Troublesome (Teacher!Erwin x Student!Reader) Ch. 5

(Chapter 5) Do No Good

She skipped the last detention.

I am… not upset. Nor surprised.

I should, undoubtedly, apologize for my actions on Wednesday. But I don’t know if it’s completely necessary, we seem to be on relatively good terms again. Even if I had to, I’m not sure I would be able to face her alone, not after--

The dream.

Oh, God, the dream. And what I did--

I have not dealt with it. I haven’t even thought about it, much less even admitted it happened.

This—this sort of basic attraction inspires such blatant stupidity, and I’m probably a fine example of that. In the beginning, I had reasons—logical, sensible reasons—to be interested in her; I’m sure of it. I wanted her to graduate, I wanted her to do well, but now…

I am not stupid. I am not going to let myself go around pretending nothing’s changed when—

Everything’s changed, hasn’t it?  All of it. Everything. I can no longer stand to be in a room alone with her for more than a few minutes without wanting—

It’s wrong. It’s wrong, but that doesn’t seem to matter as much anymore.

That should worry me, but it doesn’t.

~ES

No one's paying attention on Friday.

By the time she gets to third block, everyone's buzzing about homecoming, gossiping and chattering about who's going with who and which guys still don't have dates and a bunch of other crap that she couldn't care less about. There are more important things in life than a dumb school dance that will probably end up being nothing more than an embarrassing memory in a year or so.

So, she just sighs, rolls her eyes, and ignores it. Or tries to, at least, because she can ignore everyone talking but she can’t ignore how freaked out she is over the idea that she’ll have to face Jean Kirstein, in person, for the first time since they kissed on Tuesday.

It’s either going to be really weird or really terrible. She knows that much already.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Her and Jean’s sort-of-not-really homecoming date isn’t going all that great. As predicted.

She'd hoped, really honestly hoped that nothing had changed between them, but she'd essentially been avoiding him (hypocrite much?) since she kissed him and she should have fucking known that nothing would be the same. To make it worse, she can't even pin down what it is that's making her feel so uneasy, but she knows that it's there, hanging over her head like some big dramatic storm cloud.

He doesn’t bring it up until they’re alone.

She says she needs fresh air—and it’s true, mostly. The cafeteria is suffocating and humid as all hell, but she also wants a break for a moment. Jean probably thinks that she can’t see how many times he’s glanced at her but she can, and it makes her so fucking uncomfortable, and she just wants to get out of there before things get any worse.

But then Jean latches on to the chance to come with her. There’s nothing she can really say except for ‘okay’, so he follows her out the side door and into the brisk October air and they just stand there, in the dark, listening to the muffled sounds of music coming from inside and watching the lights from the cars disappear down the road.

He starts talking.

About school, at first—classwork and teachers and projects coming up—and then it turns to video games, and TV shows, art assignments and weekend plans. It’s a little too easy to fall back into their familiar banter. But then--

“I got something for you,” Jean says, changing the topic clumsily.

She freezes. "What is it?" she says nervously.

He doesn’t notice. Or he pretends not to, or he thinks she’s nervous for a different reason. He grins and looks away, kicking the grass with his scuffed-up converse—she realizes that he had still refused to wear dress shoes and it’s both funny and kind of painful at the same time. And then he digs around in the pocket of his neatly ironed black pants and pulls out a black box. A jewelry box. She stares.

No. No, no, no, no-- no, you fucking asshole, you didn't.

“It’s just—fuck. I didn’t think about what to say. I mean—“ he swallows, and laughs nervously, fiddling with the seam of his dress shirt. “It was a big deal. This. The dance. So I thought—I thought I would get you—something— you could wear. Tonight. It would mean a lot to me. I mean—you don’t have to. You can say no. Really, I wouldn’t—well, yeah, I would—but—just open it?”

He presses the box into her hand. She curls her fingers around it. She doesn’t open it.

“Jean—“ she sighs and starts to slowly shake her head. “Fucking hell—“

“Please? Open it, at least, and—and if you don’t—well, if you don’t like it or—or you don’t want to wear it, then I’ll just—I don’t know.” He tries to shrug it off like it’s no big deal, but she’s known him since they were toddlers, and she can read the disappointment on his face. It makes her stomach hurt.

She hesitates, and then nods reluctantly. The uneasy feeling from before comes back tenfold.

She should say no. She should tell him straight out that this isn’t what she wants. But she can’t, because she knows with an awful, unwavering sort of certainty that if she does, she’ll lose him. And she can’t do that. Not now. And it's terrible. She's supposed to be stronger than this. She's supposed to be able to just tell him to fuck off, but she can't, because he's Jean and she can't hurt him like that. 

So she steels herself, and swallows down the lump in her throat.

She opens the box.

Inside is a necklace. A small, silver, heart-shaped necklace on a delicate chain, lying in black faux-velvet, with a flowering rose engraved on the surface in captivating detail. It’s pretty. It’s beautiful, even, but—

She can’t.

“I…” she trails off, and looks up at Jean.

He blushes, and runs his fingers through his hair. “It’s, um… Well, see—I wanted—I still want—to do this the right way, I guess. All the other times I’ve—you know—dated a girl, I kind of just… went along with it? But you’re—different—kind of, I mean, it’s hard to describe, I’ve never—I’ve never felt like this before. But—um. You’re going to wear it, right?”

He looks at her; expectant, eager, hopeful, even, and she wishes—she wishes that she had been clearer, she wishes she had just told him this wasn't a fucking option, because it isn't. It never was.

“Jean," she says, "I can't."

He looks confused. And then upset, and then embarrassed, and then she doesn't know what next because she pulls the door open and disappears back into the cafeteria. 

She doesn’t go back to her friends, and she can’t fucking go home because Jean drove her here. Her head spins. Her only clear thought is I need to get away from this. And she does. She disappears down a dark, empty hallway and for once in her life she’s grateful for all the extra time she’s spent in this stupid school, because even when it’s 9 at night she still knows her way around the building.

And she also knows there’s an unused classroom at the end of the third floor.

By the time she gets there, closes the door, and sits down at one of the desks (conveniently dust-free, thanks to the fact that she spends lunch block up here), she's filled to the brim with pent up energy-- adrenaline and anxiety and doubt and maybe a little bit of anger, too.

She just wants to go home.

She was supposed to have fun tonight. But now, she can’t think of any way this could get worse.

The door creaked open.

It gets worse.

“You’re not supposed to be in here.”

She tenses, defensive, and glares daggers at the empty desk in front of her.

“Fuck off, Smith.”

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Erwin Smith hates homecoming.

Every single year, somehow he gets stuck on the list of supervising staff members. That essentially means standing in a stuffy, loud, dark cafeteria surrounded by teenagers, half of which spend most of the night not-so-discreetly grinding on each other. It’s a waste of his time. Actually, it’s a waste of everyone’s time, in his opinion.

This year is worse.

This year is definitely worse, because she’s here.

Her dress is pretty. It’s a pale, rosy pink, with a high waist and a soft silver ribbon that ties just under her breasts. It makes her look exceedingly feminine. Delicate, even, in a way that would make one want to protect her, to slay dragons and pull the sword from the proverbial stone. She looks beautiful.

Every single time he looks at her, without fail, he’s painfully reminded of what happened two nights ago, though he’s determined to put both it and her out of his mind, permanently. But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t quite ignore her. She’s always there, on the edge of his vision—he tries to tell himself that when she goes out the side door with Jean Kirstein that he’s not watching and waiting for her to come back, anxious and maybe even a little jealous (though he’ll never admit it).

And he just happens to notice her slip back inside and take off down an empty hallway. It was a coincidence, he wasn’t watching for her to come back, he’s not that infatuated—

“You’re not supposed to be in here.”

She’s sitting at a desk in an unused classroom, facing away from him. And he’s in the doorway; of course he is, because he can’t seem to leave her alone after all. Because he’s terrible, truly, and it’s something he should be more worried about than he is.

“Fuck off, Smith.”

He sighs, and folds his arms; what did he think would actually come of this? It’s not like outside of school hours she magically ceases to be a delinquent teenager. But that’s not really what he’d been hoping for, was it? Of course not. The memory of Wednesday night has been playing behind his eyes since he first saw her. It’s a disaster. He’s a disaster, but he just can’t bring himself to care. It’s after school hours on a Friday and he’s worn out and not thinking straight, but maybe, maybe, for once,that’s a good thing.

“I can’t leave until you do,” he says.

She doesn’t reply for a long moment. And then—“Look, I’m not in the mood for this. So just go away, okay?” She sounds tired.

Erwin steps farther into the room, and closes the door behind him. For privacy’s sake. Not because he hopes that she’ll do something in her vulnerable state, because wanting that would be immoral, not that he cares at the time.

“Did something happen with Kirstein?” he asks gently, pulling up one of the dusty chairs from the side of the room and brushing it off, sitting down next to her.

She laughs harshly, and stares at him, eyebrow raised. “What are you, my goddamn therapist?”

Erwin rolls his eyes. “No. Of course not. I’m just trying to help.” It’s not true. He’s not trying to help. He’s just being selfish. But she doesn’t know that.

She sighs, and twists around in her seat to actually look at him. Her dress is riding up her thighs. He tries not to stare. “What do you care?” she asks, and his eyes flicker back up to her face.

“Because,” he answers evasively. “I figured you would be more confrontational than this. You certainly are with me.”

She hesitates for a moment, and then the hard look on her face softens. “It’s different with him, I guess,” she says quietly.

Erwin leans in a little closer, and the atmosphere shifts—they’re too close. She notices. He can tell.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because I know him, dumbass. I don’t know you.” She hesitates. “Not like that.”

“Do you want to?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth—hesitant and unsure and just off—Erwin knows, inexplicably, that he’s done something wrong. Or maybe not, maybe something completely and utterly right, because she looks at him and there’s something in her eyes that wasn’t there before.

He knows he’s gone too far—crossed so many lines and completely changed their relationship from teacher-student to something much more dangerous. He should stop. But that’s the farthest thing from his mind right now.

She licks her lips, and then carefully, very carefully says, “What do you mean?”

He swallows. “I…don’t know.”

It’s a lie. It’s a complete lie, but he can’t go through with this. He thought he could, and he wants to, but--

He can’t.

“I didn’t mean—“

She cuts him off. “Yeah you did.”

They look at each other, silently, for a minute, maybe more.

She gets up and she closes the space between them, and he’s still sitting down and then--- and then she slides into his lap, straddles him, more like, and he forgets how to breathe, or think, or do anything other than just stare at her, as she stares back, so fucking unsure but wanting, too.

He knows she’s not thinking straight.

She angry, and confused at that other boy and he’s a terrible person to be taking advantage of that, but it’s just another thing to add to the list at this point. So he doesn’t tell her to stop, he doesn’t do anything but watch her, waiting for something, though he has no idea what it is yet—

She takes a deep, shaky breath. His eyes widen just a fraction, and then—

“Kiss me.”

And he does.