egocentric plastic man [nikon]

When he’d been hauled to his feet, there had been nothing to be sorry about yet – the only injury he’d sustained had been from hitting his knee too hard into the floor, and he’d had barely enough time to mess up his uniform anyway. There hadn’t been any yelling even. The new Nautica professor had just laughed at them – when was Fisker coming back? because this woman was a bitch and Conrad hated her – and put them both in detention. He still hadn’t been sorry, then; he had learned anyway that most adults didn’t care if he was sorry, just that he was acting like he was.

He was still too prickly to act sorry now, although the first traces of his conscience were starting to stir back to life. It wasn’t because of detention, though – they were only cleaning out the Quidditch supply closets. He avoided Zima’s gaze as they were marched out to the grounds, which was easy enough, since he only came up to Zima’s chin. He avoided Zima’s gaze as they were handed cleaning potions and gloves and rags; he avoided Zima’s gaze as they were left alone.

It wasn’t really Zima’s fault they were here; maybe Zima could have easily avoided the fight if he hadn’t run his mouth off, but Conrad could have avoided the fight even more easily by not starting it. He wasn’t sorry, or anything – Nikon Zima kind of asked to be treated like that, just by having that personality – but Conrad sort of owed it to him to do more of the cleaning, so he went up to the door and swung it open. At once he was rushed by a Bludger; he shut the door and it thunked heavily into it, reverberating through Conrad’s elbow; Conrad let go of the handle hastily.

Maybe he did regret this a little.

He said to Zima, unnecessarily, in a bit of a temper, “Loose Bludger,” then kicked the door with one boot – “Think she knew already that was in there?”

@Nikon Zima

He was not a happy person. It was the week of the artistic flying showcase that he had been waiting for over a month, and now he was going to have an ugly Conrad’s-fist-shaped bruise on his cheek for it. It was going to be unsightly, and it hurt too. Who was this kid, even? Conrad was his year, a Drakonya Krov, but didn’t he know Nikon’s twin was the school dueling champion? Didn’t he stop to think, before hitting him, that Aleksei was not going to let someone beat on him and get away with it? Of course, Nikon was neither of these himself. He wasn’t really a “fighter.” He was athletically built and strong, but his movements weren’t tailored to fighting. They were graceful and controlled; he was a dancer. He was delicate in a weird way, but that didn’t stop him from talking shit when Conrad had approached him, totally off his rocker. He didn’t know what ha really pissed Conrad off, but he knew he wasn’t going to let it go down quite like this.

Of course, he wasn’t much able to hold his own during the fight. His additional inches in height didn’t mean anything when they were on the ground, and he was a waif at the best of times. Even Conrad wasn’t quite as slim as he was. This was usually a point of pride for Nikon, but this time it was a disadvantage. His mouth hurt. Pointedly, he ignored the other on the way from the corridor to the quidditch supply closet, not noticing that the other was trying his best to avoid eye contact.

Nikon didn’t care one bit for quidditch. He knew Aleksei liked the sport, so he watched. He didn’t mind watching quidditch, but playing? No thanks. AND THIS WAS WHY. As soon as Conrad opened the door a bludger tried to shoot out and nearly struck the other boy in the face. “What the—“ He began, blinking a little. “How are we even supposed to get in there?!” He asked. “I do not have a beater’s build, and frankly neither do you.” He said, adding the last bit mostly to not sound like a wimp.

He raised two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Today is not your day, Sturm.” He decided. “Go on inside and take care of that.” He directed, a little bossy and pushy. He didn’t want to do it himself, and moreover, he couldn’t do it alone. “Maybe you’ll get a matching bruise to go with the one you left on my face.”

The beginnings of what might have been a very gracious and regretful attitude disappeared in a snap as soon as Zima opened his mouth. “Don’t be a baby,” Conrad said irritably; it was rich of him to be annoyed by the other boy’s whining when he’d complained about the same thing five seconds ago, but Conrad felt reasonably confident that Nikon Zima was being a baby, and Conrad was not. He didn’t know what had led him to that conclusion, just that he was sure of it.

He glanced up at his companion for the first time, noting that – despite his height – he was right; they weren’t Beater material. Zima more than him – while Conrad didn’t doubt that it would hurt a lot to get a Bludger to the gut, he figured that would probably shatter Zima into a thousand pieces.

“Shut up,” he said anyway. What was the point in whining on what they couldn’t change? They could go on until the sun set – which wouldn’t be for ages, because of the stupid angle of the planet or wahtever – and they would still have to clean out the Quidditch closet, only it would be harder if it was dark, and he would be hungry by then.

As Conrad shored himself up to offer to go in and take care of it himself – it was only one Bludger, right? – Zima ordered him to do just that, and Conrad’s desire to do so petered to nothing. He shot a glare over his shoulder and said, “Go fuck yourself! I’m not your elf.” At Zima’s next words he glanced up at the other boy’s face again; it wasn’t even purple yet. “Don’t be a baby,” he said again, “I didn’t hit you that hard. And the nurse will fix it if you ask her to.”