Work Text:
“Who are you?” The teacher, whose name Charlie has already forgotten in the whirlwind of handshakes, small talk and crumpled paper maps of his first day at Truham, doesn’t bother looking up.
“Charlie Spring, sir. I’ve just moved from H… another school.”
“Right, well, you’ll be sitting next to Nicholas Nelson. He’s a year above you. Talk or don’t talk doesn’t bother me.”
The Mr Unknown-Teacher points towards the corner of the classroom.
Charlie turns and sees the most beautiful boy with sandy blond hair. A rainbow halo surrounds him, and he is bathed in sunlight on this crisp January day. He’s playing with his fountain pen in a shirt that Charlie thinks is probably one size too small.
The feeling of his collar around his throat and the binder around his chest goes from comforting to restrictive in a second. He plays with the new, smooth, unfamiliar tie between the fingertips of one hand and the strap of his rucksack with the other. He scrunches up his toes and squishes them against the smooth, not yet broken-in surface of the inner soles of his shoes.
Charlie walks gingerly over to the table and pulls out the chair.
“Hi”
“Hi”