Chapter Text
You had only one objective in mind: to make it to school before homeroom bell rings. The only complication that stands between you and your goal—you had overslept, traffic was atrocious, and you were in such a disarray that when you had finally reached your destination and met your objective, you were sent away to the deputy principal’s office having to explain another late arrival to school.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
After receiving another amused smirk from Ms Lemay as she held the door opened, you offered your lame and only justified explanation that you’ve prepared from your last visits, Ms Lemay nodding along, and finally you were dismissed with the usual mutual understandings when you two depart.
“Yes, I promise it won’t happen again,” you said, closing the door, releasing an uneasy breath for being under the woman’s watchful eyes (despite her obvious cheerfulness and enthusiasm, her presence still unnerves you as you don’t know many duty principles for being creepily nice to troublemaking students, and you always leave the room feeling perturbed). You shrugged once reclaiming your composure, rolling your shoulders and clenching your shoulder bag as you made an easy exit from the office building (all those teachers giving leering glances as you past them, circling like vultures—the office gives you the creeps at the best of times, despite your—what? Millionth visit). But who were you trying to fool anyway? You frequent in Ms Lemay’s office more than you would like to let on, and both you and the deputy principal meet in office again the following morning.
The rest of the day dragged on soon after your rather eventual—though usual—Monday morning. After having a quick bite to eat, the tardiness of the apple puckering your face, you tossed it in the nearest bin located, and you stole a quick glance at your timetable, scowling.
French class with Arno Dorian. How exciting.
Your loathing for the boy hadn’t begun soon after his first grand debut. You recall his first day in the class. As you had entered the class that unfaithful morning, you had noted some changes to your French class: chairs and tables were rearranged and a new face sat atop a desk, one leg raised on a chair and the other leisurely daggling off the edge. You had felt you were trespassing, intruding onto private territory as you made your way to your usual inhabitant to the back of the classroom with your dark, cosy corner. You had learnt that he was a diligent exchange student fresh from France, spinning a tragic and enchanting tale about the death of his father and his transfer from France to the States. His voice had rose with each dramatic pause he had made in his narrative, cockily smirking and winking to the one of the many female admirers of his, and in all honesty, you thought, the girls had only swooned because of his devilish good looks (and you weren’t shameful to admit—oh là là) and his peculiar accent—and indeed, it was a peculiar accent. It wasn’t the thick French accent as you were expecting, rather it was a smooth British drawl—easy on the ears, though with his constant chatter, grated on your nerves rather quickly.
Not only was Arno arrogant and overall unbearable, but he was also a pet to the French teacher. He was called on for everything—questions, answers, demonstrations, explanations, history, culture, and he even claims for knowing Napoléon Bonaparte personally, and—oh, did you mention everything French in particular? The French teacher, Ms Stillman, a young fresh-out-of-university blonde haired woman with a disinterest to teach French, thought it would be grand to hear about the beauty of France, as she says, from a native speaker as she believes it would offer a unique, as she says, perspective.
The only thing it had earned was a furious pounding migraine after a long constantly-chattering Arno.
But everyone adores Arno. Everyone except you.
One thing that had particularly bothered you—and you had never understood the reason for it—was why Arno was doing a language subject—especially if he was a native speaker of said language. The context had just sounded so incredibly stupid to you. He, naturally, had the upper hand whilst the rest of the class struggles to keep up—well, struggle more than usual. The ditzy and otherwise intelligent girls would feign innocence when they would pronounce a particular French word incorrectly (even when they knew the correct pronunciation before Arno’s transfer, snagging the A’s from underneath everyone else’s noses, and you would shoot a smouldering glare towards them as they would shrug their shoulders, smiling sickeningly sweet), causing Arno to step in and save the day in all his French glory. Honestly, the boy didn’t know when enough was enough—did you have to speak it in French to him in order for him to understand? (Wouldn’t make an ounce of difference to you; you, despite taking the subject, don’t know much French). And—
“Spacing out again, mademoiselle [Surname]?”
The voice of Arno shattered your thoughts, drawing you from your musings and bringing you into reality. You shook your head furiously, startled from your daydreaming and plotting ways to silently assassinate Arno Dorian cleanly without raising any suspicion… But, no; you were called on to answer a sentence pattern in French. Not only were you the rock bottom failing student in the class and space out entirely whenever another French class approaches, waiting patiently for the final bell to release you from your shackles, but your pronunciation was dreadful, to say the least—so much so, even monsieur Dorian winces in pain and that’s saying something considering he always encourages his peers to faites tout votre possible… or something to that effect in French (honestly, you have no idea what he’s talking about most the time—and it’s not because he speaks another language—even though that might have something to do with it).
“Mademoiselle [Surname]? Are you going to answer the question or continue to space out?”
You closed your eyes, centred your breathing and released a breath to calm your nerves. You hated being called on in class, pushing you out of the shadows and into the limelight as all pairs of eyes and heads turn in your direction, waiting eagerly for your screw up. And, boy, did you hate when Arno mocks you. He, of all people, knows you lack significantly in French and called on you because he, like the rest of your peers, gets the kicks out of seeing you fail; much like a timeless joke, the amusement never grows dull.
But today, you had enough. You were determined to show you aren’t always a screw up.
You squinted your eyes into the distance of the blackboard before you (being at the back row did have its disadvantages), an English dialogue written above in Ms Stillman’s elegant handwriting inquiring ‘Can you show me the direction to Notre Dame?’
After mulling the question over and over again in your head, muttering a lot of thoughtless ums and errs, exasperated sighs and frustrated groans sound from all around you as you fumble for a response. Everything drawn up blank, swallowing whatever pride you had, you gave the people the show they had wanted.
“N-Nonnn. I don’t know the answer. Me no comprehendo,” you said, the classroom erupted into insane bursts of laughter, and you watched as Ms Stillman rolled her eyes, Arno, giving a small smile before swivelling in his seat, an utter sadness you had never seen on his arrogant face, and absently you wondered, was Arno the antagonist you had made him out to be? (You weren’t ready to admit to yourself that you were wrong).
Before embarrassing yourself any further, you shrunk in your seat, wishing that the world would swallow you up, or fade into nothingness, but only the sound of laughter echoed in your ears, small tears stinging in your eyes.
Finally, for what feels like forever and a day, the shrill sound of the school had rang. Students pushed their chairs in, making that horrid screeching that steel makes against tiles causing you to wince as you were—again—pulled from your dream realms. As you were making your way to the exit, before crossing the threshold, Ms Stillman had called you to stay behind, girls in small clusters snickering and making high pitched oohs as they bumped shoulders with you on their departure. You pulled a seat from the front row, huffing as you sat opposite the teacher… with Arno standing beside you.
You eyed him up, taking in his dignified posture, hands secured behind his back, feet together, back straight. He gave you a knowing smirk, lapping up the superiority his stance and your position in the seat gives him. You mustered up a menacing glare to him, only receiving a light chuckle in response (well, so much for menacing).
“What is he doing here?” you asked, Ms Stillman taking a seat and ambling closer towards the desk. Arno sneered haughtily down towards you. Smug connard.
“As you know, mademoiselle [Surname], you’re failing this subject”—and at this, you rolled your eyes at Ms Stillman’s blatant claims, biting the inside of your cheek as a sarcastic and witty remark rose within you. No shit, Sherlock, you thought—“and some catch up work is in order, you see. And monsieur Dorian offered to be your tutor,” she said, hand gesturing to Arno as he nodded his head in acknowledgement.
“I was never consulted about this,” you interjected, raising in your seat.
“Which is why we are telling this to you now,” Arno said, voice slicked in smugness as he gave another haughty look towards you. “Meet me in the bibliothèque.”
You raised an eyebrow. Biblio-the-what?
“Library,” he clarified, seeing your expressionless face. “After you are finished with the professeur, of course.” His lips curled into a coy smile as he sauntered off, head held high and mighty. Boy, did you want to do nothing more than push him down a few pegs.
“Aren’t you such a gentleman,” you said, sarcasm conspicuously in your tone as you crossed your arms over your chest.
“Why, merci, I do try,” he said, body angled both in and out of the room, hand resting on the knob as he gazed at you a little too… longingly, you noted. Shivers were sent down your spine. You didn’t like being under that gaze.
“I was being sarcastic,” you said, gathering your bearings. Gosh, that was not a good feeling. You felt impure, much like a slippery snake had snagged you, hopeless to escape its clutches. It wasn’t a nice sensation.
“Je sais.”
The sound of the door being closed echoed within the confinement of the room as silence fell upon you and Ms Stillman. You turned back to her, raising your arms and letting them fall, slapping your sides in an exasperated gesticulation, mouth gapping.
“You can’t be serious,” you said, and in all honesty, you were praying to the good Gods above that this was a hoax—or better yet, a nightmare, waiting for you to wake up, feeling relief that it was just a bad dream. You pinched the tender skin under your forearm. Nope. You were awake.
“It’s already been approved by your mother,” Ms Stillman said, arranging paperwork on her desk. “She and I believe it will be good for you.”
You mulled the teacher’s comment over and over in your head as you navigated your way to the library. You had concluded one thing: Ms Stillman wouldn’t know the best thing for you, little alone for what she believes will be good for you no less. And your mother… You didn’t want to even start with her. What would she know?
An hour, at most, Ms Stillman had reassured. An hour with Monsieur Dorian as your tutor. You also believe that Ms Stillman was insane, believing that her intentions mean well and this clever setup of hers by pitting the best and worst students in an effort to help boost said worst student’s grades does sound like a good idea (but even then that sounded like giving too much credibility on her part—you bet she didn’t even come up with the idea on her own). Who in their sane mind would pair you and Arno in the same room, throw away the key and expect you not to lay harm upon him?
But even so, why does your tutor have to be Arno Dorian?
Why would he volunteer to be your tutor, no less? Surely, he can’t be that dense and oblivious to not know about your constant loathing towards him, as you had made that factual information on several instances prior. Then again, you had knew the answer to that one: because Arno is a pet. He obviously had no other choice in the matter. You could envision it now: Ms Stillman approaching him, asking the proposal, him scowling in protest, sighing in defeat as he knew he had no authority to object, especially considering that he has to uphold the whole gentleman guise that he had bestowed himself upon. You almost pity him, in a way. Almost. But not quite enough.
Then another thought had occurred to you: you pray you won’t have to address him as ‘professeur Dorian’ as you do with Ms Stillman. It would be like stroking his ego, immense as it already is, and you have no intentions of raising it a few bars.
You pushed the two glass doors to the library open, eyes falling upon Arno as he had claimed ownership over a private, dark and isolated booth (well, more isolated as nerds who would normally stay behind school to study were more huddled close together over a small desk, and it was plainly obvious that Arno had stolen their normal hangout location as they imitate sheep in a slaughterhouse for being out in the open). You made a beeline to Arno, believing that once you were seated, one hour in his company and the tutor session would be over and done with. (Why did you have this nagging sensation that this would be insufferable and drag on forever?)
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle [Surname],” he greeted, giving a sheepish grin. Wow, even his enthusiasm was belittling by the passing second. “I pray that the negotiation with the professeur had ensured you well? You had looked rather… How would you call? Startled, to say the least.”
You shook your head, trying to make sense of his strange use of English. You had believed he would excel in both languages given that he was a proclaimed protégé in all his studies (you thought he would be able to adapt substituting French with English), though he had appeared to struggle making sound communication in a proper conversional manner, and beneath that peculiar but obvious British accent he had developed on his numerous travels, there was a faint French accent—distinctive enough when pronouncing English words, in particular. The thought had never occurred to you that he would even show a sense of struggle adapting to all English speaking classes.
“I’m fine,” you said, dumping your belongings onto the booth before plopping, sagging against the soft cushions, crossing your arms over your chest as you squared your shoulders, surpassing a huff. You had noted that Arno was—again—staring at you intensely.
“What?” you asked, rather harshly than you had intended. Arno bashfully glanced away, arm leaning against the plastic table, hand soothing his neck as he craned it to the side, looking at you.
“You look like an enfant,” he said.
“A what?” Your voice rose an octave. His knowledge in both French and English, effortlessly switching between the two, was beginning to irritate you. He could be insulting you, for all you knew!
“A child,” he clarified. “You remind me of a small child, not getting her own way.”
“Do not,” you said, earning a smug look from Arno as you had proved him right. “I do not.”
“Do too,” Arno said. “Now, are we done here? I know how much this arrangement bothers you, but you’ll just have to learn how to make do.”
“Whatever,” you muttered. “Let’s just get this over with.” The sooner, the better.
“S’il vous plaît be corporative with me,” he said, removing a textbook from his bag, placing it on the desk and pushing it towards you. You eyed the book, eyebrow raising at the title. French for Dummies. How very insultive. “I don’t want this to end badly for the both of us.”
“You’ve already started it with the book,” you retorted, scoffing at him. “Do you even know what dummies mean in English?”
He had ignored your question, however. You watched as he stood, making his way from behind the desk to sitting beside you. You scooted away, the action causing Arno to sidle closer.
“Woah, woah, woah, man!” you said, holding your arms up and towards him as a barrier and warding off. “You’re getting too close and personal, buddy. Just—stay—right there.” He held his arms up in defeat. “Excusez-moi, I didn’t know I was making you uncomfortable.” He flicked some pages in the textbook before finally falling upon the desired one. “I thought it would be best if we work alongside as opposed to individually.”
“A little warning would have been nice,” you said, sheepishly. “Oh, and stop speaking French to me,” you added as an afterthought, the tension in your temples worsening as you continued to gawk at him. “You’re beginning to give me a headache.”
You and Arno had stayed long afterhours in the school library, finally your session ending as the librarian shooed the both of you out, muttering something incomprehensible under her breath about teenagers before closing the heavy glass doors, hinges squeaking in protest. You sighed, knowing she didn’t know the half of your woes.
All concept of time had vanished as you had read hundreds and hundreds of pages of textbook, words blurring together until your eyelids grew heavy. During that time, you had somehow, miraculously, convinced Arno to get the hell away from you, and after giving instructions for what pages from the textbook you were supposed to read and some assistance for pronunciation, he remained in solitude for the entire afternoon as he begun to read a novel—and you don’t recall at which point in time had he retrieved it—as you were surprised he could read an entirely English written novel, and he never ceased to surprise you as he was reading a sappy romance novel, no less. You couldn’t contain your snickering before Arno had snapped at you to ‘ta gueule’… whatever that meant, and to continue your study. You had to admit—it was fun to poke at him every now and again (but that didn’t necessarily meant you enjoyed his company).
You stole a glance at your phone, muttering a profanity. Six-fucking-thirty? How did you manage that? Your mother had sent seven text messages inquiring about your arrival home, and another three missed calls wondering whether you were okay. (Honestly, she can be such a worrywart at the best of times). You began to dial home, the call being caught by the message box as you released another cuss from underneath your breath. Though the weather forecast had predicted a very unlikely chance of rain in your particular area, the dark clouds swirling above your head and the small tear-like stains on the cement told you your chances of making it home—at twenty-five minute drive, no less—were slim.
“Merde.”
And absently, you had forgotten you were in the company of Arno Dorian as well.