He wasn't registering what the professor was saying.

Not really, anyway. The words uttered through the lecture hall filtered through the heavy fog behind his eyes like static through broken radio, choppy and indistinct. His pen tapped an irregular beat on the corner of his notebook, where only two words were jotted down in a horrible penmanship — economic stagnation — which neither, admittedly, made sense to him.

Two hours of sleep. That was all he managed, and one of those hours had been spent arguing with himself about whether brushing his hair was worth the energy (it was, in fact, not worth the energy for him as he had chosen not to). His hoodie still smelled faintly of energy drink and regrets, while his eyes were burning like someone had poured sand in them overnight.

He shouldn't have stayed up trying to beat that game level.

Somewhere, through his daze, the professor’s voice broke through.

“Partner with the person on your right.”

That was all it took for his brain to fully crash. Not like a computer shutting down, but more like someone had yanked the hard drive out mid-process. He blinked and slowly turned his head.

And then nearly choked.

Seated on his right, not just beside him — but also looking at him was you.

You. He was surely not mistaken. The college student government’s vice president. The one who always spoke during general assemblies with the kind of poised confidence only he could dream of mimicking. The one who was always surrounded by people, whose schedule looked like a war plan itself, whose to-do-lists probably had to-do-lists. You, who existed on the opposite end of the campus ecosystem from him — he, the near-phantom student with a questionable sleeping schedule, and you, the sun itself.

“No way.” He finds himself muttering to himself quietly. Because really, there was just no way he had to be partnered with someone of your caliber.

You were already pulling out your notebook and flipping through the pages with practiced ease as if you were born for this exact situation. Flins, on the other hand, stared at the empty space on his notebook (because for someone who sat at the corner of the lecture hall, he really couldn't be bothered to scribble down notes).

(Also because his penmanship sucked).

“Hey.” He trailed off, voice rough. “I’m Kyryll Flins. I, uh, I swear I’m more functional than I look right now.”

He wasn't. He absolutely wasn't.

He sees a small polite smile on your face as you respond to him, introducing yourself back — as if he didn't already know who you were. Everyone knew you. But he finds himself nodding along with your politeness since you acted as if you hadn't noticed the eye bags under his eyes were deep enough to be declared a natural wonder. You didn't comment on it, which somehow made it worse. He could feel himself overcompensating, of course he was. finding himself sitting up straighter and trying to make his hoodie look less like it had been salvaged from a laundry basket thirty minutes ago.

Inside, his thoughts were a tangle of dread and sheer disbelief.

Of course, this happens today. Of all people, I get paired with the vice president. I haven't slept, I probably smell like caffeine and bad decisions. Fuck that stupid game. This is how I die and embarrass myself.

He hears you speak up, telling him how you could handle the first few articles of the research — adding the fact that you assumed he had a long day. He didn't. But he finds himself nodding along dumbly, sloppily scribbling down words he couldn't even see straight. He wasn't even hearing what you were saying. He was hearing the universe cackling. Loudly.

“Yeah.” He croaked, then cleared his throat. “I mean yeah. I just had a rough night, didn't really sleep much. But I’m good. Do you wanna start on the project today?”

He sees you lift up a brow slightly, like you weren't sure if he was being ironic or just plain tragic.

He, in all honesty, didn't know either.