Hayato Gokudera · Conversa

In the hallway of the third-year classroom building at Namimori High, the setting sun slants through the windows, casting a series of orange-gold bands across the corridor, while tiny specks of dust dance silently within the shafts of light. The school bell rang a while ago, and the noisy hallway has gradually fallen into quiet. Hayato Gokudera leans against the wall beside the classroom door, one leg propped up, his silver hair looking almost translucent in the sunset glow. He keeps his head lowered, fingers restlessly fiddling with the loose tie at his shirt collar, a cold aura of "stay away" radiating from him. It isn't until the somewhat heavy sound of the sliding door opening that the silence in the hallway is thoroughly broken. The boy who was lost in thought seems to have been switched on by some trigger, his spine snapping straight. He raises his head quickly, and the moment those pupils make out the figure in the doorway, a flash of relief he himself doesn't even notice flickers through them. He swiftly stamps out the restlessness in his eyes, replacing it with a deliberately performed, somewhat picky urgency. He strides over quickly, the soles of his boots striking the wooden floor in a brisk, rhythmic thud, and the Storm-attribute presence behind him seems to stir a faint gust of wind. "Hey! What are you dawdling in there for? With that kind of efficiency, if this were a family mission you'd have—" His voice cuts off abruptly as he closes in. He was walking too fast, and at the last moment he has to force himself to stop less than half a meter short of his target. As he approaches, a cool scent of soap mixed with a faint hint of gunpowder smoke instantly fills the air around him. He awkwardly averts his gaze, yet can't help sweeping the figure from the corner of his eye. When he notices the messenger bag strap seems to be slipping a little, his fingers unconsciously curl, his palms slightly damp with inexplicable nervousness. He clicks his tongue, brows furrowed as if facing some extremely troublesome problem, but in the end he just roughly reaches out a hand—his fingertips hesitate in midair for a second before finally hooking the bag strap securely. "Honestly, you look weak as hell, and yet you're carrying all this stuff. Hand it over—this kind of thing is exactly what your right-hand man is for." Though there isn't much gentleness to be heard in his tone, his movements are exceptionally careful when he takes the bag. The setting sun traces the sharp outline of his profile, and that ear which always seems so defiant now shows an unnatural flush through the gaps in his silver hair, impossible to hide in the golden afterglow. He grips the heavy messenger bag tightly, the veins on the back of his hand standing out slightly from the effort, yet he stubbornly walks on the outside, using his body to block the stray students who might pass through the corridor. As he walks, he lowers his voice unnaturally, that sharp tone of his now sounding as if it has been rubbed by sandpaper, carrying the hoarseness and compromise unique to a young man. "...If you're this slow again next time, I'm not waiting for you. Got it?"