Us Against The World

School continued in the way that it normally did; senseless boredom. For the next few weeks it was much the same. Ceri pissed some teachers off, Emerson sucked up to the same ones, and I just watched in fair amusement. The one person that Ceri tried so desperately to annoy and failed in every way was Dr Quince. She couldn't even get him to marginally raise his voice, let alone get angry. She would waltz into lessons a good ten minutes late without an excuse or apology, sit with her feet up on the desk, rock on her chair, chew gum and text on her phone. He just simply ignored her and carried on teaching in an animated way. From the first lesson that he actually taught us, he portrayed one thing; he had an undying passion for his subject. Which was completely beyond me, because I couldn't see in any way how someone could love maths. Then again, he wasn't actually normal, in any sense or context. The way he formed his sentence was alternate, but yet they still made sense. He also had a tendency to use long, complex words which nobody could decipher the meaning off. He would walk around on desktops, photocopy worksheets on multi-coloured paper to make them more interesting and started to draw a huge spider diagram in pencil on the far classroom wall, all relating around the subject of 'Energy'. No-one particularly liked him, but nobody disliked him either, other than the exception of Ceri. He held respect if anything. All it took from him to wipe out a rare unruly moment was a simple glance at the disruptor, upon which his face held no expression.

He was an extremely good teacher though; I won't deny him that. He would explain a method in a sure fire way, set a practice exercise then relax back in his chair, feet propped up on the desk and read a Marvel comic of some kind. If it weren't for the fact that she had already decided that she completely hated him, I reckon he and Ceri could have become the best of buddies. If the same Batman series he was currently reading and the prized collection that lay on her bedroom shelf was anything to go by. Still, she exited every lesson loudly bitching about him whilst Emerson tried to cover her mouth with his hand to prevent him from hearing. I, again, just watched. Observed and analysed every single action. It was a pure fascination to his guarded attitude more than everything else. Occasionally, he would relax for a fraction of a moment, make some sort of joke then suddenly clam up again.

Even so, life progressed. We were overloaded with homework, regardless of it being the first few weeks back and barely had time to breathe. All hopes of catching a late summer weekend were diminished and replaced with yet more sessions of attempting to bat back the onslaught of work assignments. One Friday, I was more than happy to collapse in front of the TV in the lounge with a tub of ice cream, yet such a thing did not happen. Instead, I found myself having to dress up and meet some of Stephen and Melanie's close friends, who they'd invited round for dinner. Sure, Stephen had asked me if it was okay earlier on in the week, but I had been too distracted trying to complete an impossible maths question, which Dr Quince thought it would funny to set us, and had just agreed to anything that he had said.

So, at six o'clock, I was standing in front of the mirror in my bedroom, a fine sense of apprehension setting in due to the low rumble of chatter coming from below. With a groan, I moved back and over to the door, switching the light off as I left and trying to conjure up the perfect child facade. They hadn't invited many people, maybe eight or so, but yet a sense of dread lodged itself in the base of my throat and refused to budge. I still forced myself to walk down the stairs, and with every one the urge to run back to my room greatened. I had never been one for socialising, let alone with adults, of which I had an extremely minimal experience with.

I stepped into the lowly populated sitting room and caught Stephen's eye from the far corner. He was with a man, who's back was turned to me, and as he waved me over, all I could remark upon was that the friend had a really, really nice ass. It wasn't the time for such thoughts, I know, but even I could not help but notice something that nice. When I reached them, Stephen beamed at me, his face slightly flushed from the first effects of alcohol, and said "Eva, I'd like you to meet a good friend of mine; Quincey."

Mr Nice-Ass turned round to me for the first time, and I found myself face to face with my bastard of a maths teacher. Just because I didn't exactly dislike him didn't mean that I still didn't think he was a bastard. Him turning up in your house as your foster father's seemingly best friend tends to make you think that.

You know those moments in a film, where the lead male and female turn to each other and then realise their undeniable, passionate love at which they begin a full on make out, complete with tongues? Then was not one of those moments. Instead, his face stayed deadpan as he extended a hand out for me shake along with a quiet murmur of "Nice to finally meet you." The only outward sign of acknowledgment was an ever so slight twitch of his eyebrow and corner of his mouth. I then concluded that his ass actually wasn't so nice, after all.

I shook his hand in return, somewhat surprised by the warmth and softness of his palm. For a reason which I did not know, I had been expecting cool, scaly and dry fingers. "Right back at you."

A small crease of confusion crossed Stephen's forehead at the cool exchange. "Did I... Did I just miss something?"

"Nothing to the visible eye, no." Quince turned back to him, this time the familiar smirk playing across his mouth. "She's in my fifth form maths class."

Stephen's jaw slackened a little. "You never told me that you were working at the grammar school?"

"You never asked." He retorted back. "But let's look on the bright side; the whole joke earlier about her hating me has already been accomplished."

I broke in then, with a mixture of embarrassment and a little sheepishness. "I don't hate you."

"You don't exactly like me either. Ceri definitely hates me, anyway." He stated it as a mere well-known fact.

"Both true." There was no point in denying it.

He nonchalantly shrugged, taking a sip from his drink bottle. "Hardly surprising. You're not really meant to like your teachers anyway. Especially after our first run-in."

"What happened?" Stephen asked, curiosity seeping into his expression.

"I refuse to call her by her preferred name. Full name only."

"Why?"

"Eva." The stress upon it showed the same, almost malicious distrainment from the only other time I'd heard him say it. Stephen's face fell a little upon realisation of something as Quince continued. "I apologized and explained after our main dispute over it."

"You explained? All of it?"

"Oh god no. Just... An extremely abridged version that I have personal reasons."

Their way of speech only made me feel small and insignificant until Melanie appeared, sliding an arm around Stephen's waist and smiling at me with a real sparkle in her eye. "All okay?"

Stephen grinned down at her, wrapping his own arm across her shoulders and kissing the side of her temple.

"Yep. Hey, want to know something really funny?"

She looked up at him, scepticism streaking across her face, as we all realised that he was a lot more drunk that we'd initially thought. "Sure."

"Eva and Quincey know each other. How seriously weird is that? I mean, he even teaches her maths."
She raised a questioning eyebrow at us as he dopily grinned. "Yes, honey. Look, why don't you sit down, and I'll get you something to eat?"

He smartly stepped back, shaking his head resolutely. "You're trying to sober me up. Don't be silly love, I won't show you up; I promise."

I took that as my opportunity to slip away and go get a drink from the kitchen. I didn't realise that I had been followed until I picked up the two litre bottle of coke up off the floor and placed it heavily upon the work surface, narrowly missing the hand which was resting upon it. Looking up, I met the aquamarine eyes which still sent shivers up my spine. Quickly tearing away from the enrapturing gaze before I could be lost in a simmering pool of water, I grabbed a glass from the overhead cupboard and poured myself out a drink, all the whilst he mutely observed me, as I had in reverse for the past few weeks. Slightly irritated, I turned to him, my scowl only being the cause of a somewhat mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Can I get you anything?"

He didn't see the need to reply directly to my question in the correct context. "I don't want you to even dislike me." He twisted away, pulling out the recycling bin draw and chucking in his now empty bottle. "I never wanted you to. I feel bad for what happened." He glanced back at me and I found myself unable to resist looking once more into his steely pupils.

Two could play at the not properly responding game, however. "How well do you and Stephen know each other?"

The corners of his eyes creased marginally, as he decided to answer for once. "Fairly well... As in, I practically lived here before you moved in. I would sleep in the annex above the dining room. I even had a security check upon me before they were allowed to foster you."

"Oh..." I grabbed a bottle of beer from the ice bucket by the sink and passed it over to him. "How do you know each other?"

He took it, rolling it over in his palms as he thought for a moment. "I guess you could say that it was through a mutual acquaintance." He then stepped closer, making the breath hitch in my throat, for some unknown reason, as he reached past and placed the drink, still unopened, back in the bucket. He cocked an eyebrow in his usual fashion as I gave him a questioning look. Shrugging, he too took a glass from the cabinet and poured him out a coke, joining me in soberty. "To clear up the unspoken inquiry, seriously, look at me; do I really seem like a person who indulges to the sweet delusion of alcohol?"

'No' would have been my answer, as I observed him in his less formal attire. Not that it could even be considered relaxed; he still wore a long sleeved dress shirt with the collar loose, an unbuttoned waistcoat and a pair of black jeans which looked so pristine that I would easily believe that the tags had only been taken off a couple hours prior. He grimaced ever so slightly at my silence. "I have a severe intolerance to it. After even a sip, I either end in unconscious on the floor, or delirious and hunched up over a toilet, vomiting up everything that has entered my digestive tract over the past few days. The other one," He nodded in the direction of the bin, "was alcohol free, but I don't really like the taste of beer anyway."

I rolled my eyes at the first, somewhat excessive detailed explanation. "So now that I know you away from the classroom, can I call you something different that Dr Quince?"

He seemed to consider it for a while, running his tongue around the backs of his teeth. "You can call me Quincey; that's what everybody else does."

"Everybody else calls me Eva." I retorted back, not willing to back down. "What's your first name?"

"None of your business." Was his direct comeback as his eyes narrowed slightly at the challenge.

"Well, you can either tell me, or I'll just go and ask Stephen. I could also go look it up in my school diary upstairs, but you telling me just saves a lot of bother coming to the same conclusion."

"Fine." He huffed. "It's Cyrus."

I couldn't help but splutter with laughter. He looked mortally offended, but not in an angry way. "Cyrus... Seriously?"

"Yes. What's wrong with that?"

"The complete obscurity of it. Fair enough if it was like, John, but bizarre and bizarre? You don't seem to like it either, or else you wouldn't request to be called by your surname."

He groaned in mock defeat. "Okay, so I hate it; big deal. Why I'm called by my surname is a completely different matter to that though."

"Which is?"

"Really not any of your business." He finished off in a firm, authoritative voice, slipping back into the teacher role as Melanie entered, looking extremely flustered.

She gave a mock scowl at Quince, or Cyrus now, lightly pushing him on the shoulder. "It's your fault. You shouldn't have let him drink so much; you know how he gets."

He innocently shrugged, taking a mouthful of his drink and slowly swallowing. "I'll make him a coffee. That usually works. You go back and just enjoy yourself; you've already been stressing over the food."

She gave him a relieved smile and with a quick peck on the cheek as a thanks, rushed back out as he switched on the kettle. Seeing him bustle around the kitchen that I'd become accustomed to, knowing exactly where the mugs and coffee granules were was strange... Just strange. Not good strange, nor bad; something that I could kind of get used to, I guess. Something that I had to get used to, seemingly.

As the water in the kettle was beginning to simmer, he turned back to his earlier train of questioning. "So why do you not like me?"

"You said earlier that you're not really meant to like your teachers."

He appraised me for what seemed a very long minute, before leaning back against the work surface. "Yes, but there's a difference between liking someone, and liking them simply as a teacher."

"You're just not..." I trailed off, for some reason not wanting to say anything that might have upset him. "Well, exactly friendly."

"I try to make it fun."

"And you're a good teacher. Everyone works hard for you; they want to please you."

He looked considering, swirling the last few dregs around in his glass. "That was the aim that I had when I first entered that classroom... I suppose that I wanted to be the one who's students all receive A grades and is marginally respected, rather than the one who is loved but is a complete push over."

"Well, you're going the right way to achieve the one that you want." It came out in a much more negative tone than I had originally planned.

"Do you think I could be a bit nicer without losing the edge?"

"It depends... You can stop the Nazism though. Everyone is fully understanding of what you want -"

" - Except Ceri." He cut me off.

"Ceri is always the exception; don't take it personally. Just... I don't know, make Friday a cake day? Take a step and relax a bit. We're going to get burned out from stress otherwise."

He slowly nodded as the water came to a boil. "Thanks… So tell, me" A somewhat teasing smirk appeared once more. "Where do you keep Hamish?"

"…Who?"

I realised only too late what he meant. "You know, your rabbit. See, I always thought that Stephen has a severe allergy to rabbits."

"Okay, so you now know about my imaginary pet. Get over it."

He softly chuckled as he began to make Stephen's coffee. I slipped out and back to the sitting room, where I began to make stilted conversation about mundane things like schools and exams with a few other people.

Melanie saved me about ten minutes later by declaring that the food was ready and ushered everybody through to the dining room. I was, much to my joys, excused from joining them and was much more content to sit in the lounge with my food on a tray and watch a repeat episode of House on a Sky channel. About five minutes into the episode, the door clicked open and Quince entered, holding a tray of his own in one hand. He sat down on the armchair, with a faint glare at me on the sofa, and began to dig into his food, slowly swallowing as he still noticed me staring at him. "What?"

"Why are you in here?"

"I find it difficult to socialise with large groups of people."

"Yet, you became a teacher?"

"There's a big difference between teaching a class of teenagers and sitting around a table making polite dinner conversation. The latter is a far more vexing task."

"True... So why did you come in the first place?"

He took another mouthful, chewing and rapidly swallowing once more. "Because Melanie is an outstanding cook. Besides that, Stephen insisted that it was time for me to meet you and I wanted to know how soon it would be until I could stay here again."

"So you really did live here?"

He nodded. "That's actually my seat that you're sitting in."

"Well, you're going to have to fight me for it. I've just got it moulded to my butt."

Snorting with laughter, he turned his attentions to the television screen. "And just as I had finally gotten it moulded to mine, as well."

It suddenly occurred to me that the nice ass had been in the exact same place as I currently was. It was, strangely, a rather pleasant thought.