#=reply

[eaxdean-blog]

@megea​

“ then stop looking in the mirror so much” A side glance followed shortly by a mutter of words that wasn’t exactly her whispering to herself and she realizes that a few seconds too late. Alarmed she turns to him, hands held up defensively “ That was my out loud voice, wasn’t it? Crap-i mean shit- sorry sir that was in poor taste or wasn’t it in any case I am now rambling and you obviously did not sign up for a rambling student of yours so I’m going to shut up. right. now.” and her fuschia pink lips purses into a thin line, the pad of the index finger pushing up her glasses as she adjusts the glass of spiked pineapple juice. Ah yes, the seaside, a glass of heavenly drink and the air of thick, awkward silence between yourself and a teacher of yours.

Perfect.

he didn’t mean to complain out loud. it’s different when one grows up in a place where the sun’s too scared to shine. but he isn’t the first one to apologise, so that’s fine. he’s not going to admit he was looking at rose through the mirror he had held up -- or explain why he has a mirror in the first place. discretion is key in situations like this, so he makes waving notions with his hand, as if to dispel it. he smiles, too, just to seem friendly.

“no, no, it’s alright. but -- ah, that’s interesting!” a much bigger smile, this time, and he tilts his head to the side, “i didn’t know you had two names.” he waits half a beat, and clarifies: “now rambling and going to shut up. so which one should i call you by?”

[eaxdean-blog]

@eawolfe

the voice is sharp and cuts through the trill of shouting that encompasses the group he’s fallen into. darian turns, hands newly wrapped around the football that had just sunk into his catch, and is faced with the stern eyes of the teacher who, presumably, had been the one to yell. darian glances down at himself; bare chested and barefoot, dressed only in a light and airy pair of shorts, but it’s no different than anyone else in his circle right now. an eyebrow is cocked and darian purses his lips, lifting his chin back up to face the teacher, eyes locking with his.

“but sir,” he begins, waving his hands as he gestures to the group, “we’re doing shirts and skins, and i’m on the skins team. plus, it’s like, a thousand degrees out here.” his voice is borderline whiny, pleading even. he doesn’t want to put a shirt back on, because the broiling heat of the summer is the entire reason he took it off in the first place.

he doesn’t even know why he’s so pressed about it. maybe because he doesn’t want rose ogling at anyone else, though he trusts her enough not to do that. and she’s not the kind to, say, sleep with a teacher and dump dean for a much younger model. rose wouldn’t do that. he chalks it up to teacherly concern. nothing wrong with that.

“you’re gonna get a sunburn, kid,” he says, sighing and wishing that he, too, could be in the skins team. would it be weird to have a teacher join them? probably. kids these days have a thing with keeping themselves separate from adults, and frankly, dean can’t blame him. if he had the chance, he would’ve distanced himself from his mother too. his father, of course, is no problem. all he had to do was donate something that probably stains his sheets after some weekend romp with whoever’s desperate enough to sleep with a guy in a mask. but dean shouldn’t judge. 

instead, he takes the referee’s seat, looking bored as hell, but they don’t need to know that he’s rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses. “y’all don’t mind if i do the whole referee thing, right?”

[eaxdean-blog]

+ backstreet serenade

@roseea​

it’s not awkward. they still like to talk about books and, on occasion, dean will still listen to rose if she has anything to say. he’s happy to listen, and surprisingly so; any story that she’s lived through is better than the hell he has to live in. and he swears it by his mother’s womb -- because he isn’t all that religious, go figure -- that he isn’t feigning interest at all. 

she’s an entire anthology, first edition even though she’s a legacy of something bigger, with a soul that’s not meant to be skimmed through.

but there is something different. good-different. the kind that makes him want to hold her hand when they’re walking to the nearby shops, which seem awfully close no matter how much he wishes for them to be a little bit farther. maybe then, rose will complain about having sore feet, and he’ll have an excuse to carry her. 

his knuckles, for now, are content with brushing against hers instead of slamming into some asshole’s face somewhere across the world ( the only few days off he’ll ask for in the next few months ), and it’s almost worth it. but he’s become greedy, so he breaks the silence: “so you’re -- you’re enjoying it here?”

he runs his fingers through his hair, impatient with himself. it’s too public; but there are things that can be avoided if he stays away from the private. “you should come talk to me sometime when i do those surfing lessons. i mean -- i see you around, so... it wouldn’t be weird, right?”

[eaxdean-blog]

+ beach city tripping

@eamayu

on a growing list of things he shouldn’t be doing: tripping on washed-up seaweed on the beach.

it shouldn’t be surprising that these things are just lying about with no one to pick them up. these things wash up on the beach all the time, along with seashells and the occasional empty jellyfish carcass. but that’s just life. dead things end up on the beach all the time.

including his reputation.

so he trips, and not face-first into the sand like he’d prefer to, but almost being unable to support himself with his hands on the sand. on top of a student. that, quite thankfully, isn’t rose. he doesn’t know what she’ll think of him if she saw him tripping so ungracefully on seaweed.

“mayu,” he says, sweating, he convinces himself, because of the sun on his back and not because he’s trying to come up with something smart and definitely not-awkward to say. “uh...hi. i think we use the same brand of sunscreen?”

[eaxdean-blog]

+ half moon

@roseea

for someone so preoccupied with noticing facts and being aware of many types of things, dean finds that, this time, he’s also gotten quite skilled at ignoring and avoiding things that are so obviously there. the awareness, for one; remembrance, too, of first meetings and half-moon smiles and the eclipse, the dawn of something so new and daunting that he cannot look at it for too long. to pay attention to it is running off the edge of a cliff to catch a falling star.

( and, oh, so many things are falling -- )

despite himself he still lets her in, and has a table and folders between them, set about haphazardly compared to the rest of his organised workspace. he’s lucky to get an office to himself: two shelves full of books and still not enough space -- books in the corner and books under his desk and books on it, too. 

“ah,” he says, breaking the silence of turned papers and opened folders by rolling his chair back, reaching for the drawer and pulling out a scrunchie out of it. he hands it to her between his index and his thumb, too afraid to touch its entirety, as if it’ll engrave itself into his palm. “you forgot this at my place. you probably have a lot, right?”