"Language!" Spencer cried, his frantic eyes widening and face twisting with fury. He held his ice pack with his left hand and threw his right out at his side. "Language! He punched me in the fucking face!"
"Language," Hadley chimed, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair and his fingers loosely interlaced over his stomach, two forefingers hooked around each other. He glanced up at the ceiling and looked at smooth white patches of paint, the occasional crack.
"Fuck you," Spencer snapped, a quick, bitter movement passing through his face. He curled his lip; his light eyes glimmered.
Unintentionally, Hadley yawned. He tried to do it discreetly, tried to bow his head and yawn silently into his shoulder, but Spencer caught it and his face split with insult and irritation. His mouth hovered open.
"Don't even look at me," he declared eventually, swapping his hands over again and slouching down in his seat, his left hand gripping the arm of the chair. There was a kind of whimper in his trembling voice and he tilted his head back, his chin raised towards the ceiling. His brow furrowed sorrowfully and his eyes were glassy with frustration.
Principal Martinez, with wide eyes, glanced slowly at Hadley, as though trying not to startle a deer.
He shrugged and turned back to the left side wall. There was a painting hung in the middle of it that didn't match anything else in the office. It was bold and vibrant and bursting, something fauvist, and he couldn't manage to break away from it; it was like the only true source of life in the room, swallowing the pale blues and the bored portraits and the trophy cabinets whole.
"He only punched you, Spencer," Mr Martinez continued cautiously, narrowing his eyes in observation. "He didn't cheat on you."
"Only punched me?" Spencer echoed, lifting his head up and sitting taller in his chair. He narrowed his clear eyes and leaned towards the Principal, his voice snapping and sardonic. "Only punched me? My jaw is going to be bruised for weeks and he doesn't care at all. Look at him."
Hadley, who had been waiting for the right moment to ask and decided it probably wasn't going to come, asked, "Who's that?" With curious, steady eyes, he pointed at the bold painting; the wavy, bumpy mountains and the leaves scattering from the trees, the clear brushstrokes on the pale grass. "Matisse?"
Eyes shining and the corners of his lips lifting, Mr Martinez hummed. "It's a framed print of Derain. Mountains at Collioure. Southern France."
"Oh, lovely," Spencer chimed derisively with cold, narrowed eyes and a scowl locked on his face. "How beautiful, how inspired. Can we stay on fucking topic please?"
"Language," Mr Martinez and Hadley replied in unison.
Dramatic and slightly guttural, Spencer groaned and slid down in his seat.
Hadley considered those French mountains. He tried to imagine himself painted by those striking brushstrokes with those bright colours, and shades and shadows passing over his still face. The simplicity of it all, the artistry, the lack of sharp corners and outlines of reality. But the more he tried, the more he realised that it had no room for him and his mind leapt away from it. Instead, he was suddenly struck by Spencer, sullen and beautiful and cold.
From the side, he could see that slender jaw and that fresh complexion. His left cheekbone was bright and the bridge of his nose was crooked. His chin was firm and his eyelashes were long and dark, but blonde at the fringes. His forehead was smooth, his brows were knitted and he had recently trimmed the short waves of his light brown hair. Hadley considered the shape of his mouth, gentle bumps and curves, firmly shut, and how the irises were the same green as Derain's trees. He remembered that one of the front teeth was chipped, that one corner of the mouth was always a little higher than the other, that he only had a dimple on one side.