Cian was ready to rip up the little letter. It was a disgusting little insult. If Layland didn't care, why did he keep trying to remind Cian that he existed? The man was already on his mind day and night---the past two days had been torture so far. He growled at it, flattening it on the table and using a pen to scribble on the message. But for some reason he didn't toss it away. Why? He was dying inside and he didn't throw the horrible message away. He would fail his classes and be forced into trying to compete with his uncle. He sighed outwardly, shaking ad lowering his head until the bell rang. Layland was in the whole fiasco too, but it wasn't Cian's fault. He had, yes, drank the potion, but he assumed it was for him. It was in his locker, and not signed with a name indicating who it was meant for. For all Layland considered, he was awfully thoughtless.

He stood on shaking legs and halfheartedly slid his bag onto his shoulder, taking his lunch trash and throwing it away, and forcing himself to go to his sculpting class. He stepped in only for a moment, asking about what he missed yesterday and writing it down. He glanced at the chalkboard to see the current task at hand---there was no weekly project it seemed, as the area below was erased, so Cian wrote the current project down and left the room, feeling he could do the tasks at home. Yesterday's sculpting was with wood, and they were to make an intricate bird. Today's was with the same, but it had to be a known vehicle.

He thought about Layland as he walked. He both loved and hated the man and the feelings conflicted so fiercely he felt he was actually in a relationship that seemed to be coming to an end on one half. As if Layland was wanting out and being horrible so that Cian would end it first. But there was no end. It was all Cian. He went outside, finding his usual tree and sliding down to sit. Against himself, he pulled out the note he'd scribbled on and glared at it as if it were Layland. But he couldn't pull off the right kind of glare that would intimidate. It was a rather sad thing---Cian was barely intimidating, but he could get loud. Obviously he had surprised Layland when he screamed at the man, but he didn't want to do it again. He hated it. He hated being unable to focus on his work. On his art. He put his head between his knees and rolled the paper between his fingers.