"Mr. Clifford?"

Michael grunts in acknowledgement, shoving the sunglasses farther up his nose and squinting.

"Are you ever going to... take off your sunglasses?" The student in front of him, a junior, is tall with blue hair and a septum piercing. They quirk their ruby red lips up in a smirk when Michael turns his head to them, so he knows they're joking. Probably.

"Sally, please," he leans forward, sighing heavily, and sets his elbows on the table, chin in his hands. "Mr. Hemmings got me drunk last night, okay? Let me live."

"It's Ryland," they roll their eyes, so Michael rolls his right back, even though they can't see. Ryland's been in Michael's class for all three years of their high school career, each semester a different class, without fail. He likes them, they're a talented artist and a great person all around. Michael won't say it out lohd, but he likes Ryland.

The final bell rings and Michael groans loudly, making Ryland snort. They go off to take a seat in the back of the room, while Michael removes his sunglasses and rubs tiredly at his eyes. The entire class of 24 students is dead silent. They're all watching and waiting patiently. That's when Michael remembers.

"This is a freshman class, isn't it?" He sighs.

"Design foundations, sir," Ryland reminds him helpfully. "I'm your teaching assistant. Remember?"

Michael hates the first day of school. It means he actually has to do his job and teach. It also means Luke harasses him into getting piss drunk the night before, so Michael has to fucking teach with a hangover. He hates Luke, too.

"Okay, then," Michael rubs at his eyes again before standing up from his desk chair to crack his back loudly. The student sitting closest to him winces. "I'm your teacher, Michael Clifford, and I hate my job."

"Off to a strong start, sir," Ryland adds helpfully. Michael shoots her finger guns as he ambles to the front of the room in an attempt to center himself more to the students.

His classroom is made up of three walls, with the fourth made of floor to ceiling windows for natural light. There's five, large tables placed strategically around the room, all centered around a circular table in the middle, and about four or five chairs at each. Michael's desk is placed so, when he sits in his chair, he's boxed into the corner. Mainly so kids don't notice when he's watching anime on his computer. There's six computers and two printers against the back wall, next to the door to the storage room and the door to Michael's office. The left side wall is covered in cabinets filled with various art supplies, while the front has two white boards.

Michael scans the room and surveys his new crop of students. He eventually nods in approval and continues on teaching.

"This is apparently design foundations, so if that does sound like a class you're supposed to be in," he gestures to the door on his left. "You better get going. If this is your class, congrats, you made it to first hour. We learn some artsy stuff in this class, I'll email you all the syllabus at some point. If you try, I guarantee you will pass. If you want me to call you any name besides what's on the roster, let me know. If you use any pronouns besides the ones on the roster, let me know. I'm usually the only teacher that uses those. Right, Ryland?"

"Right, sir," Ryland responds, shooting Michael a thumbs up. "Mr. Hood usually does as well, and Mr. Hemmings tries, but he's got a bad memory. It's the thought that counts though, right?"

"Of course," Michael nods in agreement. "I'm going to take attendance, and that's all I have planned for today. I might take a nap for the remaining half an hour, you can do whatever you choose. I don't care, as long as you stay in class and don't, like, start anything on fire."

Michael starts ambling back to his cluttered desk, but a small hand shoots up before he can sit down. "Mr. Clifford!"

Michael sends his desk a forlorn glance before turning to spot the small blonde kid waving his arm around wildly. He sighs and frowns in disapproval. "Don't age me, dude, I'm like, 25. Just call me Michael."

"But, sir-" the blonde kid cuts off and drops his hand down to the table in front of him. "Sir, are we going to paint in this class?"

"Paint-" Michael scoffs and shakes his head, trudging the last few steps to his desk. "This is design, not painting. You can paint next semester."

"What are we going to do in this class, then?" The kid looks confused, sticking his pink bottom lip out in a pout. He reminds Michael of Luke, so Michael squints at him in annoyance as he flops down into his chair.

"Design shit, I don't know," Michael shrugs and grabs his sunglasses off the desk again. He slips them on to cover his bloodshot eyes and starts clicking around on his computer to attempt to find the roster. "Honestly, I haven't made the syllabus yet, but we're probably going to draw and build and, you knie, whatever. Do design type shit."

The kid looks unsatisfied, but let's it go. The other students look vaguely amused while Michael reads off his list and makes notes as to preferred names and pronouns. When he's finished, he leans forward and pillows his head into his arms on top of his desk, while his students talk amongst themselves.

About fifteen minutes into Michael's Designated Nap Time (seriously, it's like, 8 am, he needs his beauty rest), the door creaks open. Michael tilts his head and tugs his sunglasses down to make sure it's not the principal or liason or anything. Luckily, it's just Calum, strutting across the front of the room in his short shorts and great ass. Michael shoves his sunglasses back up and turns his head to get back to his napping.

"Long time, no see," Calum notes fondly, shoving a few things over on Michael's desk so he can sit on the corner of it.

"Shut up," Michael mutters back. The class seems to have gone silent at Calum's appearance, so Michael sits up and glances around. They're all staring at them- well, mainly Calum, but still. Michael huffs and tugs on his hair. "Class, this is Mr. Hood. He teaches you nerds about exercising and other garbage you won't ever need to remember."

Calum darts forward and slaps Michael's head, ruffling his pink hair, then turns back to the giggling class. "I teach health and physical education."

"Like I said, garba-" Michael cuts off when Calum goes to slap him again, only to miss when Michael jerks back.

"Teach your class," Calum demands. Michael scrunches up his nose at the thought, so Calum tacks on, "Do your job, dude. I can't have my bro getting fired."

Michael scowls and lowers his voice to mutter, "You can't call me bro or dude for at least 2 months after my dicks been in your mouth." Calum jerks forward and shoves at him, pushing Michael's rolling chair into the corner and forcing a pout from the art teacher. The bell rings, then, dismissing the class, although they all seem a little slow when grabbing their backpacks. And they're all still looking at Calum. Mainly how much leg Calum's showing due to his short shorts. Michael's not sure if the shorts are mandatory for the gym teacher job, or if calum just enjoys showing off his ass. Either way, the shorts are greatly appreciated by all faculty and students.

Once the class has cleared out, Calum pushes off the desk and straightens out his plain, white shirt. "We're meeting Luke in the break room for lunch, right?"

Michael nods and spins around in his chair, rolling forward. He opens the top drawer of his desk and pulls out a can of mountain dew, along with a granola bar, and hands it over to Calum. Calum looks appreciative of the snack drawer.

"Anyway," Calum cracks open the soda and offers Michael a sip before taking one himself. "I have a class this hour, so I better get back."

"Yeah," Michael agrees, rooting around the snack drawer for something sweet. "The class isn't going to teach itself to run around the track."

Calum shoots him a look, which Michael ignores.