Meanwhile, a blonde whirlwind was spinning by the chalkboard. "HAMBURGER! I mean, GOOD MORNING, CLASS!" Alfred F. Jones, the school’s energetic ace of the baseball team, was attempting to write the date in three different colors of chalk. He winked at you. "Yo (Y/N)! Ready for history? I bet I can get a higher score than you on the pop quiz."
He flinched, his head snapping up. His eyes were a little red-rimmed, and his usual snarky expression was replaced with something vulnerable. "(Y/N)? What are you—you shouldn't be here. The lunchroom is that way." He gestured vaguely towards the door, his voice tight.
You walked in anyway, closing the door behind you. "You've been gone for three days. Everyone's noticed. I noticed."
"Arthur," you said, your voice soft but firm. "I don't want 'cool.' I don't want 'heroic.'" You squeezed his fingers. "I want the guy who saves me a seat every morning without being asked. The guy who slips extra biscuits into my bag because he knows I skipped breakfast. The guy who, despite setting things on fire, tries to do something kind for the whole school."
"Quit shovin', you spaghetti-shaped idiot," Ludwig, the tall, stoic class representative with perfectly ironed sleeves, grumbled, effortlessly pulling Feliciano back into his own seat by the collar. He gave you a curt, almost imperceptible nod. It was his way of saying 'good morning.'