#p!nyx

[nxmeggsy]

collision course, nyx.

He hasn’t been avoiding her.

It’s been a busy week and just because his classes are now tolerable—if not rather engaging, not that he’d admit—due to the amount of physical activity involved, doesn’t mean school doesn’t take up a lot of his time. Sure, he hasn’t been actively searching for her (and maybe he doesn’t bother tapping on every girl’s shoulder whose back looks eerily similar to hers, which, trust me, he’s seen) but he doesn’t want to give off the impression that he’s bothered. Especially since she’s such a smug bitch most of the time, thinking she knows him, through and through. Because she doesn’t. And okay, he might have ran in the opposite direction the times he did see her turn the corner and avoided eye contact in the Sex Ed. class he didn’t know they shared the day after the incident, but that doesn’t mean he was completely avoiding her.

Just saying, he wouldn’t be averse to her approaching him, but she hasn’t made any effort to do so, either.

(Okay, so maybe he has been avoiding her, but what is he supposed to do? Get her attention to say…what?)

He’s had a few days to think of the incident, and suffice to say, he’s ready to confront her now. Oh, don’t get it wrong: he’s still confused as all hell, but he’s not so confused to the point of being reduced to mere stutters if he had to talk about it.

(And it’s not like he’s this way because he doesn’t know how to deal with a girl’s attention—you couldn’t be further from the truth—it’s because he doesn’t know how to deal with her.)

The blood-sucking, dark-summoning piece of work, or as he likes to refer to her in his head, she-demon from hell.

Anyway, when he sees her in the hall today, he doesn’t run away like a little girl. No, he stomps head on, parts the lunchtime crowd while he does so and stands in front of her, effectively blocking her way.

“Are we going to talk about what happened?” he asks, crossing his arms defensively—a stance he realises he adopts often when he’s talking to her—and furrows his eyebrows in distaste.

[nxmeggsy]

presumptions, nyx.

He was never known for his prowess in education, intrinsic to someone’s who’s been held back twice. Not a soul approached him for tips on how to solve this problem or find that damned x, and he supposes he’s okay with that—although there are times when he finds himself looking longingly at the class nerd/loser and wonders, just for one day, what it would be like to be assured that, yes, there was a life after high school.

So it comes as no shock that as soon as he hears about this weapons training class, he can’t help the knowing upward twitch that dances on the corner of his lip. (And try as he might, he can’t eradicate the confidence that comes with it.)

Try as he might, he can’t help but feel like he can do anything, and that involves scoring that dark chick with the tight body in the corner.

Eggsy saunters over to the station she’s in: throwing knives, his favourite. He stands confidently beside her, picking up a knife by its blunt end whilst running his finger along its silver edge—

—all with a head tilt and an obvious leer.

He weighs the knife in his hands, watches it dance as he throws it up and catches it.

“I’m Eggsy,” he states as he drags the knife back, aims it at the bullseye and flings his wrist after a silent, quick prayer to a God he doesn’t believe is really there.

His smirk amplifies when he hears the thwack! and confirms that he’s hit the bullseye. He angles his body to face her and sticks his hand out for a handshake.

“Pleasure.”