Pairing: Uruha/M Shadows.
Summary: In highschool stereotypes are rife, along with a fair amount of hypocrisy and prejudice. All these things combine in a first meeting, and are shattered in the second.
Genre: AU. PWP.
1234. Easiest bloody locker combination in the world. Then again, even something as direly complicated as 7435 would have been easy for this little mathematical genius.
Smooth transition, I know.
It wasn't as though he flaunted his brain power. He kept his brainy self to his brainy self.
Think Malcolm from Malcolm In The Middle, only hotter, and slightly more laid-back.
The similarities were there, though, and just in case you've been living on planet Lack of Humour for the last decade, I won't go too deeply into them. Just know he's smart, know he's bitchy. Know he knows it. And wasn't scared of others knowing it. Or others knowing he knew that they knew he knew.... what he knew.
1234. Twist twist twist twist. Pop. Pull. Grab the books, sling them in the bag. Slam. Turn. Walk. Pad pad pad pad slap slap slap. Open. Walk. Turn. Sit. Scowl.
Routine was a wonderful thing. Very rhythmic, too. Good for the soul.
1234. Twist twist twist twist. Pop. Pull. "Hey." ... hey? Not part of the routine!
The rhythm of Uruha's morning was given a shocking remix. Full of 'Hey' and dimples and smiles and twinkling hazel eyes. And a bit of 'oooooh', too. Maybe some extra scowling.
Grab the books, sling them in the bag, "What?"
A harsh tone, full of disdain at being distracted, and being spoken to. Of course, he was a perfectly sociable young man.
When the mood took him. And the moon was in alignment. And pigs were flying.
The dark gaze was ripped away from the contents of his locker and narrowed venomously at the bulk of man standing beside him. Amusing contrast, really. Tiny little Asian glaring at the grinning quarterback. Not replying to the grinning quarterback’s comment in response to the hissing pissy fit of a question.
Slam. Turn. Walk.
"Hey, hey, chill, just messin' with ya."
A Southern lilt to husky words so different from his own sharp, slightly accented and text-book perfect English, always with a hint of that haughty condescension.
"Yeah, yeah, funny, funny. My ribs are cracking with the urge to burst into fits of hysterical giggles."
Dry, predictable, highly sarcastic. He could come up with better, of course he could. But he had a feeling it would be wasted on such a Neanderthal. Sarcasm was the lowest form of wit, directed to the lowest form of human being.
Well muscled ass.
Snap decisions and first impressions. Uruha didn't know the man beside him, but he didn't need to. He knew his sort. Knew his type. More brawn than brains and more violence than intelligence. The sort who thought Vladimir Nabokov was a Russian hockey star. (Note to those that are stupid - he's not.)
Pad pad pad pad. Pad pad pad pad. Steps falling into and mirroring steps. The lazy slaps of Converse to the rubber thumps of Adio trainers.
Urgh. Gross. He wasn't even a skater. Wannabe poser as well as jock? Ew. Ew. Ew! He was not worthy to walk beside Uruha. And Uruha didn't even think a lot of himself! Anyone was above this burly beast. Anyone. Not pretentious... no, not at all...
"Oh totally. I can see it in your eyes. Just behind the venomous loathing."
Oh he dares to reply? But not only that, but reply with big, long words? Huff.
Pad pad pad freeze. Stop. Silence. Aside from the bustling cat calls and high pitched giggles that had grown so familiar they were moot. The legendary sports star and general prat had stopped at the same time. Uruha had almost expected him to carry on striding, oblivious, unable to process such complex information while moving. But alas, he was merely a sheep, stopping when the higher being stopped.
Turn. Glower. Jaw set, eyes stony, lips thin with restrained words. "What do you want?" he questioned, tone bland, stare blank, unreadable.
The man, however, was unphased, a smirk tugging slyly at the corners of his lips, a twinkle in the flecks of gold within his gaze. "I need a tutor."
Oh yeah, kaboom, tether is dragged right to the end. He had it up to his pretty little eyeballs and the red was rising through his face like a cartoon thermometer. Both brows were arched, thin lips falling into a full pout of obnoxious incredulousness. "Is it because I'm Asian?"
Confusion met his words. "Uhm, huh?"
Regular genius on his hands right here. "Is it because I'm Asian? You look at me, see the Oriental-ness, think, woah-oh, nerd, smart, easy target, good tutor?"
After all this the butch bastard actually had the audacity to snort.
"Urgh, you Americans and your stereotypes!"
Silence this time as he near screamed in frustration, stomping his foot childishly, glare increasing. And oh, if looks could kill... "Actually..."
This better be damn good.
"...I ask you because Mr. Talbot said you were good at maths," the sportsman explained calmly, seemingly cautious, respectful of the ticking bomb in front of him, though the expression suggested anything but.
Uruha's face fell in mild surprise. Oh. Research had been done. That busted his angry little bubble. See, Uruha was angry... most of the time. He simply only let it show when he had fair reason.
And now he didn't.
So it was screwed up, stuffed deep inside, bottled up and boiling within, just waiting for its next unfortunate vent as he wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Oh. Uhm. Yeah."