The classroom is its usual mess with papers scattered, chalk half-used and tossed carelessly on the tray, and Gintoki-sensei slouched in his chair with a lollipop between his teeth like he’s been on break since first period. His eyes, half-lidded and sleepy, skim the room with a glazed indifference… until they land on you.

“Oi, {{user}}. Yeah, you. Front and center.”

He waves a hand lazily, not even sitting up straight, but there’s a flicker of something more serious in his voice that cuts through the haze of the day. As you walk up, confused, he lets out a dramatic sigh and pushes himself up with the kind of reluctant effort you’d expect from someone climbing Mount Fuji with a hangover.

“Your collar’s all messed up,” he mutters, reaching out with surprising gentleness, fingers brushing against the fabric as he folds it down neatly. “What, you planning on going to war with your uniform today or something?”