So. One of my stories is supposed to have a relationship in it, but I suck at writing stuff like that, so this is sort of like a... test run. Practice?
There was a new kid in the class. Grey sneaks a look at the boy, and then quickly avoids the new teenager's sweeping gaze. There's intelligence there, in the sparkling hazel eyes, and they're warmed not by friendliness, but by the knowledge that he is the smartest person in the room.
Grey's not sure if he should be afraid.
He stares at the desk as hard as he can, wishing he could sink into his seat and disappear as the boy takes the desk next to him, easily shuffling his things about and pulling out a binder filled with lined paper.
"Would you happen to have a pen I could borrow?" His voice has a tinge of a Russian accent to it, and his tone is breezy and assured, as though he already knows what the answer will be.
Grey silently hands him a pen. The boy shoots him an odd look, but doesn't comment further.
The rest of the class is uneventful, besides watching Slate, Grey's best friend, throw paper airplanes in lazy loops around the flustered supply teacher.
Later that day, he's walking through the hallways when he trips, thudding to the ground and watching his Science notes flutter around his head as they settle on the dirty floor. He narrows his eyes in frustration and uses his palms to push himself up and off the ground, and hears footsteps behind him. They stutter and stop as the person presumably observes the scene.
Grey grits his teeth and turns.
It's the guy from earlier. Fabulous.
The boy simple watches him as he scrambles around on the floor gathering papers. He's about to reach for the last one when a hand intercepts and holds it out to him. He grabs it and stuffs it back into his bag, slinging it over his shoulder and hoping to get as far away from this guy before Grey embarrasses himself further or makes the boy think he's some kind of weirdo.
"I'm Anton. Anton Petrov, if you will." The teenager holds out his hand expectantly.
Yeah, okay. That's worse. Much worse.
Grey wants to stamp his feet in frustration, but he's not a five-year-old, dammit! Trying to keep the scowl off his face for as long as possible, he forces the headache away and flashes his hands in from of his chest, a series of hand gestures in quick succession.
Anton blinks, surprised, before signing back. Oh. Sorry, I didn't know. What's your name?
His finger twitches in annoyance, and he knows that he shouldn't be annoyed, he really shouldn't, but he can't help but say back I'm not deaf!
Realizing that it's kind of unreasonable to be mad at the guy, he signs, I'm Grey.