Gaze | Mizuki Hisahito
Lifting your head from where it had been buried in your crossed arms on your desk, a perfect sanctuary for hidden tears, you turn your eyes turn to meet his.
His gaze: powerful, indifferent, hurts every time.
How long has it been since that same look was filled with affection and light-hearted humour?
"Did you finish the presentation?"
He didn't want to do the project with you, you could tell as much by the chuckles that your teacher's choice had elicited, and the way his stoic face held a mild frown. But he was stuck with it, you were stuck with it, and he'd had to take the main role as you stuttered self-consciously and forced yourself not to cry.
"Weakling," you curse yourself innerly, "barely able to talk in his presence."
He's still watching, waiting for an answer so he can leave.
"Yes, and I finish printing the brochures. I didn't print one for ourselves, but one for the teacher additionally."
"Cool," and then, as a polite aftertho