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hibariskylarkKyoya missed Japan. He had more or less since he'd stepped off the plane.
Money could get you a lot. One of the things it could buy you was a decent enough apartment not too far from Beacon Hills High School. It was probably nothing, but when someone like Deaton called in a favor and dropped words like nogitsune, there had been no choice about leaving behind the town he cherished. Hopefully it wouldn't be too long, just a couple weeks to check into rumor, and either dispel them as the ghosts of shadows they were, or get confirmation that chaos walked with its feet on solid ground.
And that's how Kyoya ends up doing something as mundane as sitting through an English class in rural California. They're reading Romeo and Juliet, and he couldn't care less if he tried. He speaks English flawlessly, but he knows the majority of the class likely assumes otherwise given a pointed lack of interest in talking to anyone. The school doesn't have a dress code, and so Kyoya's in his uniform from back home. Black slacks, white button-down, and that jacket draped off of his shoulders with the disciplinary committee armband pinned to his left sleeve. He looks like he slipped out of the pages of some girls' manga. The fact that he showed up in the middle of April, when the cherry blossoms were in full bloom, just made it somehow more poetic.
Stiles Stilinski. He didn't seem like much, really. He'd intended to be covert, to get a read on him and then go from there. That plan went out the window when the boy nearly fell out of his chair when Kyoya walked into the room, a late quarter transfer. And he'd spent the rest of the time staring at him, and Kyoya hated the fact that it left him on the defensive, aggressively ignoring the attention, as if he could ignore him out of existence. They say that plans never survive contact with the enemy. Kyoya was usually better than that.
But needless to say, none of what he'd intended had survived that over-enthusiastic brown-eyed boy. It annoyed him, had frustration curling in his throat like something tangible, but he tried to bite it back, shove it down. Stiles wasn't supposed to be so very ... alive. It was almost as intriguing as it was frustrating. Almost. But mostly it made Kyoya want to hit him until he stopped looking at him like that.
Money could get you a lot. One of the things it could buy you was a decent enough apartment not too far from Beacon Hills High School. It was probably nothing, but when someone like Deaton called in a favor and dropped words like nogitsune, there had been no choice about leaving behind the town he cherished. Hopefully it wouldn't be too long, just a couple weeks to check into rumor, and either dispel them as the ghosts of shadows they were, or get confirmation that chaos walked with its feet on solid ground.
And that's how Kyoya ends up doing something as mundane as sitting through an English class in rural California. They're reading Romeo and Juliet, and he couldn't care less if he tried. He speaks English flawlessly, but he knows the majority of the class likely assumes otherwise given a pointed lack of interest in talking to anyone. The school doesn't have a dress code, and so Kyoya's in his uniform from back home. Black slacks, white button-down, and that jacket draped off of his shoulders with the disciplinary committee armband pinned to his left sleeve. He looks like he slipped out of the pages of some girls' manga. The fact that he showed up in the middle of April, when the cherry blossoms were in full bloom, just made it somehow more poetic.
Stiles Stilinski. He didn't seem like much, really. He'd intended to be covert, to get a read on him and then go from there. That plan went out the window when the boy nearly fell out of his chair when Kyoya walked into the room, a late quarter transfer. And he'd spent the rest of the time staring at him, and Kyoya hated the fact that it left him on the defensive, aggressively ignoring the attention, as if he could ignore him out of existence. They say that plans never survive contact with the enemy. Kyoya was usually better than that.
But needless to say, none of what he'd intended had survived that over-enthusiastic brown-eyed boy. It annoyed him, had frustration curling in his throat like something tangible, but he tried to bite it back, shove it down. Stiles wasn't supposed to be so very ... alive. It was almost as intriguing as it was frustrating. Almost. But mostly it made Kyoya want to hit him until he stopped looking at him like that.
