Chapter Text
There is nothing worse than the first day at a new school.
Okay. That’s not true. Maybe root canal. Or sitting through your parents’ friend’s jazz band recital. But this? This definitely has to be up there.
I checked my reflection one last time in the side mirror of the car before walking in.
Shirt: pressed.
Tie: semi-decent, could be tighter, but I like the slightly rebellious angle. Enough to say I’m not a loser , but not enough to get a note home.
Hair: slightly messy, but only in the way that says I woke up like this and somehow it worked . Nobody needs to know it took twenty minutes.
I smooth down the blazer. Navy, with gold trim. Feels a bit too Hogwarts for my taste, but that’s private school for you. I’ve had exactly two weeks to get used to the idea that my new life involves Latin mottos, rowing teams, and posh kids named Benedict who think sarcasm is a whole personality. Wait, that’s me. I might be Benedict.
Still, I look good. Not trying too hard. Clean enough to pass inspection. Chill enough not to look like I ironed my sleeves out of anxiety.
I closed the car door, adjusted my collar, and walked toward what I can only describe as a castle disguised as a school, Drixton Hall. Marble floors, stone archways, even pigeons looked like they got a diploma in pecking arts. Students in the same uniform were filtering through the gates already. I spotted at least three leather briefcases. Someone's wearing a scarf and it's not even cold.
So, yeah. Elite. In bold.
The kind of place where the buildings have names and the names have vowels you don’t pronounce.
But here’s the thing: I’m not exactly new to this high-society world. I’ve been in international academies transferring around Europe (due to my beloved father’s occupation) and enough summer camps in the Alps to know that the trick isn’t fitting in, it’s looking like you already belong there.
Still, walking into a school halfway through the year? Bit of a social landmine, if you asked me. Everyone’s got their squads, their routines, their inside jokes built over shared trauma and bad cafeteria food. Probably not the food, this looks like the cafeteria might be a 5-star hotel.
I found the right classroom after navigating through two marble staircases and a hallway that may or may not have been featured in a period drama. Homeroom 3B. The door was slightly open. I stood outside and waited, contemplating whether I should skip this period altogether. The teacher suddenly looked at me in mid-sentence, followed by twenty boys turning their heads to look at me like I was the new exhibit in a museum for exotic foreign students. Yeah, too late now.
“Ah! You must be Carlos,” the teacher beams. Ms. Doyle, from what I learned from my class schedule. Mid-forties. Wears cardigans and speaks like she just stepped out of National Geographic. I nod and smile. “Hi. Morning.” Yep, keep it pretty simple and cool.
She turns to the class like she’s announcing the royal baby.
“Everyone, this is Carlos Sainz. He’s just transferred from Madrid, so be nice. He plays tennis, Football, and... “ She checks a form, I swear to god. “And Kick boxing?” She looks at me, confused.
Someone in the back makes a noise that’s somewhere between interest and oh, okay, don’t piss him off.
And Yes, Miss, Rich boys can pay for martial arts classes . I just smiled instead.
Thankfully, she smiled back and continued. Don’t ask me how. That smile always works. “Let’s all make him feel welcomed, boys!”
“Hey,” I say again, a little more casually, waving. “Hope I don’t ruin your seating chart.”
There’s a ripple of polite laughter, well, more like scoffs and restricted muffling sounds, which is about as much emotion as anyone shows before 9 a.m.
And I scanned the room, obviously I need to know where I’m walking into — then I caught someone’s eye.
Back row, near the window. This guy.
Brown, messy hair. Collar slightly undone. Tie loose in a way that somehow looks cool, like he just wrapped it around his neck and it fell right into place. He’s just staring. Calm, unreadable, vaguely judging, like he’s trying to figure out whether I’m an interesting specimen or just tall.
“Carlos, you can sit next to Alex,” Doyle said, like I know who an Alex is, pointing halfway down the third row.
I nodded, taking my eyes away from the window seat guy, and made my way through the rows, bag slung over one shoulder. I catch whispers and subtle glances as I pass, the usual new kid interest. I dropped into the only empty chair next to this lanky kid, who I believe is Alex. He offered me a quick grin as I sat. Ok, Alex confirmed.
He’s got kind eyes, dark hair pushed back in a way that suggests casual effort, and this very “best grades in the class but chill about it” energy. One of those guys who’ll lend you a pen, let you copy his notes, and then disappear into a Model UN event.
“Hey, I’m Alex,” he said, offering a fist bump.
“Carlos,” I said, returning it. “Nice to be randomly assigned to your orbit.”
He paused, eyeing my schedule. “First day here’s brutal. Not because the subjects are particularly hard, but you’d probably lose your mind trying to find the actual class in this maze.”
I smirked. “Sounds like a challenge I want to lose. Do I get hazed or do we just slowly break each other’s spirits over time?”
He chuckles. “Bit of both.”
From behind me, I hear a voice. Loud, sarcastic and slightly French.
“Imagine transferring schools mid-year,” someone says. “That’s like walking into Inception halfway through and trying to guess who’s dead.”
The boys around him laughed, relaxed, like they’re used to this. Someone taps a pen against their desk like it’s a drum solo. I didn’t turn around fully, but I glanced over just enough to see him: dark curls, tie loose all the way, teo buttons undone, full smirk, leaning back in his chair like he owns it. The kind of person who tells a joke and then waits for the room to get it. Classic back row sitter energy. Every class needs one of those honestly.
I leaned slightly over my shoulder.
“Tell me about it,” I mutter. “I didn’t even get subtitles.”
A couple of them laugh. The Frenchie included.
Alex leans in and murmurs to the guy behind me, “Okay, chill out, Pierre, the guy just walked in 2 minutes ago”.
So he’s Pierre. Very French indeed.
Pierre raised an eyebrow. There’s a soft, collective chuckle.
“What are you Albono? His mom?” he says rolling his eyes at Alex, then turned to me leaning forward and whispers. “Welcome to the sitcom, mate.”
And just like that — I’m not in , exactly. But I’m not in the loser category either. Which is a good enough start.
And then — I feel it.
Someone’s watching me.
It’s not obvious. No stare, no dramatic glare. But you know that feeling, right? That hair-on-your-neck, someone’s-eyes-are-weighing-you-down thing.
I glance to the left.
And he’s sitting in a halo of sunlight, just casually being the most annoyingly perfect person in the room, back straight, ankle crossed over his knee. He’s not saying anything. He hasn’t spoken once, actually. But he’s watching. Calmly. Not judging exactly, just… Observing?
Now that I have a closer look, his face is all sharp lines and unreadable expression. Collar slightly open. A single pen between his fingers like he’s thinking about writing something… or stabbing someone, hard to tell.
But it’s his eyes that got me.
Green? Can’t tell exactly.
Not your basic leaf green or springtime grass nonsense, no. A bit of both green and blue and also brown, something like an Ocean. Stormy green. The kind of eyes that shift the colors in the light and make people accidentally say things they regret later. What am I even doing now? Writing poems? Get a grip, Carlos.
We locked eyes for a second and a half.
Exactly that long.
Long enough for something to happen — something small and impossible to name.
Then he looked away.
Back out of the window like nothing happened.
And I find myself wondering. Who the hell is this guy?