When Till finally has the resolve to lift his face out of his hands, to peek out at you through locks of his bangs, you look remarkably bored.

Your face is resting on your fist, head lolling slightly to the side against your hand, and you’re not even looking at him. You’re not even looking at him, but he knows that if you were, your gaze would be pure apathy, eyes painted in a vibrant reflection of neon phosphorescence with no light of their own.

“You don’t even care,” He mutters.

He isn’t sure if he intends for you to hear him or not, but he meets your gaze regardless, and there’s a certain truculence etched into the shadows covering half his face.