teenage dirtbag, baby | mischa bachinski

two | study session

I rob and I kill to keep him with me
I'll do anything for that boy

        Y/N took one moment to collect herself, to stop herself from glaring or being angry at the boy in front of her. To stop her eyes from tracing over his jawline, over the way his shirt collar was barely unbuttoned at the top just enough. She caught herself staring through the silence but rolled her eyes, instead opening her binder and flipping through pages of information the two were to cover. "What do you want me to cover first, French or History?"

        "Not even hello? God, you Canadians are so impolite." Mischa laughs, fixing the cuffs of his white button down. He caught her staring as well, debating whether or not to say anything about it.

        "I'd rather not exchange pleasantries right now." She says. "French it is. So, what exactly are you struggling with in French?" 

        "Whole language." He says flatly, tapping his foot on the ground underneath the table that the two teenagers sat at. "It's complicated. I knew little English when I came here, no French." He states, letting his fist fall on the table.

        "There's always a way to start. You need language credits to graduate, dumbass." Y/N rolls her eyes again after her statement. 

        "I have other language, Ukrainian." He's clearly annoyed, flicking a paper ball at her. She opens the paper ball, and it reads "dumbass". His hand writing is messy but it gets the point across. She slides it back to him slowly, pushing the paper across the table as he stares in silence.

        Damn her hair, her perfect hair to go with her stupid perfect face. And her stupid perfect grades. If she hadn't been so good academically, maybe he wouldn't have been stuck with a tutor. Or at least with a hotter one? Yeah. He laughed audibly at his own horrible joke.

        "What are you laughing at?" Y/N asks, raising an eyebrow.

        "Your face." He states simply, staring her dead in the eye. There's a sort of energy between the two that neither recognize, both staring the other down.

         "I'm flattered you can look at it this long." She winks, and then looks back down at the papers to break the staring match. 

          "Fuck you." Mischa groans, his eyes looking down at the papers Y/N is looking at. The notes are written neatly, Y/N's handwriting a clear contrast to his. Except for the notes from the fifteenth of October, last week, where the handwriting is less neat and clearly more random around the page. There are also tearstains on the page, though they're hard to see. Mischa picks up the lined paper while Y/N is distracted, and laughs softly.

          "You too." She's quick to snatch the paper from his hands, shoving it into her schoolbag. The paper itself is nothing to be ashamed of, but the story behind it is. She had meant to dispose of the paper and write an identical one with better quality, but had never gotten around to it. She shoots Mischa another glare.

          "So we're going to start off with the simple verbs.." She begins, looking to make sure Mischa is paying attention.

***

          "Not bad, for the first session." Y/N says with a smile to the brunette boy who looks absolutely done with all of this.

           "Why must French be so complicated!" He complains. "Must get home to rap, no time for French!" He's quite angry, however one of Mischa's epithets is The Angriest Boy In Town. Though there was always a reason behind his anger. In some odd way, he'd rather be with Y/N then go home to his parents, if you could even call them that.

          He doubted that his adoptive parents were even ready for a two year old, with the way they had treated him at seventeen. They had shoved him to the basement, limiting any interaction between them. He had everything he needed but food down there. A bedroom, bathroom, and enough room to have people over. Not like he would have people over, though. Nobody was to see the state that Mischa "Bad Egg" Bachinski was forced to live in until he moved out. Then he could point and laugh at his horrible parents while he was sitting pretty on a stack of gold bars, wearing a gold chain around his neck and being asked to attend the Met Gala. 

         He didn't even realize how lost in thought he was until he almost hit his head on a bookshelf while mindlessly walking to the exit with Y/N, their hands close. Y/N didn't seem to notice, but he had. He had noticed how their pinkies were almost touching, almost interlocking as if they were together when really they were anything but. 

          Y/N laughs softly, her stupid perfect laugh. Mischa rolls his eyes and moves out of the way, the pinkies now interlocked. Y/N doesn't notice, again, but Mischa does. He doesn't like it. He doesn't like the warm feeling growing in his chest the more he looks at her. He doesn't like how they're basically holding hands, and he doesn't like how Y/N doesn't seem to notice a thing about it, too busy off in her own head to even care. And Mischa also hates how this feeling is a smaller scaled version of the very thing he felt for Talia. The girl who left him. 

          No, he didn't need to think of her right now. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, the warmth from his chest almost fading. Still a sliver left. He needed to go home now, to bury himself in his room in alcohol, rap music and video games, as he always had. The two left the library, both going their separate ways. Not bothering to wave goodbye or acknowledge the other was leaving. One thing for certain though was that Mischa was dreading this new tutoring thing. He was dreading the fact that now he was looking forward to it.