#briliantmind

it is an obligatory campus-wide laboratory safety seminar. again. the third one in just as many weeks. wren can feel the agitation seep into his bones, the utter pointlessness of the meeting causing his characteristic smile to falter. it isn’t his fault chemistry undergraduates are fucking shit up. it’s a wonder he manages to associate with people his age at all when his perspective is skewed by the eighteen or nineteen year-olds currently facing actual reprimanding from the dean of sciences and technology. rolling his shoulders, he pads to the back of the assembly haul, dropping down beside a woman with wide-rimmed glasses and the air of having at least their undergraduate stage of life. “i reckon we’re watching the video about basic lab safety again.”

“I’m sorry,” he immediately tells her when she opens her door at two in the morning and his appearance is heavily disheveled. The rain styled his hair to resemble something like an American 50′s greaser, beads of raindrops dripping off the thick single strand that dangles from his forehead. He has a shallow cut on his cheek, but a stabbing wound at his hip. His eyes squeeze shut as he holds pressure to his injury.

Despite it all, he holds up a bag of evidence to her. 

meme: hurt meme.  //  status: not accepting.

—The veiled mirth in her voice brought a splash of color to his cheeks, a shameful red that burned the tips of his ears and made him feel as if he was bathing in lava. Why, oh why did he have to be such a huge idiot all the time? Swallowing the lump in his throat, Dick forced himself to meet her gaze. The blotches of custard on his meek face and the flour in his hair were all that remained of his death battle with the cake, alongside the black, burnt blobs in his oven and the misery in his heart.

“…Teasing someone for their valiant efforts is not very nice,” He whined, looking down at the failed product of his tears and blood, just so he could get away from her smirk. The base of the cake was a peculiar orange that was many shades darker than the one pictured in the book he was reading; the strawberries on the top were lopsided, looking like tiny, babyish little versions of the Leaning Tower of Pisa; the rose swirls he had attempted to recreate with the whipping cream were puny at best, a far cry from the beautiful flowers they were modeled after. It might have been somewhat edible, but it sure as hell wasn’t pretty.

“You’re too cruel, Sara. And I put lots of love into it just for you, too. Have you ever heard the saying, ‘don’t look a gift horse in the mouth’? Besides, you haven’t even tasted it yet, and I did not just destroy my oven only for you to refuse the blessing that is my baking.”