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It’s Gun who greets Khajorn when he steps through the student council room’s door, of all people.
Which is reason enough for a pause, because the room is supposed to be locked in the morning behind a pin code, and only four people should have access to it: himself, Tiw, Tinn, and Ms. Principal.
“How?” Khajorn tries.
“Finally. I’ve been waiting here for—” Gun searches around for a clock, but the one hung up over Tinn’s desk broke weeks ago, “—well, whatever. Where is everyone?”
“You—how?” Khajorn tries again, this time with a little more emphasis. He even raises an eyebrow at Gun, which is Khajorn’s usual way to get people to talk.
Gun’s apparently immune, because he only gestures in Khajorn’s general direction and sidesteps his question entirely.
“Where’s Tinn?” Gun asks.
How did you get in here? “Ms. Principal called for a meeting, so Tinn’s still—wait, how are you here?”
Gun only blinks at him. “I told you I’m looking for Tinn? Where else would I look for him? Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“You—” Khajorn starts, feeling every bit like a broken record, only for Tiw to come to his rescue, stepping neatly into the room, spotting Khajorn and Gun.
And then Tiw grins, moving to ruffle Gun’s hair in a kind of familiarity that leaves Khajorn reeling worse than he was before.
“Looking for Tinn?” Tiw guesses, with no follow-up questions on just how exactly Gun managed to break into the student council room.
Khajorn glares at Tiw for his betrayal.
“Ms. Principal’s meeting is going to run long, so you’ll probably miss him. You’ll have better luck catching him before class. Want to head down with me?” Tiw offers easily.
“Next time,” Gun smiles, “but I’ve got to run to the music room before class. I’ll catch up with you later.”
With that, Gun salutes goodnaturedly, hightailing it out of the room, ten minutes to when the bell will ring.
Khajorn stares at the open door, long after Gun saunters out.
How long has Gun had the code to the student council room? is what Khajorn thinks to ask, but what comes out is a befuddled, “does this count as a security risk?”
Tiw snorts, clapping Khajorn heavily on the shoulder.
“If Gun has the pin code? What do you think?” is what Tiw leaves Khajorn with, which doesn’t actually answer anything.
As it happens, Khajorn does not have to wait very long for the next time he sees Gun in the student council room, which is exactly three hours later.
"What are you doing?" Khajorn demands, without preamble, as Gun’s sets himself up at Tinn’s—the audacity of stealing the class president’s seat, Khajorn grumbles—desk. Gun doesn’t seem to be aware of Khajorn’s inner turmoil, too busy blowing away the steam of his lunch.
There's a momentary pause where they stare at each other, a strange standstill.
When Gun seems to determine that his lunch has reached a reasonable temperature, he says, “uh, eating?”
Khajorn resists rolling his eyes all the way up to the ceiling.
“Why are you at Tinn’s desk?”
Gun takes an unreasonably large bite, talking around it, “Tinn’s supposed to tutor me. He told me to wait for him here.”
“During lunch?”
“The exam’s next period,” Gun manages, around another bite.
That… is reasonable enough that Khajorn wants to be irritated, but he’s mostly resigned.
Gun doesn’t seem to be ready to move anytime soon, so Khajorn just huffs, dropping down on the couch, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes until he sees faint stars.
Khajorn decides he’ll have to bring up changing the student council room’s pin at their next meeting.
The student council room pin changes on a Tuesday morning, and Tiw writes it on a piece of scrap paper and slips it to Gun by Tuesday afternoon, in between classes.
“The password’s been changed, but Tinn doesn’t want you to be locked out if you get there before him,” Tiw says, both in greeting and explanation.
Gun’s returning smile is so bright that Tiw has to actively work on holding back a laugh.
Tiw’s almost impressed, how oblivious both Gun and Tinn are.
“What’s the deal with all the secrecy, anyway?” Gun thinks to ask, as Tinn presses yet again another new pin to the student council room; though, Tinn moves to the side so that Gun can also see and memorize it.
“Secrecy?”
“Sure, like how many other rooms in our school are hidden behind a pin-lock?” Gun says.
When Tinn looks like he actually has an answer to that question, Gun snorts, cutting Tinn off before he can start making a listicle.
“I just mean, shouldn’t your doors always be open?” Gun asks instead.
“We have designated student-request hours.” Tinn reasons, which Gun supposes is true, but still.
“This room is way too fancy to be kept all to the student council,” Gun pouts, but there’s no real heat to his voice. He collapses on the frankly far-too-plush couch, which mildly proves his point. Tinn can admit that the student council room is fitted with nicer amenities than a lot of other clubs.
Though, Tinn can only shrug, because he has no sway in this; he’s only been student council president for the better part of two months now. Luckily, Gun doesn’t seem to actually be personally slighted by the student council room; Gun moves to tuck himself against the arm of the couch, giving his best impression of a lazing cat.
Then Gun pats the couch cushion next to him. “Sit.”
Tinn sits, although he stays perched on the edge of the couch cautiously. He’s not nervous, exactly, because he’d like to think he’s beyond completely shying away from Gun at this point, but Tinn’s just—
“I don’t bite,” Gun huffs, with a certain level of amusement he reserves for Tinn, “come sit closer.”
When Tinn shifts closer, Gun moves at that exact moment, tipping himself sideways, and for a worrying moment, Tinn thinks that Gun’s about to drop his head right into Tinn’s knee.
Instead, Gun kicks his feet over the couch arm, pillowing his head right across Tinn’s lap.
When Gun makes a pleased little sound and shifts to get comfortable, Tinn’s fairly certain his whole brain is being fried on high-simmering heat.
Gun lifts his head, blinking lazily up at Tinn.
If Gun was looking to speedrun Tinn’s demise, he was doing impressively.
“Let me nap? No longer than ten minutes, promise,” Gun asks, like Tinn wouldn’t give Gun anything he asked for at this very moment.
In lieu of a response, Tinn dips his head in what he hopes is a confident nod, though he’s sure it probably just looks like he’s got a neck crick.
Gun turns his—impossibly brilliant, mega-watt—smile to Tinn, burrowing his head right back into Tinn’s sweater. Tinn sends a silent thanks to his father for running the laundry the night before, so that Tinn could throw on his softest sweater this morning.
As Gun settles, his breathing evening out, Tinn swallows, his fingers hovering uncertainty above Gun’s hair for one long, expectant moment; but, with a rushing affection so strong that Tinn swears his heart is trying to beat its way up his throat, Tinn cards his fingers through Gun’s hair slowly, letting the gentle motion draw out a content exhale from Gun.
It’s moments like this that Tinn’s still struck by—that he gets to have something like this.
So Tinn keeps still, even as his thigh that Gun is dozing on has started to prickle itself numb.