The gentle sounds of pen strokes on notebook paper fill the empty spaces in Tate's room, his own pencil lightly scratching at a random piece of paper that he thinks was a graded essay. It's hard to tell; he already covered the circled 'C' a few hours ago when he first came home with you to work on some stupid project. He's not much of an artist, really, but sketching out random subjects kept him occupied. 

Every now and again, he looks up to study the profile of your face while you hurriedly flick through the pages of his textbook, his dark eyes staring holes into your cheek. He has to wonder if you know that he's looking at you or if you're too busy being a good student to realize it. Either way, he doesn't stop.

It's not like it's out of character for him. 

Just like Tate, people thought you were the weird one out for sticking to yourself rather than searching for friends or some other cliche group that came straight out of a stupid movie. Not like you're Allison Reynolds and he's John Bender from The Breakfast Club, but realistically, the two of you are the branded outcasts of Westfield High. There's been no united front or anything until now, when the teacher sticks you together for a two-student project. 

"How far did you get?" Tate asks, despite knowing full well that he doesn't care; he just wants to hear you talk again. He just hopes you don't ask him the same thing, because God knows all he's been doing at this point was draw skulls, fire, and the shape of your nose.

He shifts to get a bit closer, his right hand swatting things out of his way to make enough room for him to lay on his back. He probably shouldn't be this close, but now he's this close, unable to remove himself without thinking he'll offend you somehow.

"Maybe we should take a break or something."