A Large Double-Double Please? (OPEN)

[Mason McQueen]

Mason never really liked bringing his work home. Not only were such papers bulky and heavy, he didn’t really have a good place to put them in. He’s currently living with his younger brother after all (who’s completely against him moving out unless he’s marrying someone), and while it has a spacious basement, Andrei’s converted it into his own personal study (where he does all that newspaper magic). Thus, Mason has to do his marking on the dining table or in the couch, both of which make him rather unproductive in their own ways. With the former, his problem lies with the chair – it’s wood so his butt aches every thirty minutes or so. With the latter, it’s with the comfort he feels – since it’s all cushiony and soft, he’s snoring within minutes of sitting down. And his dog bugging him every five minutes or so isn’t really helping him much either.

Thus, the man resolved to finish everything in school as of late. The extra hours spent on school grounds wasn’t all that enticing, but at least he can go home and just sleep. For a procrastinator like him, it really was a big change. But at least it’s working.

If it were for him, he would’ve preferred to work in one of his classrooms (he teaches General Science, Biology, Chemistry and a little Physics on the side after all). But with some renovations being done with his Bio and Physics rooms (additional shelves for the microscopes, weighing scales and other equipment) and a plumbing repair for his Chem room (someone spilled MnO₄ in the pipes. Not good), he has no choice but to do his work in the staff lounge.

Sure he wasn’t all that used to the said room (it took him three minutes to select a ‘good’ spot) but the seemingly unending supply of caffeine won him over. He wasn’t really a big coffee drinker, but it’s enough to keep him seated and relatively focused for more than an hour already.

He had just made his third cup (with two shots of cream and four sugars please) and was on his way back when he accidentally tripped on a raised tile board and spilled his hot drink on an ‘innocent bystander’. “Oops! Sorry,” he said almost immediately.

I don’t think that’ll cut it though.

[Mitya Makarov]

Mitya didn’t usually have much cause to hang around after school, quite happy to take any paperwork into his bomb site of an apartment, find any old empty space and pore over it there. The problem with that on this particular day was that, since he had been rather lax with the state of his apartment lately, he was fairly certain that there wasn’t any space left. With that in mind and the fact that he really just did not want to deal with all that mess after such a long day, he decided it would be much easier on himself if he stayed in the school building just a little longer. Besides, there was a coffee machine in the staff lounge.

He’d never really been much of a coffee drinker but it worked just as well as tea when he desperately needed a little boost. Perhaps he was biased, but he still thought that tea did the job properly, something that, for him, coffee had failed to do. If he just went back home, he would have all the tea he could ever drink, but, again, no space in which to sit and enjoy it without being engulfed by plastic coverings and cardboard boxes. Coffee would just have to do. He needed room to breathe and to see, after all, if he was going to work on training plans and other such wonderful things. Not to mention there was that thing with the stuff he wanted to contact whatsername about.

Heading for the staff room for what he hoped would be the last time before heading home, he was actually surprised to see another staff member still hanging around, but figured that he could still easily blend into the background so as not to bother him. Or at least, that was his excuse for not wishing to be sociable. As he neared the treasured coffee machine, however, the other staff member tripped, and for a split second Mitya was so concerned over the man’s accident that he didn’t quite register the scalding coffee running from his waist to his left leg. It was only after the “Are you okay?” he managed that the pain set in and he immediately crumpled, hissing incomplete Russian curses to himself until the coffee cooled. Why did it take so long for even spilled coffee to cool??

[Mason McQueen]

Working in a lab for nearly a decade – seven years as a student, four as a researcher in a pharmaceutical company, and nearly a year in Hammel – you’d think that Mason would be well equipped to handle accidents like this. That he won’t be an unproductive slob who’ll panic like crazy – flailing, shouting or simply staring blankly while repeatedly spewing apologies. Well, in most cases, he is, at least in the classroom. He’s effectively neutralized a flame that got out of control two days ago (no thanks to a pothead pyrokinetic) and held on to more than a dozen scalpels as another student of his called a power suppressor before the said instruments puncture his student in twelve different places.

Then again, they’re not inside his lab, so maybe he has – to some effect – an excuse for being so hysterical with what he just did.

He dropped onto the floor on all fours, effectively releasing the mug. Thank goodness it wasn’t porcelain else he has the shards to think about and clean too. It was a little weird that his ‘victim’ asked him if he was doing well, and for a minute he thought he was talking to John. Or at least someone who shares his invulnerability to all things, well, things. Somehow, this comforted him, his mind telling him that his worries were unfounded.

But then he started speaking gibberish (clearly the man is not familiar with the different languages of the world) and his anxiety spiked up just like that.

“Oh god, oh god,” he said, fretting as he scrambled to get back on his feet, “I’m really sorry. So sorry.” He hurriedly stood up and grabbed the roll of paper towels, dabbing them on the man’s pant leg. “I’m really sorry. I-I didn’t see the broken tile.” Oh he’s so going to rant to Levente about that one.

Embarrassed, Mason unconsciously bit his lower lip as he finished dabbing paper towels on Mitya’s now soaked pants. “I’m really sorry Mr. Mityakov. I-I..I think I have spare pants in my car. You didn’t get burned much, did you?”

Well, at least he got bits of Mitya’s name right, right?

[/justify][/blockquote]

[Mitya Makarov]

When the teacher dropped the way he did, Mitya worried that he had seriously hurt himself. It wasn’t like it was impossible to twist your ankle on even a deceptively okay-looking tile. Once the initial shock of pain had worn off, he stopped speaking in what was essentially Russian gibberish and took a very deep breath before taking some of the paper towels from the jittery-looking Mr. McQueen. It was McQueen, right? In order to not make himself look any more foolish than he already did, he decided not to bother with names for the moment.

“I-it’s okay, really,” he breathed, taking bunches of the paper towels and squeezing them against his hip and leg. “It was possibly going to happen eventually, with the tile.” Knowing his luck, it would have been him on the receiving end of a wave of scalding hot coffee either way.

“Makarov,” he corrected the other man automatically, but then shook his head afterwards as though to indicate his distaste for informality. “Mitya, Mitya... you can call me Mitya.” After a moment’s pause, he added; “You know, I didn’t think there would be anyone in here so late.”

Beginning to feel just a touch uncomfortable being dried off by someone else now that the liquid had finally cooled somewhat, he held up his hand, making a gesture to indicate that he could take care of the rest on his own. “No, I don’t think so; I think I’m fine. Really, don’t worry about the trousers...I can... I can just dry them at a hand dryer or something, maybe.” Considering there were probably no students lurking in the hallways to blind with his weirdly smooth legs. Had it been the middle of the day he would have simply gone home and changed, but if he left at that point, he’d likely have gone home and found a nest of sheets to sleep in, far too lazy tired to climb over the boxes of plates and cookbooks.

Smiling bravely as he peeled the clothing away from his skin, creating tents in the material, he added; “Besides. I have clothes with me. Classes requiring activity call for change of clothing.”

[Mason McQueen]

Mason calmed down just a bit when Mitya finally stopped talking in gibberishRussian and decided to go take deep breaths. As much as he’d like to deny it, seeing a grown man panic is making him all the more jumpy than seeing his whole Chem class do the same. “Indeed. I’m going to have a word with the maintenance staff after we’re done,” he chuckled, a little less nervous this time, as he handed Mitya more wads of paper towels, “You’d think things like these would be solved immediately in a school inhabited by people who can pass through wall, but no.”

Not that he’s saying Dylan and Levi weren’t doing a good job, ‘cause they are. He just figured that a little humor, crude as they may be, would help ease the tension (he feels) even slightly.

“Oops. My bad, I’m really awful with names.” Especially when he needs to put them in with faces. Even with a ‘seating plan’ (a piece of paper with the classroom’s layout and his student’s names on the seats), it took him a good month and a half to put face and name together. “I’m Mason. Mason McQueen,” he said, for good measure. Just in case he’s wondering the same thing.

He dejectedly pointed to the three piles stacked relatively neatly on top of the table. “Lab reports. Oh how I hate marking those.” It’s his fault really, insisting that his students do the formal results-discussion in paragraph form instead of simply answering the questions as is. It’s good training for when they go to college, but it’s hard when it comes to marking. “Reading paragraph after paragraph of bad English fries one’s brain. I seriously need to talk to Chloe about this.” He’s inclined to believe his sister that it’s all because of the texting hype and the need to shortcut words. “Though really, I could say the same for you,” he said with a smile.

He took Mitya’s signal to stop and crawled over to grab his cup, wiping the rest of the (once) hot liquid from the table. “Activity? Are you a PE teacher then?” Because he couldn’t remember being all that physical when he was training back in Hammel.

ooc:
Rather crappy. Sorry Lilac. D;.
- Jam

[Mitya Makarov]

He hadn't realised just how hard his heart had been pounding until it began to slow down. It still wasn't really an excuse for his reaction; it was only coffee, after all. Scalding hot coffee, sure, but it was always going to cool down eventually. The other man had panicked, which was something else he felt bad about. It hadn't been necessary to make such a fuss. To his great relief, the other seemed to actually be taking it rather well now that things were calmer, and didn't appear hurt.

He even joked, which signified that, after the shock, everything was back to normal. Well, other than the spilled coffee and his drenched clothing. It wasn't like that would have been a conscious fashion choice. Chuckling a little at the comment about phasers, he figured that dabbing the stain wasn't helping any more.

"It's okay," he assured who he now knew to be Mason. "I'm not so good with names either." It was true. Often he'd find himself in a conversation with someone during which he never ever mentioned what he thought their name might be, just in case he got it horribly wrong. Or end a conversation furiously trying to remember even just the first letter of their name. He would learn eventually, of course. It just would have been nicer had he been blessed with a more photographic brain, he thought.

As Mason retrieved his cup, Mitya moved to put the crumpled, soggy paper towels into the bin, beginning to feel somewhat uncomfortable in his damp, just-cool clothes. A P.E. teacher? What would make him think -- ah.

"Oh no, not a P.E. teacher," he began, his forehead creasing a little with anxiety as he started to feel as though his English was failing him. "A powers trainer. But I learned quickly that suits aren't always the best thing for classes... anything with -kinesis at the end. Tends to be... er... active." Yep, words were failing. His Russian would go next and he'd be stuck speaking in nonsense for the night, no doubt about it.

((the post was great what are you on?? D= ))

[Mason McQueen]

Wiping the last of his mess off the floor with his (now) very brown and very damp paper towels (he could’ve gotten more really, but his innate laziness kicked in), Mason shifted just slightly and stood up with a soft grunt, flashing Mitya an embarrassed smile when his eyes met his. Touching the soiled wipes were disgusting in itself, but still the man crumpled it in his hands and threw it towards the bin not far from where he was previously sitting. “Score!” he shouted like a kid when he saw the ball’s trajectory. But then it hit the bin’s edge and flopped ungracefully to the side. “Aww shucks,” pouted the thirty year-old (though I highly doubt he looks like one now) as he walked over and finally threw his trash properly.

“Sorry. Force of habit,” he grinned shyly, grabbing a few more towels to wipe his now moist and sticky palms.

While his panic has subsided, his guilt didn’t. And for some reason, whenever he talks to Mitya, it’s as if the stain-spot just glows and draws his attention to it. Why must he really be so clumsy anyway? “Powers trainer eh? I was actually planning to apply like one. Seems a whole lot more fun than just simple classroom teacher like I am now.” He has this image of spontaneity for power trainers; they don’t have a strict curriculum after all, unlike them subject teachers who must still abide by state laws and guidelines about what they should teach and what they shouldn’t. And power trainers have it easy in terms of getting close to the kids. Well, at least in his time, he got friendly with his trainer before he even dared talk to the then-devil-incarnate Mrs. Barnes.

“You should tell that to John. You know him right? British guy, never smiles?” Oh how he’d get the smack if he hears him talk like this behind his back. “Betcha he even sleeps with a tie and his suit on.” Maybe we should ask Clarisse that.

Despite the massive mess he’s made, he still needs his coffee fix, so Mason once again dared to start the beloved machine. This time though, he pulled out two cups, looking at Mitya and asking, “Want one? Don’t worry, I’ll give you the cups when I walk back just to be sure I won’t spill it again.” Self-depreciating humor is always good, right?

“Why’d you stop by the staff lounge anyway, if you don’t mind me asking. Surely you didn’t go here to have quite the bath, right?”

ooc:
Laaaaate. ZOMFG. Sorry. D;.
-Jam

[Mitya Makarov]

Considering his power, Mitya never really felt the need to succumb to habits like the throwing of things into bins. Why bother with sports or games requiring that sort of accuracy when you could do it all with your mind? Even so, he couldn't help but smile, and shrugged and shook his head at the apology.

"Oh, it's fine," he said, itching to take a bath or a shower by that point. "I understand the compulsion."

Wiping his hands for what seemed like the sixty-seventh time, he nodded politely as he listened to the other man speak. "It can be fun, or it can be... troublesome," he said carefully, trying to choose the right words to describe his job. "What made you choose to become a teacher instead?" He was just curious, that was all. He wouldn't get upset if Mason wanted to avoid speaking about it as he would have, mainly because he knew that he wouldn't have appreciated such a question. It didn't hurt to ask, though... did it? His hypocrisy was surely astounding.

"Aha. I think I know him but possibly not well enough to advise him on clothing." Or anyone, for that matter, really. He probably lacked the qualifications, considering the cheapness of his own suits, but then, as the coffee-spill event had proved, choosing cheap suits had probably been the best option in the long run. Chuckling softly, he used telekinesis to bring himself his bag, apparently suddenly too lazy to walk over from the chair he had chosen to recline in. While Mason busied himself with the coffee machine, he quickly ripped off the suit jacket and shirt and pulled a sweatshirt on in its place. The trousers could wait for now; he wasn't intending on staying long.

"Aha... well, I just needed somewhere quiet to plan exercises for classes. I wasn't quite expecting to see anyone else here, but then I wasn't expecting the... coffee." He wondered for the briefest of moments why he hadn't yet learned to expect the unexpected.

[Mason McQueen]

“Not unlike my classroom,” he silently added as Mitya spoke. Since the kids they’re teaching are basically subsets of the same student body anyway, he doubts there’d be much of a difference. After all, if you don’t have Verax, there’s always Rixon, Rose, Waylan, Keystone, LaRousse, Paerson, Wilkes…oh he could go on and on. “Well, I just thought that my powers aren’t really suited to stopping wayward abilities.” Hair, no matter how strong and thick, can only stop fire for so long after all. “Anya or Jackeroe are perfect. John won’t have trouble stopping those who can supposedly hurt him and Mr. Kilb-Campbell can just look in his students’ eyes to make them submit.” Well, Chase’s powers would be handy in any class really.

“And besides, I’m a biochemist by profession. I think I missed the labs subconsciously,” Mason added with a chuckle.

Not that Mason was any fashion guru either. Dressing ‘classy’ to him usually means putting a suit over his usual shirt-jeans combo. Which is why he’s thankful he has his brother around to ask whenever he has a formal event to attend to. “It’s cool. Don’t worry, I won’t tell him. As long as you don’t tell on me too.” Further proof that he never really grew up. Sorry ‘bout that.

With the coffee machine running, Mason turned around and leaned on the counter, arms idly crossed over his chest. He tilted his neck up slightly, trying to remember the things he told Paul he’d do when he got home. Laundry, dinner, try to clean the bathroom. Maybe they can just order Chinese for tonight. “Woah, you change fast,” he chuckled when he saw that the soiled suit and shirt had been tucked in the man’s bag already.

“I’m really sorry Mitya. I’m almost done checking anyway; I can leave if you want to.” He did feel a guilty about ruining the man’s night/evening with his clumsy antic. “One last question though, is Russia’s curriculum any different? I mean, I know you had mandatory military service, but was it any tougher there really?” It’s one of the questions that’s been bugging him anyway. He studied in Eisai for a year (Paul graduated from there) and he’s got tons of transfer students from Kocher. But he’s never had the chance to ask anyone about Odarennyĭ. “If you’re ok with telling me this anyway,” he added the last minute.

[Mitya Makarov]

When it was noted how quickly he could change, he smiled. "Ah, you have to learn to change fast when... well, when you're in the military." It wasn't as though he wasn't expected to have some training, having transferred from Odarennyĭ. "You don't have to go; I probably won't stay so long myself."

And then came the inevitable question.

If he was perfectly honest, anyone asking about the Russian school slid down on his list of people he wanted to talk to more than once. It didn't exactly hold great memories, and it was difficult to think of ways to describe it without it sounding like a stereotypical Russian war story. So he paused and thought carefully about his words for a moment, good words in English escaping him. He wondered briefly if he could get away with saying that he had exhausted his vocabulary and politely leave, but it wasn't technically true. He had, if nothing else, been taught well at Odarennyĭ. How they knew he would ever need to know English was beyond him but he was grudgingly grateful for it.

"It... it's a difficult place," he said, keeping his entire body facing away from the other man. "Military training is frequent; I suppose that is well-known. Many of the power trainers are at the very least major-rank." As was he, but no-one had to know that. Feeling somewhat uncomfortable, he zipped up his bag and cleared his throat. "Culturally speaking it's very different, with different rules. Anyway. It's not that interesting. Did you come to Hammel in your developing years?" Hoping that it made sense enough to change the subject, he turned back to face Mason with a half-hearted, lopsided smile.

((ooc: I am sorry for this late and incredibly lame post))

[Mason McQueen]

As it seems, once again, the man has managed to cross some kind of line. Soiled the man’s clothes and now made him relive memories he’d rather bury six feet under the ground. And what’s worse, this time it was deliberate, though not forceful.

He should really learn how to put off relatively personal questions until after the third ‘chance’ meeting.

Mason was by no means a keen observer, but to him, Mitya’s change in demeanour was a huge sign that he might’ve been a bit too comfortable with the man. Guilt welling up from deep inside him, he took a deep breath, uncomfortably fiddling with his hands. Something tells him he should apologize, but then it might make the growing unease between them more prominent (since he somehow acknowledged it) and make matters worse. The last thing he needs is to have a scuffle with a coworker after all.

Nervously brushing his hair up (he feels that they might’ve grown a centimetre or two over the past minute; might’ve been caused by his sudden nervousness), he gave the man a tentative smile as he spoke, “That sounds harsh. Puberty is already hard enough; I could only speculate what might’ve happened in there.” That seems neutral enough, right? “I did. But I spent a year in Eisai since I lived overseas. Glad I did, since Hammel’s way lax than the Japanese school, no offense to them.” Some part of him wishes he stayed though. Hammel was indeed a lot more ‘chill’ than Eisai, but the training back there was superb. Andrei’s control of his ability was proof of that.

He was just about to say something else when his phone suddenly beeped (he insists that the ringtone was Paul’s idea; he’s just too lazy to change it), revealing a text from his younger brother asking him to get home already else dinner will be cold. Seems his little bro got early and decided to do something himself. Totally fine with me.

“Uhh, Mitya, I may have to leave now,” he said as he packed his stuff up, “I’m really sorry for soiling your shirt.” And making you uncomfortable. “Talk to you again soon?” He gave the man a small wave before going out the lounge and into the hallway.

ooc:
Laate. >.<. BUT ZOMG I JUST REALIZED THAT IT'S JAKE THE DOG IN MITYA'S SIGGY. <3.
And oh, wrapped? Thanks Lilaaac. <3
- Jam