here comes my reality check // blaise x morgan

[lance]

BLAISE CHARBONNEAU

This was stupid. But then again, so were many so-called executive decisions that your parents pushed down onto your shoulders, so quite honestly, you're not sure why you're even surprised.

So what if you didn't get straight As for one term? So what if you'd already decided that this summer would be one of rest and relaxation, a luxury given that you were nearing the dreaded eighteenth birthday that both solidified you as a working member of the family. The rite of passage to becoming a respected member of society lay through the family business and blah blah blah blah blah.

Honestly, you wouldn't be surprised if this was some grand old scheme to teach you manners and build character and all of that bullshit. Sure, you know that half of the punishments you received were well deserved, earned through laziness and insolence and grand old teenage fucking rebellion, but this? You'd rarely gotten punished for doing something you didn't do, and so what if you wouldn't finish at the top of your class for one goddamned term? A B was still every bit the passing grade as an A, and it wasn't like you had decided to flunk out of school and become a miner!

But nope, according to your parents, you couldn't step a single toe out of line. So at first they'd said you'd have to do summer school, but in a rare moment of asserting yourself, you'd put your foot down. Then they tried to force you into attending the fancy old intra-district dinners that rich people did or whatever, and you'd dyed your hair a bright minty color to dissuade them of that.

So then they did something unthinkable. They broke the news over breakfast - you were to be tutored by a kind, earnest young man that had been recommended to them by a family friend. that was shocking enough - they'd never threatened something that drastic before - and then they dropped the real shocker; he wasn't even another merchant's brat, but a low-class kid.

Not that you were unfamiliar with the sort, but the fact that not only had they opted to not grab some uptight asshat from your high-class private school, but were inviting a commoner into their own house? That had stunned you into silence. That had shown that they meant business.

You'd failed to come up with an easily executable plan to make that go south right out of the gates, so you'd settled for the good old bait-and-switch tactic instead. You'd go through the tutoring process as normal, and then, well, you'd figure it out from there.

You could suffer through a first meeting. But no one ever said you couldn't wiggle your way out of a second one.

Dressed in a leather jacket, drawing the finishing touches of a butterfly on your right hand, feet up on your desk as you lean back on the back two legs of your chair - what kind of tutor would your parents curse you with this time?

And what kind of impression would you need to make to scare them off?

[Python]

Morgan was numb to the sight of his mother passed out on the sofa. He searched for the rise and fall of her chest - alive, but hungover. Nothing out of the ordinary - not the stench of alcohol nor the empty bottles scattered across the floorboards. He kissed her forehead and left a note on the kitchen counter: Out tutoring! Be back by sunset. Morgan had no idea if she checked his notes, but it felt impolite to leave without word.

It was easy to write them off as irresponsible parents, but that wasn't quite the case. The monotony of Twelve overpowered any affection they had toward Morgan. Marrying a lover, bearing a beautiful child - it wasn't enough to snuff their misery. They always needed more. Morgan had tried everything he could; cooking for them, cleaning for them, receiving perfect grades in school to earn their pride. No matter what he did, they turned to alcohol instead. He knew it wasn't personal; they didn't hate him. It was an addiction, and there was nobody in Twelve who knew how to fix a brain.

Bag slung over his shoulder, he walked out of his house alone. Some days he wished he had siblings, like an older brother to look up to, or a younger sister to read to. Waking up to silence was lonely. He had to spend more time away from home or else he might suffer cabin fever.

He dove into his studies instead, dedicating hours to reading, writing, and tutoring students. Knowledge was his pride and joy. Without it, he might fall prey to the same trap claiming his parents' vitality. Not a drop of alcohol had ever touched his bloodstream because the idea terrified him. Life was not something to waste, not even in a wasteland.

His journey led him to a large house, one that stood out like a sore thumb in the otherwise pathetic neighborhoods of Twelve. He checked his pocket watch; still early. Making a good first impression was important. He had no idea who he was tutoring, only that the parents were wealthy and adamant about their son's academic success. Morgan couldn't say no to eager minds and a pocket full of coins.

Once inside, he was greeted by the sight of a mint-haired boy in a leather jacket. Morgan gaped at him a moment - colorful hair wasn't common in Twelve. It reminded him of the Capitol, of wealth.

He realized he was being impolite, and quickly raised his arm to wave. "Hi, I'm Morgan. I think I'm your tutor."

[lance]

BLAISE CHARBONNEAU

Eventually, footsteps approach your room - not the heavy gait of your father or the elegant tap-tap-tap of your mother, but something lighter. More delicate, almost.

So you look up as a slight boy enters the doorway, and your eyes widen just a tad. You'd expected one of two things - either some stuck-up brat who, like many of the lower-class kids you'd met, thought themselves superior to you simply because they hadn't had life handed to them on a golden platter - not that you'd ever asked for that burden on your shoulders - or perhaps the opposite, someone who was wholly unprepared for the burden to come.

This boy is neither - dressed simply but cleanly, hands wrapped around a brown bag, his own gaze widened at what was presumably the sight of you. It's not the first time you've been on the receiving end of such a look, and wouldn't be the last, you were sure - but something about him surprised you.

For a boy recommended by a family friend, he looked almost...tame?

"Hi, I'm Morgan. I think I'm your tutor." Even his voice was soft, unsure, as if he was trying to be polite but wasn't quite sure how. And you honestly didn't know how to handle that - here you were ready to assert dominance over some snob, but this kid looked shocked just at the mere sight of you.

Which, okay, had been your intention from the start, but now you almost felt ashamed, heat prickling your spine that you weren't sure was caused by your jacket. So much for first impressions.

"Uh, I'm Blaise," you respond after a moment, voice somewhat rough from disuse. "But you probably already knew that." Another pause. "Guess I'm your tutee."