still all but a child, it is easy to misunderstand the status quo, to
believe everyone potentially equal in class, willing to overlook any
differences in favor of finding a new friend. for someone with Ed’s
infirmity, it is even easier: it is as though naivete runs through his
veins. when blows are not thrown immediately-- a friend they must
be. or so he hopes now, head uptilted to look him over, repeating
his name softly, rolling it over his tongue, lips contorting before he
realizes he has repeated it six, eight times. a blush spreads rapidly
across pale cheeks, like wine spilled upon silk, and he fumbles to
recover from the embarrassment, awkwardly gesturing to sit down.
❝ quite an honor to meet you, Oswald. I’m--
Edward Simiel Nygma. Only Ed, to friends. ❞
he isn’t sure if that’s an invitation or not, finding himself perplexed
as to the intent of his own phrasing. a frown displaces the once-
bright smile, eyebrows knitting together before he forces a careful
expression of neutrality. he takes in the ragged bookbag, name
sewed into the straps in blue thread, and recognizes it. Cobblepot.
of course, it would be him. he thumbs through a mental list of what
little he happens to know, and it all rings true, from limp, to placating
demeanor. an outsider. a boy without friend. just as suddenly as his
face clearing, it lights up again, alert to all the possibilities before him.
a good impression, first and foremost: he’s learned from too many
sessions amidst the special education instructors that he cannot be
so blatant in intent, because people find it...offputting.
❝ tuna, is it? I favor cucumber sandwiches.
refreshing to the mind and body, I’ve found. ❞
snowghoul
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