Work Text:
Whenever any student in ANHS inquired about Chabashira Sae, they would be told of her cold, unbending nature; her sleek, fitted dress suit and black, glossy high heels that clacked! and clacked! as she policed the classroom. A certain demographic of students would mention the faint scent of her floral perfume, radiating kindly and softly like candlelight that painted the walls of a dark room.
Others would shake their heads at the smokiness of her breath, her glare that was an immovable fortress. Or perhaps, if it were an upperclassman or faculty member, they would look upon her figure with pity, for she was the accursed homeroom teacher of a D-Class; and clearly, she was not taking it well. Not that anyone had dared to ask that to her face. No. Only nervous, awkward glances and snide remarks.
The sky was awake – yet hardly so, moving languidly – as the young teacher made her way to the rooftop. At this vantage point, students trailed out as they streamed out the classroom hallways. Some laughed, shrill voices ringing and exploding with invigorating excitement; others were rushing out without so much a word; and anything in between that carefully-detailed spectrum had flooded out too. Yet each year, Chabashira Sae could find herself spotting the subtle differences. Certainly the hair.
Shaking her head, she retrieved from her pocket cigarettes and lighter. Not even for simple pleasure – it was muscle memory at this point: deftly holding a stick up to her lips, feeling the paper warm up from her fingertips, and viewing detachedly as the end lighted without so much of a flick!
Smoke drifted out as ghostly tendrils as she looked up. If she squinted hard enough, she thought she could see a bird, the scales of a salmon, or perhaps a plane, and maybe she would, but not before she got sick of the childishness of that action.
Her plump lips pressed against the cigarette, holding it in a gentle embrace as the young woman put the pack and lighter back into her pocket. The clouds were hardly moving.
Those frozen, rooftop moments; her and the unfeeling haze.
Suddenly– she heard a familiar voice radiate from below. A flat, monotonous, cold voice. And the slam of the door. Her face moved, hunger in her eyes. Smoke expelled from her mouth once more, condensing and floating sluggishly away. Like a dream.
Am I dreaming?