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Apparently, someone made it an official thing that everyone has to take public speaking for all degree programs.
Scaramouche wants to hunt down the genius who came up with that requirement and treat them to the slowest, most painful death imaginable. If it weren’t for them (whoever they are), he could be in a class he actually cares about right now, like an intro to computer programming or that cool Python class he wants to take. But instead, he’s sitting in the public speaking classroom, glaring at the Powerpoint presentation on the whiteboard at the front of the class, wondering how much trouble he’ll get in if he burns the classroom down.
It’s not like he’s scared of public speaking. He knows how to do it. People just like telling him that his attitude sucks, and apparently that makes people “unwilling” to listen to a damn word he says. He finds that a good swear works better than a million platitudes and pleases , but it’s all a matter of preference, after all.
So why, exactly, is taking this class such a hardship for him?
It’s because of her.
It’s always because of her.
* * *
Her. Mona Megistus, freshman Astronomy major and bane of his existence.
She’s a boil on the backside of humanity, and he’s the only one who can see it. She’s pretty in a way that makes him grit his teeth, with her long black hair streaked with purple, and her wide, innocent blue eyes. She’s also a complete freak, which most people don’t notice because of the aforementioned pretty thing. She enjoys wearing a huge-ass witch hat around like everyday’s a Halloween party (and when she’s around, it is), and likes terrorizing innocent students about their star signs and horoscopes.
All of which is shit Scaramouche doesn’t believe in. Hell, some days he doesn’t even believe stars exist. Like, stars where ? There’s too much light pollution to see jack shit, even with a clear sky.
Anyway, he hates her. They live in the same dorm together, right across the hall, and he’s nearly had several heart attacks since he started college because of her. The first time was because he was changing his shirt with the door cracked, and then he looked over and saw a huge blue eye staring at him through the gap. He’s not proud of the high-pitched shriek he let out that day.
The second time was during a meeting in the common room, ordered by his royal RA-ness Neuvillette. The meeting was about identifying the person who kept leaving the dorm doors open so random people could come in, and Scaramouche was only half-listening (he was 99% sure it was Childe. Gingers are idiots). But then someone slipped ice down his shirt, and he shrieked (again) and it was Mona, smiling at him like she was an angel. And everyone made fun of him for weeks.
His heart hasn’t been working properly since that day whenever he sees her. He’s pretty sure it’s a trauma response.
* * *
Anyway, back to public speaking. He never thought he’d end up in a class with her, but Fate likes giving him the middle finger, so here he is, currently giving up on his arson idea. I could just bolt for the door, he thinks, but then he changes his mind. The teacher looks like she could and would tackle him like a fucking linebacker.
“Mouche-face,” he hears, and a shiver runs up his spine. He refuses to turn around and acknowledge her.
“You’re going to be paired off in groups of two. I want you to speak to each other, get to know each other a little bit, and then you’ll come up here and introduce each other. Is that clear?” The sadistic teacher beams, rubbing her hands together. “Good. I’ll pair you all up.”
She calls out groups of names, and Scaramouche listens with bated breath. Anyone but her, he prays, jiggling his foot under the desk.
Fate gives him a second middle finger.
“Scaramouche and Mona,” the teacher calls, giving him a wide smile.
He turns in his seat, dreading the moment he meets her eyes. And it’s just as bad as he expected. She’s smiling, chin resting on her hands, eyes sparkling with evil joy.
“Hiya, Mouche-face,” she sing-songs, and he wishes some space debris would fall on his head and kill him right now.
* * *
“I’m Mona Megistus,” she says, holding out her hand. She’s wearing some stupid black lace gloves that go up to her elbows. “Nice to meet you.”
“I know who you are. You’ve been torturing me since day one,” he snaps.
“We’re supposed to do the assignment!” she whines, and he sighs, snatching her hand and shaking it up and down roughly. “There. We’re introduced.”
“I’m an astronomy major. What are you majoring in?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“Computer programming it is, then,” she says, taking notes in a sparkly notebook. Scaramouche is pretty sure he sees his name written in cursive with a heart around it, and he regrets every decision he’s ever made in life that’s dropped him right here.
“Hobbies?” she asks, tapping her mouth with the end of her pen.
“Also none of your fucking business.”
“I like discovering how people’s horoscopes and zodiac signs predict their behavior and personality,” she chirps, and he thumps his head against the desk.
“And I also like listening to indie pop artists,” she adds, like he gives a fuck.
The desk has pencil grooves in it where some cheating dirtbag tried to write down the entire fundamental theorem of calculus. From what he can see with his nose pressed against it, they got it wrong.
“My favorite movie is Ten Things I Hate About You. ”
He can think of ninety-million things he hates about her. Her stupid hat, those lacy gloves, the way she feels the need to wear shirts and dresses with low necklines, the way she looks at him like they’re dating or something—
“Time’s up! Stand up when I call you and introduce each other,” the teacher says, clapping her hands.
Scaramouche waits for it, because of course the first name she calls is his. He slouches to the front, hands in his pockets, and blows his bangs out of his face. Mona follows him, practically bouncing with excitement, and he grinds his teeth together.
* * *
“Any day now,” the teacher prompts.
“This is Mona,” he says reluctantly, jerking a hand at her. “She’s an astronomy major.”
The class is quiet for several moments. The teacher looks at him like, And what else?
“She likes terrorizing people. If you see her in a public place, run. She wears a witch hat because she is one.”
Mona pokes him in the ribs with an evil pointy finger.
“And she likes listening to those awful screechy artists on Youtube who really can’t sing but no one has bothered to tell them that. And if she sees you sitting on the floor, she will feel the urge to walk over and kick you in the nuts.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” the teacher says. The class claps half-heartedly. “Mona?”
“Oh, I have so much to say about Scaramouche,” she says, and Scaramouche realizes he should run now.
* * *
It’s worse than he expected.
But he also kind of deserves it.
“This is Scaramouche,” Mona says, patting his shoulder. “He goes by Mouche-face, though.”
The class laughs. Scaramouche bites the inside of his lips until he tastes blood.
“He likes weird computer code, bread, and cats,” she adds. “He has this adorable little cat plushy that he sleeps with sometimes.”
More laughter.
How the fuck do you know that, you creep? he wonders.
“His hobbies include staring at my chest, swearing at people, and shrieking like a little boy whose balls haven’t dropped yet.”
“And you steal my bread and put ice down the back of my shirt,” he growls, unable to take it any longer.
“And you refuse to get a haircut. You look stupid, stupid.”
“You need to get better insults.”
“Yeah? Well, you need to man up and admit that you like me.”
“And you need an invite to the psych ward!”
“ You need an attitude adjustment.”
“And you need to stop staring at me when I’m changing!”
Somehow, he’s right up in her face now, and he tries to ignore how striking her eyes are when she’s angry. Pleasure tickles at the back of his spine. He’s managed to make her like this, furious and breathless, and it’s exhilarating.
The classroom is silent. Scaramouche can feel several people dying of laughter, trying to hide it behind their hands. The teacher has no words.
“Ooh, sexual tension,” someone says quietly, but since the room is silent, it’s the loudest thing. Scaramouche turns, throwing a burning glare at the short red-eyed, blond-haired sophomore sitting in the first row.
“Shut up,” he snaps, watching the boy’s eyes widen.
“That’s enough,” the teacher says, moving between him and Mona. “Sit down right now.”
* * *
They end up getting separated.
They’re as far apart as they can possibly be without Mona being in the hallway and Scaramouche on the roof. The rest of the introductions are anticlimactic. Scaramouche keeps an eye on the red-eyed dude, noting his name for future payback. Kaveh. A super-cheery architecture major who loves talking about support strength and geometric wonders and flying buttresses. Fucking nerd.
He’s almost falling asleep when something hits him in the back of the shoulder. When he looks up, there’s a paper airplane on the floor with the name Mouche-face written on one wing. He opens it to find a note that says, We good? And then, Fuck you. ~Mona.
Yeah, he writes back. And then he adds, Fuck you too. ~Scaramouche.
He launches it back across the room, smiling as it hits her stupid witch hat.
Maybe this class won’t be that bad, now that they’ve gotten everything out.
* * *
It ends up being just as bad as he thought it would be.
God, I hate Mona.