"Bro, you good?" Michael asked, noticing his friend was staring off to the side instead of paying attention.
"I am aight."
James kept side-eyeing the hallway. He wondered if he was seeing shit — because butterflies shouldn't be inside a school, much less a white one.
"Jeez, ever since you saw that girl today, you've been off your game."
Michael squinted at him before a slow, smug smile curled across his lips.
"You got a crush, don't you?"
James stared at him as if that were the stupidest thing he'd heard all year.
"Shut up, dumbass."
"James fell in loooove~~!"
Michael sing-songed it loud enough for the universe to hear.
James wanted to punch him so bad, his hand twitched. But he controlled himself. Michael had a talent for crawling under his skin like a parasite with good cardio.
Not worth crashing out over it.
Across the gym, two guys froze mid-dribble.
"Did... he just...?"
"Score on Michael," Tyler finished George's sentence.
This was unheard of — a cosmic anomaly, like a solar eclipse or a teacher actually grading on time.
Because Michael dominated every sport at the school. Not because he was visibly stronger — though he was — but because the guy was a straight-up prodigy.
If he saw a technique once, he could replicate it perfectly, like he had photographic muscle memory. Freak shit.
Not that he played much anymore. He preferred flirting with girls and screwing around.
And somehow, instead of hanging with the popular crowd who idolized him like a deity dipped in cologne, he became friends with the wild guy.
Yes. James. The wild guy.
It had absolutely nothing to do with him being Black. It had everything to do with the fact that he could probably survive in the woods for forty years with nothing but a stick and some duct tape.
James's dad was a hunter — taught him how to track, stalk, set traps, kill, skin, cook, everything. Basically all the fatherly bonding before the man went to go get milk and never came back.
As for his mom... no one knew. She simply died, quiet and sad. Which left James in an apartment as an orphan until he was old enough, stable enough, and financially okay enough to inherit the family house. Legal shit.
None of that mattered now though.
What mattered was James ignoring the girls sending him death stares for scoring on their beloved Blue-eyes Greek Statue. He didn't care. Not his business.
He walked over to where they dumped their stuff, grabbed his jacket, and tied it around his waist like a dude about to free-climb a mountain.
"I am starving. You up for some burgers?"
James asked.
"Nah, we ate some like a week ago. I heard there's a new Starbucks opening nearby. Wanna check it out?"
And just like that, James lost all appetite.
"Oh, that shit?"
He looked betrayed that Michael even suggested such a place.
"Jeez, you act like their food is bad."
Michael blinked, genuinely confused.
"Well, you see my dear friend..." James inhaled like he was about to deliver a TED Talk.
"Everything in there is overpriced, their food has too many chemicals in it, it doesn't taste right to me. I'd rather eat from nature."
"So you like it raw..." Michael wiggled his eyebrows. "You should've said so."
He ducked instantly as James swung, the punch narrowly — and I do mean narrowly — missing his face.
James looked pissed. Michael just smiled like an angel with bad intentions.
"Hey, I don't judge. You like your food raw and natural, with no chemicals. It's okay."
He said it in the most "I'm such a supportive friend" tone ever.
"You are one annoying bastard."
Michael laughed, his blue eyes glinting strangely.
"Why are your teeth so sharp?" James suddenly asked.
Michael froze for a fraction of a second.
"What do you mean?"
James pointed straight at his mouth — more specifically, the canines.
"Your canines are like hella sharp. First time I noticed that."
Usually, Michael looked normal. Now, suddenly, those teeth looked... predatory.
Michael stared at James.
He shouldn't be able to see that. That was the entire point of using illusions — simple mind tricks that blinded normal humans to abnormal details.
He could have fangs out in the open and no one would register a thing.
'Guess changing my diet affected me more than I thought,' he thought before answering.
"Well, that's because I'm a vampire... raw~"
James blinked with the most "what the actual hell" expression known to man.
"You are weird sometimes."
He didn't believe a word. Vampires? As if that shit was real.
"But I am," Michael insisted. "Been trying to suck you dry for a while now."
"PAUSE!" James immediately cut him off.
"That is the gayest shit you said all week. You hit your gay limit. No more gay jokes."
"You're no fun."
The grown man actually pouted.
"I have no clue how you managed to pull all those girls acting this gay," James muttered, pushing the gym door open.
"A little bit of femininity never hurt anyone."
Michael shrugged. Gender roles meant nothing to him — centuries of life and an old-fashioned rich family tended to do that.
And honestly, he was trying to keep James away from his family. Last thing he needed was his father calling James the hard R.
They walked toward the exit.
But before they could step out, a classroom door opened.
Out stepped a man who looked... ordinary.
Ordinary enough that he shouldn't feel dangerous.
But James felt it — a prickle at the back of his neck. Instinct screaming.
The man stood about 5'10. Black hair combed neatly back, piercing brown eyes that seemed too observant, and an expression that was calm yet unreadable.
He wore a fitted charcoal-black suit, subtle pinstripes barely visible under the hallway lights, a crisp white shirt, and a dark tie tied with perfect symmetry.
In his right hand, he held a cane — black wood polished to a shine, engraved with swirling silver patterns and faint gold inlays that formed a crest near the handle.
The top of the cane was capped with a polished piece of moonstone that caught the hallway lights like frozen fire.
"Hello, Professor Merrow."
James straightened immediately, respectful.
This was his English teacher.
The man looked up, finally noticing them, and offered a gentle smile. James also noticed a thin cut on his neck and a single beauty mark beneath his left eye. Nice detail to remember.
"Oh, good afternoon, James," he said, voice smooth and refined. "You appear to be in quite the spirited mood."
"You could say so."
James' tone carried that polite, fake kindness you reserve for teachers because you don't feel like getting written up.
The professor adjusted his gloves — black leather, pristine — before continuing.
"You've been falling behind in your coursework," he said calmly but with a certain weight to his words. "If you don't make a concerted effort to catch up, you may find yourself unable to pass this class."
"I know, Professor Blackthorne."
James winced a little. He did not want to be lectured right now.
Professor Blackthorne's gaze shifted upward, landing on Michael.
"Ah... Michael. You're here as well."
"I am."
Michael's polite smile was deceptively flawless.
"I assume," Blackthorne said, lifting an eyebrow,
"that you are not leading James into one of your many extracurricular misadventures. He is not like you — multitasking is hardly one of his strengths."
"Me? I would never," Michael lied effortlessly.
"James is usually the one suggesting stuff. I just go along because he's my friend."
James shot him a death stare so sharp it could cleave atoms.
Michael's face said,
I'm sorry little one, but I must save myself.
"I see..."
Blackthorne tapped his cane lightly against the floor — a soft, precise sound.
Then he turned back to James.
"Do make sure you prepare adequately. Your next exam is in a week, and I expect to see substantial improvement."
James internally screamed.
He was so cooked.
"I will."
As the professor stepped closer, Michael subtly stepped back. James blinked, confused.
"Is something the matter?"
The professor asked, tilting his head slightly. One hand rested on the cane, thumb brushing the gold engraving.
"Your jewelry is blinding me!"
James yelped, shielding his eyes dramatically.
Blackthorne paused, then looked down.
His silver cross necklace had slipped out of his shirt, gleaming brightly.
"My apologies."
He tucked it away with practiced grace.
"I never knew you were religious, Mister Blackthorne."
"My family was involved in the Wesleyan movement," he replied softly.
James froze.
The what movement now?
"The Wesley movement," Blackthorne repeated, a tiny smile forming. "We discussed it in class today."
Shit.
James was absolutely cooked.
"Oh yes, totally. I totally get it."
He glanced at his nonexistent watch.
"Wow, would you look at the time — it's late. Wouldn't want to keep you busy."
And he immediately started speed-walking away like his life depended on it.
The professor watched him leave before turning to Michael.
"Aren't you going to follow after your friend?"
Michael blinked, snapping out of whatever trance he'd fallen into.
"Oh. Yeah, I should. Have a nice day, Mister Blackthorne."
The man would watch them live.
His brow furrowing a bit as he watched Michael.
His gaze would go to his watch, oh well, he had a teacher meeting to attend to.
When Michael finally caught up to his buddy, he said,
"Wait up."
"No. He scare me."
James was in no mood to deal with his teacher.
"I know that, but still — wait up."
James decided to wait because... why not.
"Never thought you'd be scared of a teacher," Michael said, both hands behind his head like he was sunbathing.
"Who wouldn't be? Heard he used to be part of the military or something."
James did not want to find out anything about that man.
The man's silver cross was weird and that was it.
"Let's go get Starbuck!?"
James opened his mouth to object, but Michael beat him to it.
"I will be paying."
"...Good to know..."
Suddenly the idea of going to that place wasn't so bad.
"Though I'd rather not rely on you financially."
James looked at the sky like it owed him money.
"Probably will pick up a 9 to 5... unfortunately."
He sighed. He didn't want to, but he needed the bread.
"Hey, you don't need to worry about money. I am here. Wouldn't mind being your sugar daddy."
"For the last time, stop with the gay shit."
James looked annoyed.
"Well, to be honest, till this day kept men do exist, so I'm not wrong."
James sighed. There was no winning with this man.
Once Michael made up his mind, that was it.
So he accepted his fate.
"Fine... Starbuck it is."
"Yay."
"Grown ass man."
The two walked for a solid thirty minutes. They could've taken a bus... or, you know, had Michael's driver drop them off.
But James wanted to walk — partly to clear his head, partly because he didn't like relying on people.
On the way, Michael hit him with a "would you rather."
"Would you rather apologize for slavery every time you buy clothes with cotton in it, or say 'I am not a threat to you' to any woman you're speaking to?"
James pondered.
"Well I am black. First option is easy... second option would land me in jail."
"And why do you think so?"
James stared at him deadpan.
"I am 6 feet tall, muscular, wild hair and eyes... and did I mention I am black? All it take is one white girl to cry and I am cooked."
Michael nodded.
"Guess that one was too easy."
"That deadass the only thing you got from that!?"
Michael raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah. What else was there to get?"
James sighed.
As they pushed open the door, James smelled it instantly.
The place smelled like overpriced coffee, burnt sugar, and the crushed dreams of college dropouts.
Also: gentrification.
The kind you could feel in your kneecaps.
And on top of that?
Nothing in here smelled natural. At all.
His senses went haywire.
He could smell every spilled latte from the past week, every perfume molecule drifting off every customer, every artificial flavoring in every drink.
He could hear every whispered conversation crystal clear whether he wanted to or not.
"Bro, did you see her new nails? She said they were $180—"
"I swear if my manager schedules me a morning shift again I'm quitting—"
"Babe stop, you literally only post thirst traps—"
"Mom I told you crypto is coming back—"
James nearly gagged.
Michael inhaled deeply like he walked into a spa.
"Ahhh... the aroma of middle-class delusion."
James almost puked. The synthetic sweetness was so strong it felt like it was trying to crawl inside his lungs.
He gagged again.
"Stop looking like you gagging on dick. Let's order."
James snapped back to reality instantly.
Did this man just—
Michael acted like he said nothing.
"Why you giving me the dead glare? I just told you to stop gagging."
"Sure..."
He absolutely did not believe that nonsense.
They approached the counter.
And there she was.
Aaliyah Torres.
The barista with curly hair, winged eyeliner sharp enough to perform surgery, and the most obvious crush on Michael mankind had ever documented.
Blonde hair.
Blue eyes.
Captain of the cheerleaders.
Peak bimbo energy — big tits, bright smile, small brain.
The type of girl who hung around jocks or pretended to carry group projects.
Her eyes lit up the second she saw him.
"Oh—my GOD. Michael?!" she squealed.
James physically winced.
Here we go again.
Michael smiled warmly — handsome bastard.
"Hey, Aaliyah. Nice to see you again."
Aaliyah nearly combusted like a cheap firework.
James muttered under his breath,
"Lord give me strength."
Michael actually cringed a bit at that.
More like recoiling from the religious wording — good to know.
"So, what can I get for you?" she asked —
but she was only looking at Michael.
James was essentially a coat rack.
Michael tapped his chin dramatically.
"Well... what do you recommend?"
He hit her with the eyes.
Blue. Shiny. Illegal.
Aaliyah blushed so hard her freckles shook.
"O-oh! Well, I think you'd love our new caramel-choco-sweet-cream-cold-brew-deluxe—"
"I'll take it," Michael said immediately.
James stared.
He didn't even know what the hell that was.
Then Aaliyah looked at him — enthusiasm dropping like a stone.
"And for you?"
"I want the cheapest thing that won't put me in the hospital."
"...Water?" she offered.
James frowned. "Something edible, please."
She sighed.
"Fine. Plain black coffee?"
"Do I look like I hate myself?"
Michael snorted.
James finally settled on,
"Give me a sausage, egg, and cheddar sandwich."
Aaliyah typed it in like the keys owed her money.
"That'll be $18.94."
James choked.
"FOR WHAT?!"
Michael placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"It's okay. Think of it as an investment."
"In what? Bankruptcy?"
They moved to the pick-up counter.
James crossed his arms, staring at Michael like he committed a war crime.
"Bro... can you go ONE hour... no, thirty minutes... without pulling girls?"
Michael gasped dramatically.
"James! I don't 'pull' girls. I simply exist. They pull themselves."
"That makes it worse."
Michael shrugged, sipping his complimentary water — given free by Aaliyah — while James had to pay for breathing.
"It's not my fault I'm charming," Michael said.
"And you could flirt too if you tried."
"I flirt fine."
"No. You threaten people."
"That's called charisma."
Michael nearly cackled.
Aaliyah returned with their drinks and food.
She leaned so close to Michael that James swore HR was about to spawn out of thin air.
"Here you go, Michael..."
She said his name like it was a prayer.
Then she slid James' sandwich across the counter like she was launching a hockey puck.
"Yours."
James grabbed it before he caught a charge.
"Thanks," Michael replied warmly.
Aaliyah's knees nearly buckled.
James grabbed his friend by the shirt and dragged him away.
"Bro. Stop. You're causing problems."
Michael took a sip of his drink, humming contently.
"Mmm. Delicious."
"Dude, that thing looks like diabetes in a cup."
Michael shrugged. "The sweeter the better."
James groaned as they found a table near the window.
He took a bite of his sandwich.
"Okay... the egg's a bit raw, but it decent."
Michael lifted his monstrous drink.
"Told you Starbucks isn't that bad."
James glared.
"Don't push it."
They sat in a kind-of comfortable silence — well, as comfortable as James could be in a Starbucks — until Michael broke it.
"Sooo... about that butterfly girl—"
"Drop it."
Michael grinned.
"Never."
James stuffed more sandwich in his mouth just to stop himself from saying something that'd get them banned.
Michael leaned back, enjoying every second of it.
James thought about what to do later.
His senses were telling him he should be doing something — something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
Eventually he would...
just not now.
Currently, he had other things to worry about.
Like his homework.
Or something like that.
A/N did I do a decent job at showcasing how overstimulated he is here right now.