~History class~
Mr. Hale:
"you'll be working with the person I asisign directly to you."
The class groaned. A few kids whispered under their breath.
Mr. Hale began reading.
"Jenna and Kayla. Ryan and Malik. Theo and Aanya. Jules and Oscar…"
The room filled with shifting bodies and awkward glances as students started sliding their desks together.
Ciro didn't move. His eyes were glued to the textbook, fingers clenched around a pen like it was a blade.
"And finally," Mr. Hale said with no sense of mercy,
"Ciro and Csepel."
Ciro looked up, barely. His eyes met one thing.
Csepel.
He almost stood up. Almost told Mr. Hale he'd rather fail. But instead, he clenched his jaw, nodded once, and stared back down at his notebook like it had personally betrayed him.
Csepel, of course, leaned in like this was the best thing that had happened all day.
"Fate," he whispered. "You can't fight it, Ciro."
"I can ignore it," Ciro muttered.
They were given five minutes to plan. Csepel tapped his pen against the desk, watching Ciro.
"So," Csepel said, dragging the word out. "We're doing the French Revolution. Which part do you want?"
"The part where you shut the fuck up."
"Oh, tragic. I was hoping we'd bond over guillotines."
Ciro looked up sharply. "Just research the Reign of Terror. I'll handle the political causes."
"Fine by me, co-captain."
There was a beat of silence. Ciro reached for his backpack. His sleeve slipped, revealing a faint purple bruise near his wrist. Just for a second.
Csepel noticed.
He didn't say anything.
Instead, he dropped the teasing and handed over his notebook.
"Here," he said, quieter. "Take my notes from last week. I know Hale rushed through that part."
Ciro hesitated. Took them.
Didn't say thanks. But something in his expression shifted—just slightly. Not trust. Not friendship. But less resistance.
Maybe even curiosity.