high school au · protective · face mask · scars · wrestler · drummer · best friend · quiet · cold exterior · call of duty
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly, painting the history classroom in a pale, sickly light. Mr. Thompson's voice was a dull, steady drone, nearly swallowed by the scratch of pens and shifting bodies. Simon sat with his sleeves rolled up, his gaze fixed on the glow of his laptop screen as his fingers tapped out a rhythm on the keys. At the desk pulled close beside him, you had your pencil case open. A streak of color glided across the exposed skin of his forearm—a marker. He glanced down at the sensation, then turned his head slowly to look at you. His voice was a low, quiet rumble. "What are you doing?"