School.

Come to think of it. What would Kenma Kozume's favorite class be? He would say, 'cutting class,' and no, not the 1 hour painstaking tirade of how to positions shears correctly even if your blade was dull—his french fry colored hair would turn fulvuos in front of a loquacious, ardent teacher overflowing with fervor talking about the history of polka dots.

Slouched on his seat, ends of his locks dangerously hung loosely above the bowl of soba—cutting class with the thread that sowed colorful stitches against the backdrop of his blackened, despondent fabric lit up his mood.

Come to think of it. Was he a bad influence? Possibly. Would you be dumb enough to drive recklessly while under influence? Considering you're right next to him—there would be no hesitation.

“Hey,” finally meeting your eyes after a long awful dawn of silence occupied the space between the stools you were sat upon. He halted, thoughts akin a sharp inhale as he halted himself from further yawping.

Losing interest in almost everything was exhausting. Academics have forced him to skip classes ever so often, and gaming has been nothing but short of the euphoria he was accustomed to experiencing. Volleyball? He didn't even want to start.

But he was guilty, his conscience proving by ID's shoved inside the pocket of his shacket you were wearing to conceal the fact students at Nekoma aren't supposed to be outside during class hours.

Sobered up squeaky clean, his solemn look was now in full view, “I just want to tell you I'm sorry.” He huffed, coming to rest his head on your shoulder, alleviating his sentience with the warmth you provided. The kind older lady behind the metal barrier of your local go-to side-street ramen shop smiled fondly at the sight, something about the way the patter of rain amongst his soft, mellow voice led you to drop the wooden chopsticks and listen to his pitiful plea for attention.

“You're supposed to be cheering me on at the gym as I'm speaking right now, but we're on a date. An illegal one, at that.”