✉ TEXT [and/or] OPEN ACTION

[dropkick]

1. what's the policy for a missed final at Westerberg?
2. anyone going to the dance tomorrow know if they sell photos and how much they charge?
3. my calculator is still missing.

and this doesn't really fit on the list but for anyone who goes out to eat or orders in? tip the guy/girl/alien/whatever for fuck's sake.



[ open a c t i o n (multiple choice) ]

[ (A) Milling about the school still? You might run into Arthur. (B) On your way to the beach? You might run into Arthur. Either way he looks the same: rumpled with some scrapes to finesse the effect but largely unconcerned about it. If anything he seems distracted - emptying the minimal contents of his locker or walking in a daze or just leaning against the main office building while checking his phone. ]



[ooc: responses coming from odds annnnnd am linking his phone post for any alternative texting/prankphonecall/ic contact shenanigans as this curse affords such opportunity *_*]

Comments

[odds]

Wasn't more than I could handle. [ That's a lie, mumbled as he blinks, picking up his glasses. He doesn't take the offered hand, shoving himself up and brushing his hands off on his jeans - which is stupid since his jeans are dirty too but force of habit. Eying Clint - he does know his name, a couple months being enough to just begin to let these things settle in if not to get settled in - he tilts his head. Then he glances away briefly, touching experimentally the bridge of his nose, the wet of a scrape or cut across the side of his face. Superficial stuff. Good. He lets his shoulders drop, some of the defensive tension gone but not all. ]

Thanks though...Clint, right?

[ He figures he owes the guy that much. Might have made the difference between glasses still intact, or a nose, so, 'thanks' it is, as he stares at him, wondering if he owes him now or something. Clint's reputation as a nice guy precedes him, but Arthur isn't sure if that means the same thing here as it did at his other school; he's still deciding. ]

[troubler]

If you say so. [ He shrugs, easy enough, and he doesn't seem fazed either way about the turning down of his hand, just lets it fall loosely back to his side. He goes with the flow of things, never a guy to really care too much about nitpicking, so taking things personally isn't something he does. Much.

It's hard to tell if he's surprised by the fact he knows his name or not, though, expression in default, nothing much there to see unless someone knows how to pick it apart. ] Clint, yeah, and you're the Arthur kid everyone got hyped about for a while.

[ He pays attention, it's whether he let on that he does that's the thing, and he removes some wipes from his bag. ] Here, been in a scrape or two of my own, I come prepared.

[odds]

[ Eying the cloths for a second, Arthur does accept a couple, murmuring 'thanks' again and this one more subdued, minus any still-remnant defensiveness at having been helped at all. It's the tiredness of letting your guard down and it's fine except he's missed his last final, which is, you know, not so fine. There's a glint of a smile in brown eyes behind the glasses, and a slight quirk to his split lip. ] Guilty as charged. But only for a while.

[ He felt a lot better when the new-reflector wore off, now attracting only the sort of trouble he doesn't mean to but always manages to because mouthing off even under his breath is something he's not good at curbing (yet). Another sigh and he glances at the lockers, then down the otherwise empty hall. Again he ends up looking at Clint, basically staring but there's something neutral about it, like he's setting him in his mind the way one sets the definition of a word into the Merriam-Webster - factual, specific, objective. ] You didn't have to help, you know.

[ He says it more to know why Clint did help, if it's simply niceness or what, but his tone if anything is only searching, inquiring, just shy of being the actual question. ]

[troubler]

[ He shrugs a shoulder, a lazy motion, and lets his bag slide down his arm, buries the wipes at the bottom when their usefulness is over. ]

I was in the neighbourhood. [ It's true, he was merely passing, wandering the kill time, see the sights, the usual. But there aren't that many people he would stop and help out, or at least not unless they really deserved it. He was new enough to get a free pass, but Clint found him interesting, had seen him around. There was a story there and he liked a good story. He liked even more the challenge of finding out what it was. ]

You got anywhere to be?

[odds]

[ For a moment he considers offering to replace the wipes or something, but when Clint puts them in his bag he lets it be, brown eyes moving from said bag to Clint's forearm then his shoulder then the amicable expression on his face. Again Arthur is struck with the impression of someone who is just nice, even as he shakes his head in response. ]

Nah. Well, kinda. Have to wait and see if they'll let me take the exam late. Was supposed to be there ten minutes ago, but...

[ He gestures back in the direction the other guys went. Suffice to say he got detoured away from his goal of class B-301, but like hell is he going to go to summer school for something that isn't his fault. He scuffs the toe of his shoe against the corridor floor, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jeans before he draws one out again to adjust his glasses. ]

What about you? On your way somewhere?

[ In the neighborhood suggests to Arthur 'passing through' but he's not sure he's right of course, more fishing into conversation - something he isn't overly given toward doing in person too much but there's no one else around and maybe it's somewhat the relief talking. There's no invisible pressure here, a thing that when present throws him off entirely even if he's shit at explaining it. Moot now though, in its absence. When he got here he expected more of the same as with his old school - just different dust covers - but he's found a bit more footing than he'd expected and he's not sure what to think of it, hasn't been able to bring himself to ask anyone what their opinion might be on it, or whether it matters at all.

Without thinking, he wipes the back of his hand across his face and scowls at the sting of dragging it over the cut there, slips that hand back into his pocket after all. ]