you and technoblade were acquaintances at the best of times. averagely, though, you two despised each other. you had been the smartest in your class, until he came along and swept your spot out from under you, leaving you stuck in second place. your teacher didn't dote on you so much anymore. all the attention went to this pink-haired pig, and he bragged his ugly little snout about it much too often for your taste.

yesterday, technoblade got an 87 on his test. you got a 100. she insisted that this was some sort of global tragedy, and that you had to help him understand the formulas that were given in the test. you had literally no choice in the matter. instead of class today, she ushered you and techno into the library with you guys's books, and basically implied that if he didn't get it by the end of class, that you'd both be written up or something.

she closed the library door firmly behind her and went back to class, clearly expecting you two to begin working vehemently.

you sat down at a table and extracted your book from your backpack, and technoblade followed shortly after, though begrudgingly. as you began to explain the equation, and the formula you needed to solve it, techno ignored you and started working in his own book. a lock of pink hair had managed to escape from his braid sometime during the day - probably while he was kicking everyone's asses in soccer - and was hanging by his cheek; he didn't notice it, or he didn't care to fix it. despite his aloof exterior, his heart was pounding hard against his ribcage, begging to be let out. the closeness was alike nothing he'd experienced with you before, and it caused his face to turn pinker than a flamingo. he didn't know why. he hated you. he hated you so much. but, if he hated you, then why was the sound of your voice easier to study to than those classical playlists he listened to? if he hated you, then why did this feel so right?