𝘈𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘴 ➳𝘚.𝘚𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘬𝘪
Griffin Dunbar was under the impression that he would peak in high school, and he was alright with that. But when his usual carefree attitude is challenged by monsters and boss fights, he starts to worry.
...
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Griffin's enjoyment was short-lived.
"Kira, stop talking. And you, turn around. We're starting the lesson," the teen groaned quietly, eliciting a laugh from Kira. "What's your name anyway?"
"Err... Griffin."
"That's odd," Mr Yukimura mumbled. Eyes darting up and down a sheet of paper on his desk. "I can't seem to find your name." Luke snickered, and Griffin sunk in his seat, praying that his new teacher wouldn't question it.
"That's because Griffin isn't his first name," the blonde teen let his head fall into this hands at the sound of the familiar, scratchy voice of the biggest pain in his ass.
"Oh, really?" The history teacher's voice was flat with boredom, "and what would his first name be?"
"Shut it, Stilinski." Luke's voice was playful, only hinting on seriousness.
"Get your dog on a leash," Stiles shot at the blonde. The spastic teen mumbled a 'sorry,' to his friend, Scott, who sat behind him. Griffin and Luke shot each other confused glances. "Anyways, you might find a Sergio Dunbar at the top of your list, that's our guy." Stiles laughed with the rest of the class, it was an ongoing joke he'd pull since the 3rd grade. Griffin eventually was able to just roll his eyes than cry to his parents like he used to.
"Okay, bet you can't find a Stiles on there either. Mickey-slav Stilinski should be there, though," Griffin spat out the ill-pronounced name.
"It's Mieczyslaw, it's not even that hard to pronounce! At least my parents didn't find my name in one of Shakespeare's plays-"
"All right," the class, who had been ignoring the teacher in favor for the quarrel, looked up to Mr. Yukimura. "Everyone up," the teens all mumbled in confusion. "Since it's obvious that I can't trust you to decide who you can surround yourselves with, I get to pick your seats." A collective groan rippled through the room, Griffin shot an apologetic look to the girl behind him, only to be met with a soft smile.
After a long ten minutes of shuffling around, the screech of chairs against the floor tiles, and plenty of dirty looks, Griffin found himself in the far right seat in the front row. While not his ideal placement, he appreciated being able to look out the window. "Now, let's begin with American history at the turn of the 20th century."
"Shit," Griffin mumbled under his breath, barely quiet enough so Mr. Yukimura wouldn't hear. He searched his bag for a pencil, already having his notebook ready. "Hey, you got a pencil?" Griffin directed to the boy sat next to him.
"Oh, err, yeah," he hadn't realized it was Scott he was talking to until he handed Griffin a mechanical pencil, barely noticeable bite marks around the eraser. He grimaced slightly at the look of it, but smiled softly in thanks nonetheless. The lecture seemed to drag on endlessly, Griffin's eyes remained fixed on the clock above Mr. Yukimura's head, just five minutes left.
He scribbled down the last few notes on the board, barely listening to what his teacher was droning on about. Suddenly a haphazardly folded piece of paper flew onto his desk, Griffin picked it up and looked at Scott, confused. The dark haired teen only gestured to the paper and continued writing.
Sorry about Stiles. :(
Griffin wanted so badly to laugh, holding a hand against his mouth and shoulders shaking slightly. What was with this guy? It wasn't like Griffin was going to cry or anything.
It's no problem, thanks.
Griffin didn't exactly have much experience in passing notes, so he stared at the small paper, contemplating whether or not his message was satisfactory. Finally with a shrug, Griffin realized he didn't care. Throwing the note back, he noticed the class starting to get up from their seats, and he bolted out of the room, not bothering to put on both straps of his backpack.
Luke would catch up eventually, and he wouldn't see Maria until lunch, so he wandered through the rest of his day, hand gripped tightly around the borrowed pencil.
