Chapter Text
First day of school. Nerve-wracking, as always.
Marc Anciel had just spent a glorious summer in his room, writing stories to his heart’s content. Even when his parents managed to drag him outside, he’d be right back in his room as soon as possible, eager to add the next section or chapter to whatever story he was working on at the moment. He didn’t need to live a fabulous life; he could receive the exact same amount of enjoyment from writing about characters suspiciously similar to himself. They could go on adventures on his behalf, getting into all sorts of trouble that Marc wouldn't have to face himself, and if it truly got stressful, he could just close the notebook and open another one to start a new story.
But now school was starting again, and with it came the anxiety over everything. Even as Marc stood by the door, facing the rest of the school, he started to wonder. What class would he be in? Where would he sit? Would he have any friends? Would anyone even talk to him at all? What if he was getting food at lunch and tripped, spilling his tray all over himself? What if . . . ?
Too many questions.
Marc could already feel his heart pounding through his shirt, so rather than risk an anxiety attack, he made a beeline for the stairs that lead to the second floor of the school. That was his place of safety, the place where he would feel secure when all else failed. Somehow it gave off the same enclosed vibe as his own room, even though he was well aware he was both in the open and in the position to become a target for mockery. But he could write there, and that was really all that mattered.
He kept his walk steady, shuffling to the stairs in this hunched-over manner that wouldn’t draw much attention to himself. His old grey hoodie had worn out from the year before, and the only one he had was bright red, which really didn’t help with the whole “blending-in” thing. It had a hood he could cover his face with though, and that was good enough. In situations like the current one, he’d pull his hoodie over his head to the point where it would shade his eyes, effectively looking rather anonymous. And it seemed to be working, as no one spoke to him or said his name, not that many people knew his name in the first place. He was almost to the stairs now, where he’d be safe and comfortable.
And then . . .
He ran right into someone.
As a reaction to the collision, the person dropped everything they were carrying, which turned out to be a lot of paper and pencils. The papers scattered across the floor. Marc reeled backwards, only to hear a sickening crunch as he stepped on a pencil. At the panic of breaking the other person’s possession, he lost his balance and hit the ground with a thud.
Well, everything he had been afraid of just happened. The fact that Marc could breathe signified that he wasn’t having an anxiety attack or anything, but maybe he was in shock? Or at least it felt that way, like he was floating and nothing around him was actually occurring.
The other person held out a hand and Marc took it gratefully, the person-to-person contact pulling him back to reality. He’d messed up, and he deserved anything the other person was going to dish out. Still, Marc didn’t dare look the other person in the eye.
As soon as he was on his feet, Marc attempted, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay! My fault, I wasn’t watching where I was going.” The other person’s voice was male, and he seemed to be in a pretty good mood for just having had his things spilled across the ground.
The kindness in his voice made Marc look up to meet his eyes. The other boy was his age, with shaggy red hair that covered half his face and brilliant blue-green eyes. He was wearing what could be best described as “artsy meets professional”, with a blazer over a t-shirt and purple jeans. Oh, and his expression was twisted in concern.
The crunch of the pencil replayed in Marc’s mind, bringing him back to the present. “N-no, it was my fault. I wasn’t watching either. I couldn’t see to the side with my hood on, and . . . well, you know. I, uh, broke a pencil. I can buy you a new one, though.”
Even as Marc talked, he got to his knees, gathering some of the papers together. Papers, he noticed, that had sketches of people on them. Sometimes it’d be a portrait, while other times it’d be more of a comic format, though the speech bubbles were blank. Some of the people looked like people Marc knew from school, not that they knew him.
The other boy bent down beside him to assist in collecting his things. “No, really. I have plenty, and it was my fault anyway. I wanted to show the art teacher some of my drawings from the summer, but I think I brought too many.”
“They’re beautiful.” Marc blurted. Immediately he felt his cheeks grow hot. “Sorry. Your drawings, I mean. They have so much detail, especially with the shading. And the comic ones are really professional. You must put a lot of work into your art.” Marc’s anxiety was already on high alert, letting him know that what he was saying was weird . Immediately, he backtracked. “I’m sorry, you probably hear that kind of thing all the time.”
“Oh! No, I actually haven’t.” The other boy reached to scratch the back of his neck. “Most people just say ‘Nathaniel, I like your new drawing!’ or something like that. That’s my name, by the way. Nathaniel.”
“I’m Marc. Marc Anciel.” And in an act of courage, Marc pushed his hood back, exposing both his eyes and his messy black hair. Nathaniel blinked, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t understand the symbolic implications of Marc’s action, and he didn’t need to; the fact that Marc knew was good enough. He loved symbolism and tried to incorporate it in a lot of what he did, which he tended to chalk up to the writer in him.
Rather than keep the awkward tension, Marc bent down and continued picking up the various papers and pencils. After another minute or so, he and Nathaniel seemed to have collected them all, except for the broken pencil of course. As a last-ditch effort to stay and keep talking with Nathaniel, he scanned the floor, looking for anything that they’d missed. Then he noticed a pen that had rolled a bit from the rest of the mess.
The pen in question was grey, with an orange cap and purple chevron towards the tip. It also seemed to suit Nathaniel for some reason. Marc found it strange, as the pen hadn’t seemed to be there minutes ago, but that didn’t matter. “Is this yours?” he asked, holding the pen aloft.
Nathaniel examined the pen. “Nope, not mine. But if you don’t want it, I’ll keep it. I could always use another pen for lineart, even if this one isn’t a fineliner. Those things dry up so quickly.”
“All yours. I don’t want it, I have my own.”
“Oh, do you do art too?”
“Not really, no.” Marc’s face flushed again, and he did his best to cover his cheeks with his hair. “I, uh, do some writing. But it’s not very good, honestly. Nothing as good as your drawings.” His thoughts raced. Wow, Anciel. Digging yourself into a deeper hole, huh?
“Writing is art.” Nathaniel said determinedly, as if saying it would make it a true law of existence throughout the world. “Self-expression, you know? Or something like that, I’m not very good with words. Believe me, anything you write is definitely way better than anything I could write.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.” Marc protested, but Nathaniel only shook his head.
“No, I’m an awful writer. That’s why the comic bubbles are empty; writing is just a skill I don’t have.”
He looked like he wanted to say something else, but the bell rang then, signifying that class would start in a few minutes. Marc jumped, both at the sound and at the fact that he’d spent the whole time before class actually talking to someone without freaking out or going into panic mode.
“I should go.” Nathaniel said, though a tinge of regret could be heard in his tone. Or maybe Marc was just hoping that there was regret. He honestly couldn’t tell. “Hey Marc, what class do you have? I have Mrs. Bustier again.”
At that name, Marc’s brain went into hyperdrive. She was his teacher too! He’d get to see Nathaniel again! “I think we’re in the same class. I, uh, don’t think I know anyone in that class, though. Which is kind of my fault, I guess, since I keep to myself most of the time.”
“Well, now you know me.” Nathaniel got to his feet. A small smile formed on his lips, and without thinking, Marc offered an equally small smile back. At that, Nathaniel grinned and held out his hand for the second time that day, which Marc took once again. “Let’s go, though, or we’ll be late.”
Trailing behind Nathaniel, Marc made his way to the new class. He just hoped that he didn’t look like too much of a loser. His head was still exposed, which made him massively uncomfortable, but he tried not to think about it. Wasn’t the best way to beat anxiety to face it head-on? Well, he was certainly doing that, between making a fool of himself in front of a stranger and revealing his darkest secret, his writing. Not that he felt like Nathaniel would make a big deal out of any of it. Nathaniel seemed different than others; he didn’t ignore Marc, he listened . Or maybe he pretended to, just to be polite.
Marc sincerely hoped it was the former.
Once they’d arrived at class, everyone seemed to already know where to sit. Marc didn’t know most of them, but he did recognize a couple faces. Chloé Bourgeois, for example, sat at the front with her ever-present “friend”, Sabrina Raincomprix. And Marc vaguely knew Marinette Dupain-Cheng, who was sitting with a girl that he’d never met before. He waved shyly at Marinette, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Marc!” called a voice, and Marc looked up to see Nathaniel in the back row, waving him over. Marc’s lungs suddenly felt a lot heavier. Nathaniel wanted Marc to sit by him in class? This didn’t feel real. A hallucination, maybe. Marc actually speaking to someone else? Them apparently enjoying Marc’s company?
Silently, Marc made his way to the back, narrowly avoiding tripping on a backpack that had been haphazardly left on the stairs. Sure enough, the seat next to Nathaniel was completely empty. “You—you want me to . . .”
Nathaniel nodded. “Quick, before someone decides they want to sit in the back so Mrs. Bustier can’t see what they’re doing. That’s why I sit back here, anyway.”
Marc set his bag on the ground, then took out a couple schoolbooks and a pencil. In a moment of bravery, he took out his notebook and scribbled a few lines that had been swirling through his head. Nathaniel wouldn’t look, right? As an artist himself, he understood artistic privacy? And sure enough, Nathaniel cast his eyes over, but didn’t seem to read anything Marc had written. Rather, he just turned back to his own sketchbook and kept drawing.
Marc exhaled, the tension in his shoulders disappearing slightly.
Maybe this year wouldn’t be as bad as he’d thought it’d be.