Send me a word/fandom/characters and I will write a drabble

{ Gymnophoria } – The sensation that someone is mentally undressing you.

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He’s been doing this for three weeks now. Marco counted. Fifteen days minus weekends. That new guy is staring at him. Not hidden or in secret, no. Open and conspicuous, with one hand holding up his interested face, propping up his chin, and blinking bright eyes. Oh god, his eyes, Marco quickly turns away and focuses back on his texbook. He swears they are golden, with dark spots around the iris. Marco Bodt, you’re an idiot. His classmates whisper answers to each other while the teacher scribbles math exercises on the board.

In every lesson, Jean Kirschstein examines him from head to toes. His glance sticks to Marco’s face as if he had a nasty left-over blotch of spinach from lunch on his cheek. Marco doesn’t know how to react, how to respond – do you respond at all to someone who’s staring at you as if you were some pretty girl wearing a breathtakingly short mini skirt? It’s almost as if Jean’s… hungry.

Marco bites his bottom lip and nervously looks down. Maybe the guy knows.

Maybe Jean Kirschstein knows that he’s gay and this is just a test. It wouldn’t be the first time. Marco remembers his last school, before his parents moved – but that’s over. Panic won’t make this any better. He’s just being watched, that’s all. Maybe… could Jean be…? No. Absolutely not. Marco has seen him kiss a girl after school, right on the lips. His stomach twists. Suddenly, he doesn’t want lunch break to come. Because sometimes Jean is sitting down close to him on the schoolyard, when Marco is eating his lunch alone under apple trees where the leaves rustled in autumn.

Sometimes, Jean follows him and they sit ten meters apart. Marco then counts the crumbs his sandwich left over in his lunchbox. He shuffles his feet around and paints figures and patterns into the dirt with the tip of his shoes. And after long minutes of cold wind swirling over the yard, Jean gets up, and Marco jolts and glances after him when golden eyes return back into the classroom.

The teacher taps her pointer on the blackboard and calls someone’s name, but not Marco’s. He relaxes a bit, tries to remember what the correct answer to something in his textbook is.

His fingers clench around the pencil when Jean shifts, two seats away from him. Marco’s pencil cracks, the tip falling off when Jean tilts his head and blinks at him. Gold. An ugly graphite grey smudge smears over the paper and Marco curses softly, hides his blushing face behind dark hair.

“Silence,” the teacher says. Her eyes sting when she glares at him. Nobody disturbs math class, not when she’s explaining a new exciting topic. Marco ducks, nods in apology.

“I’m sorry.”

The teacher snorts and some other kids giggle. Marco knows his cheeks glow red by now, and he hides behind his text book. His seatmate is sick, and so it’s Jean’s luck that nobody disturbs his strange glances. Marco shifts around and it’s not even uncomfortable anymore. He’s gotten used to Jean’s eyes sting and prickle all over his skin. He knows the dark spots around his iris, knows how he laughs when his friends ask him what he’s doing in the afternoon, and he says that he has a date. But that one day, when Marco saw him kiss a girl, and Jean turned away and his mouth fell open at Marco’s sight – that is his favourite memory.

Marco blinks when a pellet of paper is thrown on his desk. The teacher is scribbling on the blackboard again. There’s something written on the tiny piece, blue ink shimmering through. Marco gulps and glances over. Who would – oh. Oh. Jean smiles briefly, brightness lighting up his face, and then he ruffles his hair. Marco nearly chokes on his breath, god he’s – he’s –

The paper quivers in his fingers when he folds it open behind his textbook.

I’d do anything for you to smile back at me. I’d even continue to sit next to you every break and kinda stalk you in class. But I’d rather ask if you’d wanna go on a date? Because, if you’d say yes, then it’s a date next lunch break. If you’d say no, it’s not.
Then it’s not a date.

Marco’s cheeks are deep red, and he’s barely holding back the tremor in his fingers while he scribbles a reply. The piece of paper comes back to Jean, all crumpled and with black ink and tiny letters on it.

You’ve been staring for weeks now. I think I’ve lost all my clothes in your mind already. Means you owe me at least a sandwich next lunch break.
It’s a date.

Jean nearly chokes when he opens the paper, and Marco sees his palms squeeze around the message. Finally Marco glances back, cheeks glowing when he brushes his hair back, and whispers a few words into the mumbling of his classmates.

“My favourite sandwich is cheese and salami. I hope you don’t really undress me next break.”

Jean’s eyes spark for a second, and he leans over with a grin that has Marco’s heart skip a few beats.

“Wouldn’t dare. I kiss before I undress people.” The teacher doesn’t pay attention, is busy writing more numbers on the blackboard. Marco slowly puts his math book down, bites his lip. Jean’s arms rest loosely on the table; he’s got his sleeves pushed up and a purple vein twitches on his forearm. Marco worries his lip for a second. Then an honest smile spreads over his mouth, brightens his face from shyness to a sun beaming with freckles.

“A kiss has to be earned.” Jean isn’t taken aback. He cocks his head, ruffles his hair, and his next rasped words let Marco’s heart leap into the skies and fly right away.

“I earned a smile, didn’t I? And a pretty one on top of that.” A chuckle, and for a second, Jean reaches out and his finger traces along a cloud of freckles on Marco’s hand, nobody’s seen it. Their classmates stare at the blackboard, don’t see Marco blush and gasp for air, beaming like a love-sick idiot. Jean’s eyes are warm. Gold. It sparks when he says: 

“Maybe we can eat together more often. As, uh. Boyfriends."