alex is a yapper. he yaps in math class. in bio. in ap us history with miss bankston (who only pretends not to love it he swears). he does not, however, yap during english third period. there's this boy with blue eyes who looked at him strangely when he said jane eyre was overrated.
alex hasn't spoken up since.
henry is shy. he knows that makes him come off a certain way to some people. it doesn't bother him. usually. he has his books, and bea, and pez.
"that alex is hysterical," pez says one day at lunch. what?
"oh, i know, what a riot. in maths the other day he—"
henry is confused. henry has literally never heard alex speak, except for that one time he made a devastating comment about jane eyre that had also given henry a lot to think about actually.
he hears alex laughing at the start of third period. henry feels speechless as he watches it happen.
he's spellbinding. he's beautiful.
he's clamming up the moment henry sits down.
oh, god. so it's him, then; it's henry. he's horrified to have had this sort of effect on someone, let alone someone as vibrant as alex. henry's shy, not cruel. and now he's feeling a bit wounded too.
he turns very purposely to look alex in the eye. brown eyes. very brown. framed by these obscenely long lashes as alex stares back, mouth open, not speaking. henry feels speechless all over again too, all from simply looking at alex.
now he thinks he's starting to get it.
"hi," henry blurts, before he can rush out of class and be sick in a bin in the hallway.
alex blinks. a shy smile forms. there are dimples. "hey," he says.
henry is blushing. he powers through. "so. err. what did you think about this week's reading?"
alex lights up. "ooh. so many things."
he pauses then, looking uncertain. "did you want to hear them?"
"please," says henry. "i'd like that very much."
alex is a yapper. he yaps through math, and bio, and every one of miss bankston's classes *obvi*ously. he yaps through english third period.
especially english third period.
the only time he doesn't yap is when he's too busy doing things like gazing at henry. sitting with henry on the bleachers, where the sun lights up his hair just right. nodding along to henry's passionate rants about poems.
watching henry eat something alex has brought them for lunch. eyeing the spot of sauce henry's missed.
"is there something on my face?" henry asks. "you keep staring."
"actually," says alex. he leans in.
they're both a little too busy to talk very much after that.