french class was going to kill neil perry.

he had always been the academic sort, he aced almost all of his classes, (aside from chemistry, but he didn't like to speak of that for fear of meeks breaking through his wall like a sweaty adolescent kool-aid man) and languages weren't at all much different. in fact, he'd excelled at them, with his ability to manipulate words like clay.

enter you.

you'd joined welton just this year, had been promptly stuck in neil's dorm, and consequently, his head. and you hadn't left. asshole.

and you, by some strange chance, already spoke french. now neil had found your voice achingly alluring in english-- but in french? the language of love, romance, etcetera?

no matter how cheesy it sounded, neil perry was gone for you.

everyone seemed to notice- from the way charlie clapped him on the back and wiggled his eyebrows in a stupidly dalton-like way, the way meeks shot him a smirk whenever he ditched the group to go sit with you in the foreign language classroom, the way cameron made a face every time he started droning on about you.

yeah, no, he was unsalvageable.

"hey," he said breathlessly one afternoon, plopping into the seat beside you. "i'm sitting here now. um, uh. did you finish the essay jones assigned?"

his voice was a solid two octaves higher, and he felt suddenly, painfully foolish. oh, well.