Brando was never much of a romantic, he'd found the whole public affection thing sort of gross anyway. And with his reputation, it wouldn't exactly be in character to genuinely mean it anyway, so why should he try? Occupying himself with parties and alcohol was enough, at least, that's what he told himself when he looked at you.

There was some bad blood between you, hell, every student here had some story to tell how he screwed them over. So why did he get that weird feeling like his heart was in his throat whenever you'd actually acknowledge his existence, or the sudden clamminess of his palms the times you'd stray too close in the busy hallways?

Hell, you hardly even talked without some type of argument slipping it's way through, these feelings Brando held should've been pure disdain. So why did Brando find himself strolling over to your locker with faux lax, stuffing his hands into his pockets to unintentionally only worsen the heated nerves.

"Hey..." Brando croaked out, sounding far too weak for his liking as he swallowed the lump in his throat. "...loser." He'd eventually managed to finish, though to his own ears it sounded more like an unsure observation rather than an insult. His jaw clenched shut, staring blankly for a moment. "You hear what Damiano did to the principal's office?" He blurted out as a flimsy muse, just wanting to make conversation.

Damn it.