate it when everyone uses the library for this sort of thing,” he scoffs, but she’s already on her way down to her knees.
Jamison looks at the girl in a slow-motion of annoyance and disgust before reeling back, his curtain of black hair slapping across his cheek as he feels his own face change and contort and fill with color and emotion and feeling. Eventually, his eyes lid over and his lips part in ragged breaths. His heart beats exceptionally fast as his fingers clasp into the girl's hair, and he whispers out a ragged warning that makes her react with glee nevertheless.
Up until this point, Jamison hasn’t been in a romantic relationship. The girl on her knees before him isn’t his girlfriend or even a friend. "My charm and insatiable good looks are completely going to waste," she quips suddenly, using the back of her hand to wipe away at her lips. In a moment of unexpected guilt, Jamison realized that the girl's eyes were no longer holding that eternal glint of mischief or humor. She was being quite genuine, her expression almost pleading. He wondered if it was about him dating her or giving her more affection since she was, after all, someone who made him feel less alienated and perhaps more like he belonged somewhere. Maybe despite that rough exterior of hers, she didn’t want someone to just suck off – she wanted someone she could relate to. Figuring that asking her if those were her real movies would be pointless, Jamison shrugged casually and opened his book again to appear less intimidating. There were limits to many conversations between the two of them and guilt-tripping was crossing the border.
She was a sweet girl. Too bad she was one of them.
He has a hole in his sweater and he knows he should have just swapped it out for something less conspicuous but dammit. Damn all those rich kids that mock him in the halls with their upturned noses and latest ensemble of fashion trends to use against him. Sometimes his face goes red with anger just thinking about them and how materialistic they truly are.
Jamison hates his classmates because, rumors notwithstanding, they didn’t put effort in to anything and still seemed to have everything and it was a hollow victory to Jamison to have the entire world at your feet without trying. Lazy, spoiled, dimwitted, and all the other traits that he seems to loath the most. It isn’t jealousy.
A small, warm hand snakes to the back of Jamison’s collar and rubs his neck, and if he hadn’t already smelled that terrible perfume, he might just have turned around with a waving hand – establishing space between them first and asking questions later. But the smell persists and Jamison’s shoulders slump ever so slightly until he can no longer stand it and idly flicks his hand around, trying to brush off the contact altogether. The lithe girl slides in next to him, so close that their shoulders mash together instead.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Jamison spills with obvious disinterest, pulling one of his books in front of him to try to find the page he was reading last. The girl ignores his request without a care in the world, almost as if she didn’t even hear him at all and slides her hand under the table, stroking it up Jamison’s thigh. “You know, I hate it when everyone uses the library for this sort of thing,” he scoffs, but she’s already on her way down to her knees.
Jamison looks at the girl in a slow-motion of annoyance and disgust before reeling back, his curtain of black hair slapping across his cheek as he feels his own face change and contort and fill with color and emotion and feeling. Eventually, his eyes lid over and his lips part in ragged breaths. His heart beats exceptionally fast as his fingers clasp into the girl's hair, and he whispers out a ragged warning that makes her react with glee nevertheless.
Up until this point, Jamison hasn’t been in a romantic relationship. The girl on her knees before him isn’t his girlfriend or even a friend. "My charm and insatiable good looks are completely going to waste," she quips suddenly, using the back of her hand to wipe away at her lips. In a moment of unexpected guilt, Jamison realized that the girl's eyes were no longer holding that eternal glint of mischief or humor. She was being quite genuine, her expression almost pleading. He wondered if it was about him dating her or giving her more affection since she was, after all, someone who made him feel less alienated and perhaps more like he belonged somewhere. Maybe despite that rough exterior of hers, she didn’t want someone to just suck off – she wanted someone she could relate to. Figuring that asking her if those were her real movies would be pointless, Jamison shrugged casually and opened his book again to appear less intimidating. There were limits to many conversations between the two of them and guilt-tripping was crossing the border.
She was a sweet girl. Too bad she was one of them.