gearzx

Jamil has realized something about himself.

A thing so deeply embarrassing and humiliating, that he would never dare admitting out loud.

A thing so out of pocket, that to acknowledge it would be to allow his soul to be destroyed piece by piece. Chunk by chunk. Each thread of DNA and magical information he was born with being torn apart and splayed in an unruly fashion on some mistreated floor.

A thing so abnormal that even he can't believe it himself.

A thing such as being carried.

An action and concept so very scandalous, to him, of course.

To have your arms—a part of your body that he feels so safe in, so loved and cherished in—wrapped around his figure. His body, as a result, being lifted from the ground.

Jamil's mind feels like it's on cloud nine.

He has the urge—a very strong one, mind you—to press his head against your chest. Absorb your body heat. Hear the soft thumping of your heart, an organ he craves to have control over so that it may only beat for him.

It's an action that would cost a considerable amount of confidence, for rather than doing so, he finds himself remaining still. His facial expression reflecting that of utter despair and horror as he stares blankly ahead, a visage—the one he calls his—being taken over by an invasive maroon color. One that exposes his overflowing emotions.

The air that you break through smacks Jamil in the face, causing him to have a whiplash; a whiplash he somehow has the energy to recover from. It appears that the fall that put him in this circumstance completely eliminated all traces of his energy (however, upon further rethinking, it's probably the overload of emotions he's experiencing rather than the weakness of hurting oneself), causing him to be scooped up in your arms. Your aura ever so protective.

You mumble something softly into his ear. A tease? A mocking remark? Perhaps a soft reassurance of a fast arrival.

Unfortunately, he does not know.

Actually, more like he can't know. A loud buzzing ricochets off his ear drums, thoroughly obscuring his sense of sound. He misses the words said to him.

A sharp sting snaps him back to reality, and soon he takes in a gasp. A sharp one. One that causes you to stop in your tracks, your eyes falling down to meet his in concern.

"Jamil," you say gently, smoothly readjusting the Scarabian vice housewarden in your arms. You never called him by any pet names. Never thought he'd like them and never thought to ask. "Is the pain becoming too much? Don't worry, we are almost there..."

Jamil's mouth dries up.

Death is a situation he would happily welcome if it was that sweet voice of yours luring him to it.

He doesn't have the strength nor ability to speak at the present moment. All he provides you is a demure shake of the head, a miniscule drop of sweat tumbling from his forehead.

You take what the gray eyed student has given you as a fact and resume the journey you were embarking on. Jamil's embarrassment increases by ten fold.

Jamil swears on his ever so chaotic life that the both of you are being watched; the unwanted gazes of many must be falling onto you, their eyes holding a cruel sort of contempt. The sight of the Scarabian vice-housewarden—a person known for his independence and reluctance to rely on others—being treated as if he might break is not a common thing.

Far from it, actually.

He can already sense the change in atmosphere. The previously loud halls which were filled with unimportant and boorish conversations dwindled. He makes eye contact with a classmate—a rather large mistake—and feels the dignity he values so much physically leave his body.

As your form brushes past numerous others, your hold on Jamil consistently having to be redone, a strong reoccurring thought barges into his mind.

He looks at you.

Gaze focused, face hardened, worry being hidden behind a facade of nonchalance. Nonchalance that neither you nor Jamil possess.

A breath is captured.

Annoyance—not a very strong one—radiates from his form.

Leave Jamil to his own devices. Allow him to faintly spiral into "what ifs" more illogical than the last. Watch, from a not too far distance, as his reasoning deteriorates. Soon, he'll become as peculiar as the magicless prefect who fell from another world.

He leans back, an exasperated sigh escaping his less than decorated lips.

"Could you be any slower?"

You refuse to answer.

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Author's Note: The ending is kind of weird. I hope I at least did the original poster's idea justice, though.