Chapter Text
Tomas Bucher finally made it. He finally walked the halls of Lycee Duvivier, the private tertiary school many students of College Francois Dupont ended up going into, including one Lila Rossi. He smiled and licked his chapped lips. The only child of the Italian ambassador had been on his mind for nearly two years. Nothing else but her truly mattered to him. Now, he could once again listen to her saccharine words and feel the warmth of her coffee skin.
Many of the students were still about, talking at their lockers, showing each other things on their phones, playing card games on the floor, or walking to their homerooms. Tomas’s hollow eyes scanned the walls lined with lockers and doors and plaques. He shivered under his thin hoodie despite the warmth of the early autumn day. The boy finally found his room and slowly opened the door.
There were already a few students there. By the windows sat Adrien Agreste in the flesh, the model as handsome as ever. He was idly chatting to a mixed Asian girl, who Tomas guessed was Marinette Dupain–Cheng, a young fashion designer recognized by Gabriel Agreste. In the middle sat another girl and boy, the girl he recognized as Alya Cesaire, the owner of the LadyBlog, and her boyfriend and up-and-coming disc jockey Nino Lahiffe. Surprisingly, the old mayor’s daughter Chloe Bourgeois was also there with a ginger-haired girl next to her who was reading aloud some elite fashion magazine while the former girl listened, buffing her nails. There were some others, but he didn’t recognize them.
Tomas made his way down the aisle and sat at a desk in the last row. On the wall in front of him were mounted a chalkboard, whiteboard combo, a smaller calendar template whiteboard, a few paper organizers, and a smart projection system. Before this wall and to his left was a large desk with stacks of papers filed into organizers and other various supplies any teacher might need. On the wall next to him were stuck a few motivational posters as well as club flyers. The door he entered through was a part of this wall, close to the front wall. Opposite the wall Tomas was adjacent to, were the windows, starting just above the desks, which were roughly seventy-six centimeters tall (30 in.), to the ceiling, which was three and a half meters above the floor and going from end to end of the room. Behind him was a gap before minimal chests of drawers containing various supplies that were lined up against the wall, a clock mounted high above. Another door behind him on the adjacent wall, just like the other. There were thirty-six desks in a six-by-six array. These were just some of the things he noticed as he waited for the bell to ring.
Tomas eyed his wristwatch, an old analog his grandfather gave him before he passed. Its value was only kept sentimental despite the excellent condition the over-century-old timepiece was in. Three minutes and forty-three seconds after the hands reached 7:55, at which the warning bell rang, Lila Rossi walked in, taking a seat in the front row, a desk from the wall Tomas was next to. Tomas could practically see her saccharine melody enthrall the students around her as she spoke. Her chocolate hair bounced beautifully on her shoulders, and her emerald green eyes sparkled like gems; her complexion was as beautiful as it was back then. She wore ripped white jeans with an orange blouse open enough to display the gold necklace that stopped at the tip of her cleavage. The blouse was tucked in and the jeans were held up by a leather belt with a gold ornament. White sneakers, a black leather purse, and gold earrings finished the ensemble. All were clearly from expensive fashion houses.
“Hey, you’re drooling on your desk,” a voice next to Tomas said.
Tomas turned left to find a noir student with striking green eyes. Then he looked down to find a pool of spit that had accumulated and quickly wiped it and his chin with the sleeve of his hoodie. He turned back to the boy. “Thanks.”
“No problem. I’ve never seen someone actually drool over somebody before,” the student responded, “Do you have a crush on Lila?”
Tomas hummed before answering, “No.”
“Sorry, I assumed,” the noir student apologized.
“Don’t worry, it’s complicated.”
By then the teacher arrived, a conventionally attractive middle-aged middle-eastern woman wearing a hijab and glasses who had gone a little far with the red lipstick.
“Attention class,” the teacher called. The students in the now filled class sat in their seats and quieted down. The bell rang, which the teacher waited through before turning and picking up a piece of chalk from the board. She wrote quickly in a sharp script her name while she said it slowly. “My name is Badr Talha, you may call me Madame Talha or Madame T.” She turned back to the students. “Welcome to your homeroom for the year. I will share announcements, give handouts, and inform you of any other school related news. I will soon take attendance and pass out the student handbook which will contain all and any information that you as a student might need. Now, let me take roll and please let me know if I pronounce your name wrong.”
Mme. Talha grabbed a tablet and scrolled through calling out names of students. Tomas learned that the student next to him was a boy named Marc Anciel. The makeup he clearly wore made him look quite feminine. Marc himself looked at Tomas in surprise when his name was called. After the student handbooks were passed down, Mme. Talha made one more announcement.
“Class representative elections will be held in two weeks by self-nomination. Get to know each other well and vote wisely. You’re now free to mingle until the bell dismisses you.”
“You’re one of the scholarship winners, aren’t you?” Marc asked just after the teacher finished her announcement.
Tomas nodded in his direction. “How’d you know that?”
“I tried to get it, too. It would’ve saved my family a lot of money, but this place has one of the best art and literature programs in Paris,” Marc answered.
Tomas pondered what Marc said before coming to a realization. “You’re the writer for that one indie comic. Elysee, right?”
Marc glowed in being recognized. “I’m surprised you know about it.”
“It’s well-written, and the art is admirable. The characters all have their own personalities and the changes in their clothing make sense. The exposure of darker themes and harsh realities was refreshing and accurate. All aspects of the comic were well-researched.”
“Thank you. We don’t usually get to listen or read reviews on our comic since it’s so small,” Marc said with excitement, “Was there anything you didn’t like?”
“The pacing is a little off. Sometimes the action sequences are too prolonged while the emotional scenes are too quick," Tomas said.
Marc, “Really?”
"Yes."
Marc nodded, thinking.
“Well, that's my opinion,’” Tomas said.
“Right, I'll let my partner know. See if we can tweak the next release a bit,” Marc asked.
“It's still popular, no. You don't have to,” Tomas explained.
The bell rang.
“Thanks anyways, for the criticism,” Marc said with a half-smile, “Nath and I are going to the mess hall for lunch. Want to join us?”
“Nathaniel Kurtzberg, your illustrator?” Tomas asked.
“Also, my boyfriend, but yeah. So?”
“I’ll try to find you.”
French Literature, English, and Calculus quickly passed for Tomas. There were no proper lessons as teachers were introducing students to the syllabi and resources. Navigation of the lycee was pretty straightforward considering the campus was tall and not spread out like his college. However, it was finally lunch and Tomas headed down to the first (ground) floor to get a bite to eat and meet up with Marc and his boyfriend Nathaniel.
The cafeteria was large, loud, and crowded. Typical, as friend groups laid claim to whatever tables they could find. Others were shunted to the walls, either alone or in their own groups. Many went back out the door they came in through, taking their lunch to the courtyard where a few tables were spread out, but most were pushed to benches. He went through the line, grabbing a small caesar salad, spaghetti and meatballs, an orange, milk, and a few coconut macaroons.
Tomas wandered through the cafeteria, scanning the tables.
“Tomas!”
He turned slightly, eyeing a familiar noir waving at him from the corner of the cafeteria. He managed to navigate through the tables and students. He chuckled when a lanky kid in a fedora pulled out a full poker kit to the awe of all the stereotypical geeks at his table. Finally, though, Tomas made it to the circular table.
“I thought you weren’t going to come,” Marc said gesturing to an empty seat between him and a pretty, athletic girl that looked of Irish descent.
Tomas took the seat, “I said I’d find you.”
Marc turned to everybody else. “Guys, this is Tomas Bucher. He sits next to me in homeroom.”
Tomas did a small wave.
“Tomas, this is Nathaniel.”
“Hello.” Nathaniel was a redhead with his hair reaching his neck and his bangs swept to the side. His eyes were blue-green. He seemed to be a fan of sci-fi, wearing a ratty vintage shirt. He was currently doing a character design in a sketchbook.
“Alix.”
“‘Sup.” Alix was short, but athletic, if her arms had anything to go by. Her bright fuchsia pixie cut was hidden under a black beanie. She had ice-blue eyes , much like his own. Her attire screamed anarchist and matched with the many piercings in her ears. There was also a tattoo of the letter V on her neck, black against white skin.
“Max”
“Greetings.” Max was also short. He was of African descent. His curly hair was parted into two wedges. Thick, black glasses framed chocolate eyes. His attire was a little quirky, with suspenders and a bright plaid into which a bright red polo was tucked. Tomas remembered him being the owner of the robot who had become an akuma. Now that he thought about it, amateur footage on the LadyBlog pointed to all of these people being akumatized.
“Markov.”
“It’s nice to meet you, new friend Tomas!” Markov was the robot Tomas was just thinking about. Markov was a blue and white robot that consisted of a “head,” a propeller, and an omnidirectional arm. The robot was small, no more than a foot tall, arm included. Max must be a specialized genius considering he was able to independently create an AI so complex it could feel human emotion, and the fact that the boy was only fifteen contributed to the sentiment.
“Kim.”
“Yo, dude!” Kim was a jock. He seemed to be of south-east Asian descent. Dark brown hair was faded on the sides and back and the rest was styled front and center with frosted tips. Well-built, he perfectly filled out his red sweatshirt and gray sweatpants. High-end running shoes completed the look.
“and Ondine.”
“Hi, there.” She was of Irish descent, obvious by her red hair, green eyes, and freckles, plus the ever-incriminating accent. She wore a thin, light blue hoodie over a blue tank top. Slim-fitting, white denim shorts hugged her well-developed legs. Strappy sandals and a plastic bracelet finished the look.
“It’s nice meeting you all,” Tomas said. His dark-brown hair was cut short and brushed flat against his head. Ice-blue eyes were bloodshot and hollow. They were red-rimmed, and there were black bags under them. His face was pale, his cheeks sunken, and his lips dry and cracked. Other than that, he was good-looking, at least in Marc’s opinion. He wore a thin, dark-gray hoodie, and washed-out blue jeans. On his feet were cheap, black slip-ons.
“No offense, dude, but you kind of look like shit,” Alix said.
Tomas appreciated her bluntness. “I know.”
“Here, at least you can fix your lips,” Alix threw a small cylinder at him. He caught it mid-air. “Nice reflexes. I’m going to call Chloe, I guess you can be her pet project.”
“Chloe? As in Chloe Bourgeois?” Tomas questioned. The group nodded. “Isn’t she kind of a bitch.” He had whispered the last part.
“I prefer the term queen bee, thank you very much,” a honey-sweet voice said behind him.
Tomas turned to find the said blonde girl. Long blonde hair was tied up into a high ponytail. Lips were a shimmering rose. Eyes were crystal blue and lined with a cat-eye. Behind those eyes was a predatory brain: a master manipulator and gladly took advantage of those too scared to go against her. She was dressed in tight, black jeans held up by a brown leather belt at her waist with a golden buckle. A cropped, yellow, pleather motorcycle jacket opened to a low-cut white tee. His eyes widened at her introduction.
“Uh, I’m sorry, Mlle. Bourgeois,” Tomas said quietly.
“Ugh, not only do you look pathetic, you act pathetic, too,” Chloe said snobbily. She turned to Alix. “Do I have to?”
“Do you want to?”
“I guess,” Chloe decided. “Sabrina.”
“Here you are, Chloe.”
A small redhead popped out behind Chloe, her shoulder-length hair. She wore a beige, plaid sweater vest over a simple long-sleeve white blouse. A gray linen skirt in a knife pleat came down to her shins over black nylons that ended with brown leather zipper boots. In her hands she held a metal briefcase, like the ones put money into in movies, that had an “Open in Case of Emergency” sticker on it. Chloe grabbed it, and all but threw the case onto the table. She undid the catches and popped open the case which held a myriad of vials, sponges, brushes, and included a small jar of cotton swabs and another of nitrile gloves. She pulled out a larger vial and handed it to him.
“This is exfoliant. It’ll get rid of all the gunk piled on and in your face. There’re directions so you’d have to be an idiot to screw up. Make sure you get all of that.” Chloe gestured to his whole face.
“Okay,” Tomas replied.
He went to the bathroom, read the instructions, and followed them to the word. He did have a small moment of disbelief as the sinks provided hot water. After finishing and drying his face by patting with paper towels, he felt his skin. It felt incredibly smooth, like he shedded an entire layer of skin. He stopped after a minute, instinctively realizing that it was not a good idea to leave Chloe Bourgeois waiting. He hurried out and found that a small cosmetic station was set up at the table while the others talked and laughed.
“Ugh, finally. I thought you’d never return,” Chloe said, pulling on some gloves, “Now sit, we don’t have much time.”
Tomas sat straight and presented his face to Chloe. She cut away the peeling skin on his lips with the scissors before softly rubbing in some ointment. She then applied a cream, softly massaging it into his skin. Her fingers felt comforting. He closed his eyes, enjoying the soft touches to his face. He ignored the itches, the tickles, and any other bother. All he focused on was the first time someone caressed his face in years. It was getting to be too much. Chloe needed to stop, but he didn’t want her to. Chloe did. It was a few minutes, but it had been the first time he felt happy in years.
“Open your eyes, dumbass. I’m done,” Chloe snapped.
Tomas executed her command. He looked around briefly to his acquaintances. They looked back at him seemingly shocked.
“Here,” Sabrina squeaked, handing him a small purse mirror.
He took the mirror gratefully from her. He gazed upon its reflective surface and stared at the almost stranger that stared back. His skin was still pale, but it no longer looked sickly. His eye bags and redness were gone and his lips were smoothed. Gaunt cheeks were contoured to look fuller. Tears were pooling on his eyelids. He looked like himself, who he was years ago before…before…
He looked straight at Chloe who caught his eyes. A tear fell down his cheek; his voice cracked with emotion. “Thank you.”
Tomas looked back into the mirror. Chloe’s blush was noticed by everyone but him.