#ThatSmutFic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thatsmutaccount · 1 month ago

Text

The crow and the jock

Cross posted on ao3

Next>

Chapter 1: Just an ordinary day

SUMMARY: Donovan Crawford is a 43 year old single man, a high school teacher who just wants to have a normal school day and avoid having any problem, hanging out with his friends and colleagues and helping his students achieve their goals.

Timothy McArthur is a 19 year old jock from the school lacrosse team with just one goal in mind: win over his crush and live happily ever after with him!

The problem? His crush is none other than his literature professor, mr. Crawford, whom he fondly calls "mr. Crow", way older than him, definitely not interested and have we already mentioned he is his teacher?

Now in his last semester of his senior year, Timothy is ready to do whatever it takes to go out of the studentzone and finally have the man of his dream. And Donovan? He obviously refuse to let the kid ruin both of their lives with such a stupid idea.

But between carnivals, field trips, lacrosse matches and the school play maybe something it's starting to shift for the strict professor

*******

Author's warning: The story you are about to read has as its focus the relationship and romance between a teacher and his student. All characters are over 18 (Tim was held back a year) and everything that will happen between them is consensual. I do not, in any way, shape or form, approve of this kind of behavior in real life and it's not my intention to romanticize this kind of relationship. All of this is all right because it's fiction, I would never approve of any of this in real life, just the thought makes me sick. The characters behavior is to be interpreted as an over exaggeration, a way to laugh and bring a smile on your face. Tim's attitude might come out a bit as obsessive, but again it's all made for laugh. Again:in real life please respect boundaries and know that if someone says no it means no.

Also, please remember that English is not my first language and that the following is not an accurate representation of how a high school works. I basically made it a blend between my experience as an European and what I saw in the movies and read in fanfiction, so don't blame me XP

If any of this triggers you please don't read. Always keep an eye out for the tags, I will add them as the story goes on, also I will put warnings in the author's note at the beginning of each chapter. There will be smut only in the last chapter of this fic, so it's a long time coming.

*******

The bell rang, and Donovan Crawford lowered the book from which he was reading a passage to the class, intent on listening enraptured by it, and then walked over to his desk, put it down and leaned over it, his arms at his side, a calm smile on his face: “All right, class, and with that, today's lesson is over. For next week: find a passage that you liked from the list of books we compiled together last week, I want an analysis of it and your comment on why it stuck with you so much. And having said that have a good weekend.”

The sound of chairs being moved officially announced the end of class as the students moved on and, chatting among themselves, left, all politely saying goodbye to him. Donovan waved them off one by one before grabbing his planner and a pen and marking the homework assignment. After jotting it down, the teacher cast a glance out the window and took a deep breath as he felt the warmth of the sun's rays warming his legs. He got up, stretched lazily, similar to a giant cat, and walked over to the window, taking in the view of the school garden and lingering over the blossoming trees. Spring seemed to be early that year, and soon coming to school fully dressed would be a nightmare: already that same day, because of the heat, the man had had to take off his jacket and pull up his sleeves, showing off his dark-hair-covered forearms in the middle of class, eliciting mild giggles from some female students, which he promptly ignored -- in addition to the ever-curious glance of the class members who discreetly tried to stretch their necks toward the inside of his forearm.

Donovan liked his work, and he also appreciated his students, believing them to be smart kids who had the potential to do great things, and when they failed he was ready to support them as best as he could. One thing he did not appreciate, however, were the clear looks of appreciation and comments he sometimes overheard in the hallways about him that always generated a slight redness in his neck area. Of course, it was nice to know that, at forty-three years old, his looks continued to be a source of appreciation: average height, broad shoulders, untrained physique, in fact he even had a slight belly - but a regular diet and a healthy lifestyle pattern meant that he did not put on too much weight - , black hair - which in middle school had earned him the nickname "little crow,” due in part to the assonance of the first part of his last name with the word “crow” - usually kept short but which nonetheless went everywhere because of his habit of running his hands through it when he was tired and thoughtful, well-groomed sideburns, full cheeks with dimples and frown lines on the sides of his lips and eyes, a sign of his tendency to smile so often. His choice of clothing usually consisted of a pair of smart pants, a usually white shirt, and a jacket that served, in his opinion, to give him a more professional appearance.

He was, in short, the picture of the professor, something he was more than comfortable with; after all, the kids were supposed to see him as an authority figure, someone with whom they were not supposed to get overly familiar but whose role was to be respected and not taken lightly. Of course, this image, the result of hours spent in front of the mirror and consultations with a whole range of friends and colleagues, had gone to hell within a few years, as he had discovered, due both to the fact that he seemed a few years younger than he was - causing the students to take some liberties with him at times, especially if it was among the first times they had met him - , but mostly because of his friendly, almost paternal nature and the way he explained topics. More than one parent, during their conversations, had come to compliment him, reporting how their children were always enthusiastic about taking his classes and how, when he approached a topic, he was always not only patient, but that he explained it in such a way that the kids ended up finding the topic compelling and inciting them to find out more on their own.

This obviously pleased him, but what he had not taken into account in his approach was that from admiration to crush was a short step, and so, before he knew it, he had found himself the subject of languid glances and dreamy sighs from a good portion of his students. Suffice it to say that, for ten years now, every Valentine's Day they would fill his desk with presents, chocolates and cards, which had, in their words when confronted about it, the purpose of “expressing their appreciation” toward him and his lessons, but behind which Donovan could easily discern more or less open declarations of love.

Whenever this happened the teacher felt himself dying inside from embarrassment, but he managed to maintain his self-control and gently but firmly nipped any hopes in the bud with a direct “oh, thank you so much, you are really great students. It's like receiving a courtesy valentine from my little cousins, it's really very sweet. You are such good kids, thank you so much.”

Seeing their crushed expressions when they were “student-zoned” made his heart clench, making him feel guilty, but fortunately it allowed him to get away scot-free, pointing out how, with him, there would never be anything beyond a professor-student relationship and that it was better for them to focus on other, far more achievable goals.

Even as he openly destroyed their hopes and dreams, he could not, however, tell them to stop having a crush on him, causing the broken-hearted students to console themselves by continuing to watch him from afar, casting melancholy glances at him or commenting under their breath appreciations of his physique and sighing when he addressed them politely.

Distracted as he was, Donovan did not even hear the classroom door creak open and the attempts at plodding footsteps behind him - clearly useless because of the owner's size and less-than-discreet movements - until two large, calloused hands, which could very well have been mistaken for baseball gloves, closed over his eyes and a cheerful, deep voice exclaimed gleefully, “Guess who?”

Instantly, the man stiffened and turned away, jerking the stranger away from him, his face on fire, before sighing and bringing a hand to his forehead as he took to massaging his temples, which were already throbbing from an increasingly close headache, before murmuring a tired, “Good morning, Timothy.”

Standing still, a bright expression on his face covered by a faint dark stubble, stood a young senior, a broad smile standing out against his dark skin, his black hair covered by a baseball cap with the front turned to the back. The young man was not very tall, perhaps barely 5'7, but his broad shoulders and muscular build more than made up for it. He wore low riding jeans, ruined sneakers covered in mud and grass patches, and the school lacrosse team's red and white varsity jacket, left open over a dark T-shirt with an old print of an alt-rock band.

The young man chuckled cheerfully, before exclaiming, “Come on, Mr. Crow, what is this cold welcome? Does this seem to you the best way to welcome your best student? I'm hurt! - He crossed his arms over his chest and puffed out his cheeks like a child who was having a tantrum - And here I saw you so down and thought I'd come to cheer you up. How heartless of you! You are so mean, Mr. Crow, so mean!”

He looked as if he was about to burst into tears, his lower lip quivering, but the hurt expression quickly disappeared and the young man threw himself at him, hugging him tightly, his face once again open in a wide smile, “Ah, no way, it's no use: I can't stay mad at my Mr. Crow! You're too cool.”

As soon as he felt the jock's hands going a little too far down his back brushing against his butt finally Donovan recoiled and jerked him away from himself, his face red this time from anger as well as embarrassment: “'Do you even consider it appropriate to hug me, Timothy!? What's all this familiarity, I'm still your teacher!”

Unfortunately, as with everything else, Donovan had exceptions who did not know the meaning of the word “no.” Timothy McArthur - or “little Tim” as he was ironically known to the rest of the school - was one of these exceptions.

The senior student had fallen in love with him, according to the boy himself, from the first moment he saw him, and, when he was 16, on Valentine's Day he had shown up during the lunch break in his classroom dressed to the nines in a tuxedo and dress shirt - and the ever-present baseball cap with the visor turned - flowers and chocolates in hand and his teammates behind him with a stereo blaring the pop song of the moment and a banner that read in large, red and pink letters “Be my Valentine, Mr. Crow!” He even got down on his knees in front of the whole school proclaiming his undying love for him.

And that is how Timothy McArthur, rising star of the lacrosse team, came out in front of the whole school, including students, teachers, janitors, secretaries, and even a confused principal, who rushed all the way from her office to see what all the fuss was about.

Donovan had to blow off any pretense of kindness and had openly rejected him with a flat “no,” listing all the reasons why it was unthinkable that he would accept the other's confession, reiterating that not in a million years would he ever consider him as a possible partner.

Severe, icy, and heartless? Definitely, but it was also the only way, in the professor's opinion, to nip in the bud whatever unhealthy ideas the jock might have.

Timothy's devastated expression and the disapproving looks from the rest of the team - as well as a less-than-pleasant talk with the principal in which he had to defend himself several times by reiterating that he would never think of the possibility of a relationship with his students - were the cause of the graying of some of his hair, but he pulled himself together thinking that, even then, he had made the right choice and that Timothy would recover from that blunder, realizing in the future that he had done him a great favor by rejecting him.

Oh, how wrong he was.

The following week a more fierce than ever Timothy had shown up in his class, sitting in the front row and spending the entire class diligently taking notes and asking questions. Things went on like this for quite a while, and Donovan by then had put the younger man's declaration behind him, but he had to change his mind when on the next test, where the student scored full marks, the boy, after receiving his paper, jerked out of his seat and then dramatically opened his varsity jacket in front of the rest of the class and an astonished Donovan, thus revealing a T-shirt with a picture of Donovan himself taken from his social media page surrounded by a heart with above it the words: “You scored 100 percent in my heart, would you go on a date with me? “ a wide, proud smile on his face.

Even after that rejection the jock did not give up and gradually became more and more direct and open in his advances, taking advantage of every available excuse and moment to remind him how much he loved him and asking him to go on a date with him, receiving refusal after refusal but never desisting. Anything could be said about young McArthur, but not that he was not persistent.

Years went by and Timothy's attempts, gradually becoming more and more complex and spectacular, had now become something of a daily gag for the school's inhabitants, and not only did the students joke about it but even some of his colleagues teased him about it, asking him with a smirk in the teacher's lounge if young McArthur had finally succeeded in breaking through his icy heart.

The jock broke into an angelic smile, chuckling smugly, “But I love you, Mr. Crow, and trifles like that can't stop true love!”

Donovan shivered and, in a tired voice, repeated those lines he now knew by heart: “First of all, my name is Mr. Crawford...”

“But Mr. Crow suits you much better, with that black hair and brooding air. It gives you a gothic vibe, very sexy.”

“Second, I could never, ever get together with a young boy...”

“I am nineteen years old, legally I am to be considered an adult.”

“Third, you're my student, it wouldn't be right...”

“Bah, it's my senior year, one more semester and I'll get my diploma. I'm just speeding things up, that's all.”

“Fourth, your parents would never accept a relationship between us...”

“But my mother adores you, Mr. Crow! She constantly says you're a man to marry, I'm just putting her words into practice!”

“Fifth, look at me Timothy, I'm almost twenty-five years older than you. I could be your father - he openly ignored the whispered “daddy” that came from the younger man's lips and continued - You can do so much better than me, any boy from this school and beyond would be more than happy to be your boyfriend, go to them.”

“But I don't want 'any guy'! The only one I want is you Mr. Crow, because you are special. I love you.”

Confronted with that statement Donovan felt his blood boil, he straightened his back, a furious expression on his face, he seemed about to burst, but exactly as it came the fury disappeared, and, within a second, the teacher drained out, brought his hands to his forehead, taking to massaging it, and murmured only, “Go to your seat, that class will begin shortly. And the answer is no: I don't want to go out with you.”

Timothy made a scowl, snapped his fingers in frustration at the rejection, and walked to his seat in the first row, sitting down and starting to pull out his things. At that moment, students began to flood in, and Donovan cast a glare in the direction of the lacrosse team members. It was obvious that they had kept everyone else out so that they would be left alone so that Timothy could ask him out, for the umpteenth time, receiving enthusiastic approval from the rest of the class, who now considered the two of them to be on par with characters in their daily soap opera.

He even had to have his own, personal cheerleaders, now....

As Donovan recovered and pulled out his books for the day's topic, the rest of the class took their seats, with quite a few passing by Timothy and patting him comfortingly on the back, muttering “it'll be for the next one, Tim,” “you came close this time, champ,” “don't give up, bro, he's about to give up, I can feel it,” and “just a little more and you'll make it, come on.”

But Timothy was certainly not going to give up, far from it! His mother had certainly not raised a quitter, and the young jock's mind was already working out the next plan to win over his favorite teacher. As he gazed dreamily at him, his pen slid across the notebook, scribbling nonsense sentences and half-ideas on how to convince Mr. Crawford to fall in love with him, scenarios of possible happy futures where they were together crowding his mind.

A faint smile passed over his face: he still had several months to win over Mr. Crow, and next time he was going to succeed, says Timothy McArthur.

*******

A placid calm reigned in the teachers' room as faculty members chatted idly among themselves, some catching up on their energy before the next class, others complaining about their students and the results they were having, and still others correcting the tests they had just taken, the latter with varying levels of resignation on their faces.

At that moment the front door was jerked open only to be forcefully closed again, attracting the attention of the people gathered there who, turning around, saw Donovan Crawford with his back leaning against the door and breathing heavily, as if he had just come back from an encounter with a ghost and had run there on the spot to find refuge.

The professors took to chuckling, some shaking their heads and joking with their colleagues as they resumed their occupations, aware of what had so shaken the literature teacher.

Donovan took one last breath, straightened up, adjusted his jacket and advanced among the various round tables that occupied the area until he was called by a voice that exclaimed, “Yo, Don! Over here!”

He raised his head and saw that the voice came from a young man, perhaps in his early thirties, dirty blond hair and messy beard, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt with the school colors, a whistle tied to a lanyard, and a baseball cap on the table in front of him. He had one hand up and was calling him with lazy gestures, an amused smile on his face. Across from him sat a woman about Donovan's age, her frizzy brown hair framing a heart-shaped face, with makeup that wasn't overdone. The woman's warm brown eyes were busy looking at some papers - class assignments or tests that had just been done judging by the messy spellings that decorated them - but she greeted him anyway by raising her head and throwing him a quick smile, then clicking her red pen and going back to the assignments.

Donovan sat down and let out a blatant sigh, dropping his messenger bag beside him and running a hand over his face to chase away traces of fatigue. The man chuckled and handed him a can, “Here, I saved it for you.”

“Thanks Jim, you're a lifesaver,” murmured the man, opening it with a satisfied ‘tssss’ and then taking a sip with a lost expression.

“So... were you running away from your admirer today too?” the blond teased him, chuckling and lazily resting his face on his hand, giving him a meaningful look.

An annoyed expression passed over the colleague's face, “You have hardly anything to joke about. I had finished class and was on my way here when I heard him calling me at the top of his lungs in the corridors. I only had to glance over my shoulder to see that he had the expression of when he has one of his plans in mind. At that point I didn't even waste time thinking about it and sprinted to get here. And he followed me, continuing to call my name! My heart is still pounding, I am thankful that students are not allowed in here, otherwise there would be no place in this whole damn school where I would be safe from Timothy fucking McArthur.”

Jim chuckled again, before crossing his arms behind his head. He always found it amusing to watch the strange dance between his friend and his best player; it brightened his otherwise so dull days. He also had to admit that part of him, deep, deep down, felt a certain sympathy for the young man and his wacky attempts to win over his older colleague, and maybe, just maybe, he wanted him to succeed in winning over Donovan. So much determination had to be rewarded in his opinion, but he would never, ever admit it out loud. It would have cost him his job, that's for sure.

Therefore, the man continued, “Come on, what do you mean ‘I just noticed his expression’? What do you expect him to do, he's just a boy.”

Donovan glared at him, “Do you remember what happened the last time he came to talk to me in the hallway with that expression?”

The other man shook his head but it was the woman who answered, “He's talking about the time he got the school band members to hide in the lockers and then suddenly jump out and start playing while Timothy was making a sung declaration - she put down the paper she was correcting on the table and added thoughtfully - I still wonder how they managed to sneak bass tubas and drums in there and get out without any trouble and without any of us teachers noticing...”

Jim burst out laughing boisterously at the memory, “That's right! Gee, I forgot, old Jenkins was absolutely furious - and chuckled at the memory of the principal's livid face - Do you think he had another plan like that in mind?”

“With him you never know, I wouldn't be surprised if he went to the robotics club folks and asked them to do a drone show that would end with yet another declaration of love for me.”

“Of course you can't say he's not determined. Honestly, with a charisma like that and such stubbornness he could do anything. That kid scares me...”

“Yeah... Anyway, isn't there something you could do, Jim? After all, he's a member of your team, isn't he?”

The school coach raised his hands in defense, “Hey, don't take it out on me, man. I remind you that I tried that years ago. Shortly after the whole thing started, remember? You had asked me to set the record straight with him about how things were, and I, in my office, told him 'either you stop this obsession with Mr. Crawford or you get off the team, I'll give you a week to think about it.' I was convinced he would throw in the towel, but instead, three days later, he walked into my office and left his uniform on my desk. I still remember his words, 'coach, I thank you for all the opportunities you have given me, and I'm sorry if I get you and the team in trouble this way, but I can't give up on Mr. Crow. It's not that simple. Just know that always, if I am forced to choose between Mr. Crow and something else, I will always choose Mr. Crow. I'm sorry again. Have a good day, coach'. I have never seen someone more determined than that, it left me speechless, literally! And then, to make matters worse, as soon as the guys on the team heard that Tim had left the squad, two-thirds of them went on strike threatening to leave the team too if I didn't re-integrate him. As you can see, I tried.”

Donovan leaned his head defeatedly against the table and took a deep sigh, “I know, Jim, I know. It's just so frustrating. That guy just doesn't get it that if he keeps this up he's going to get me and himself in trouble.”

“Why are you complaining so much? I mean: he's in his last semester now, just a few more months and it will all be over and you won't see him again, right? Or if you do see him again, he won't be your student anymore, so there will be nothing weird about it.”

Donovan turned his head toward the woman who was now staring at him with genuine curiosity, “Maria, it's not that simple. I'm afraid that the closer the end of the year gets the more desperate and extreme his attempts will become, unbelievable as it may seem. I can already feel all the future headaches...”

The woman merely shook her head, swinging her frizzy hair, “Suit yourself... Anyway, James and I have to go. There are some things we need to discuss with the principal about the seniors' field trip.”

“Where are you taking them?”

The coach stood up and pulled his cap down over his head, whistle in hand, throwing him a smile, “There's this little town a few hours away by bus that's attached to an old pre-Columbian settlement that's still well preserved. Besides having an excellent interactive museum it also has a lot of very nice nature walks that you can do, with or without a guided tour. It's perfect for everyone; I bet the kids will like it. Are you really sure you don't want to join us? There is still time to become a chaperone, the more the merrier, in my opinion”

“Nah, thanks, I'll pass this year, I think it's better that way. Send me a lot of pictures though, will you?”

Maria smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly, “Come on and cheer up, don't beat yourself up. Also you'd better get ready, if I'm not mistaken you have drama class this afternoon, right?”

“Don't get me started on that. Sigh... Now go though, come on. I don't want to keep you any longer.”

The three said their goodbyes one last time and Jim and Maria went out, checking some papers and discussing the schedule, thus leaving the man alone.

Donovan cast a glance outside and sighed, before taking out his computer and some papers and starting to correct his homeworks, already dreading what awaited him that afternoon.

*******

The school auditorium was well stocked, with a large stage, comfortable seats and excellent acoustics, not to mention a lighting and microphone system that was the envy of all the other schools in the area. In short, it was a dream for any theater teacher, and for a long time, ever since he had taken on the role of liaison for the theater group, Donovan had been happy with what had been made available to him.

It was his own little kingdom where nothing and no one could ever disturb him ... at least until a few years earlier.

The man entered and huffed as his eyes scanned the area. Some of the boys were already on stage rehearsing pieces under the direction of his deputy, Professor Guerrero, a young woman who had taken over as biology teacher a few years earlier and who, despite the nervousness given by her young age, showed that she had all the makings of an excellent teacher. Besides them, many of the kids were lazily sitting on the audience couches, often with cell phones in their hands or headphones in their ears, and a few could be glimpsed backstage, busy talking under their breath with friends, exchanging meaningful glances and half giggles. Then there were a few sound and lighting technicians in the back of the room, consulting with each other near the control panel, making sure that none of the actors had broken any of their precious equipment.

It seemed like a perfectly peaceful environment, with nothing out of the ordinary, if you didn't take into account....

Donovan heard the quick footsteps of someone approaching and then a heavy weight jumping on his back as an all too familiar voice whispered excitedly in his ear, “Mr. Crow! You've finally arrived.”

With a sigh that he was sure was heard throughout the whole room, Donovan pulled Tim's arms off of him and turned to look at the jock with a furrowed brow. The athlete looked up at him, bubbling with glee, as he always did when he saw him, shifting back and forth on the soles of his feet, waiting for his commands.

It was strange to think that someone so obviously made for sports as Timothy McArthur would be interested in theater, but the athlete had proven to be, if not an expert, at least intrigued by the theatrical world, to the point that he had joined the group, never getting any significant roles but always ending up being part of the ensemble and being one of the handymen who moved weights and sets here and there between scene changes. But the real reason he had joined the group was, as one could imagine, Donovan's presence, and even in those instances he did not back down, taking advantage of it to snap whenever the teacher needed something and flirting shamelessly with him - still famous was when, a year before, they had brought in a show that was an anthology of some of Shakespear's best pieces reinterpreted in a modern key, and one day, walking into rehearsal Donovan had found all the lights off then suddenly turned on pointing to Tim, standing on the famous balcony of “Romeo and Juliet,” destroying the beloved monologue by adopting an unedited version written by the student himself; to this day, Donovan still wondered how he had persuaded the technicians to assist him, although he imagined some kind of bribe was somehow in play involving new equipment or tickets to the latest sci-fi film to be released that weekend in theaters.

Donovan crossed his arms in front of his chest and merely muttered through clenched teeth so as not to disturb the actors, “Do you need anything, Timothy?”

The other shook his head, “Nah, Mr. Crow, I was just waiting for you, that's all. I was worried because I didn't see you earlier, I was afraid something might have happened to you.”

“It's literally five minutes between the teacher's lounge and the auditorium, what on earth could have happened to me?”

“Oh, I don't know, you're the one who's late. Poor Miss Guerrero had to step in to stop the kids from lashing out and leaving, believing the class had been cancelled.”

The man bit the inside of his cheek guilty, to prevent his expression from betraying his discomfort at those words. He finally sighed and merely patted the student's shoulder, “Thank you for telling me, I will apologize for my tardiness. I am now going to assist Miss Guerrero.”

The young man brightened up at the teacher's words of praise and almost pranced back to some of his friends, who, as always, had been attentively watching their every move, while the man went to take his seat in the front rows.

He stood next to his colleague, who greeted him with a grateful expression, clearly in distress, and exclaimed in a loud voice so that everyone could hear him, “ All right, I apologize for being late, I was just finishing checking some notes I had taken on the script and didn't see the time! I would say let's not waste any time, therefore, and get started, thank you Miss Guerrero for looking after the students. Now, I want you to get ready with the fourth scene, the one on page nine. Cindy, remember what we said about the hands, and Miguel, spell it out, they need to hear you all the way to the back row. All right, set the scene.”

Immediately there was a general shuffle as, under the authoritative guidance of the teacher, the kids hurriedly took their places on the stage and backstage and the sets were placed, the leads looking focused as they repeated their lines ready to go on stage. Meanwhile, Donovan sat down next to the young black-haired woman, who let out a ragged sigh.

“Hey, Sofia, thanks so much for looking after them.”

She gave him a tired smile, “No problem, and besides, I'm a teacher too, I should know how to keep the kids in check by now, right?”

“You're right, I'm sorry... But I also want to thank you for being able to prevent a riot. From what I was told they were all going to leave if you hadn't taken over the reins.”

She shook her head, “You say that, but I'm not the one to be thanked. They were all going to leave if Tim hadn't stepped in.”

Donovan's eyes widened, “Tim? You mean Timothy McArthur? What does he have to do with this now?”

“Well, some were already at the door and I didn't know what to say to make them stay that he started talking, saying that they were ungrateful, that they had been chosen for a reason, and that the role assigned to them was a show of trust on our part, whereby we said they were mature enough to be there. He then added that if they really gave up for so little, they were not worthy to stand on that stage and act, and that if they walked out the door they might as well not show up the next day, because other people would be chosen to take their place, far more worthy than they were. After his words it was clear that no one wanted to go out anymore, and I took the opportunity to start with some rehearsals. So, as you can see: it's all thanks to Tim.”

Donovan assumed a thoughtful look as he pondered the woman's words. Effectively if there had been no jock all the actors would have left, he knew how indolent they could be, especially if there were delays - any excuse was good for ditching, especially at that time of year when the end-of-year performance was still a long way off. Timothy had played on their pride, prodding them and knowing how no one would back down from his challenging words. However, the student's words were also a contradiction of meaning: Timothy was the understudy of one of the main characters; he would only have had to gain if the others had left, and instead he had urged them to stay there. None of the others present would perhaps have done so....

Engrossed as he was in his thoughts, he realized with a couple of seconds delay that the curtain had opened and the actors had entered the stage, starting to act. He banished those thoughts to the back of his mind to think about them later and concentrated on the rehearsal, failing, however, entirely to drown out that little voice repeating Timothy's praise and his help.

*******

“Good job, boys, now five minutes break and then it's back to the field. Come on , you animals!”

The coach's words were greeted with relief by the team as they approached the benches and took to drinking and cooling off, chatting and complimenting each other on the work they had just accomplished on the field. Timothy removed his helmet and wiped a towel over his face, then grabbed one of the small bottles and downed greedy gulps of water. As he was busy drinking someone came up and slapped him on the ass, followed by, “Nice job on the field, little Tim. That last play was championship-worthy.”

The young man turned and flashed a smile at the shaved-headed young man who sat on the bench across from him, “Thank you, captain. I hope we can repeat that for the next game.”

Yeah, don't worry, what's the big deal, anyway? We have nothing to fear from those losers anyway,” another voice interrupted them, this time belonging to a young man with a mohawk.

Within seconds a half-dozen people found themselves discussing practice and upcoming games, laughing boisterously and hurling playful insults and curt comments at each other. Tim chuckled at a joke and then took to staring into the distance with a lost look.

Noticing him, the young man with the shaved head, Mike, frowned and threw the towel at him, “Oi, earth to little Tim? I say, are you there?”

The jock, brought back down to earth by the sweat-dripping towel that had slapped him full in the face, sputtered and cast a glare at his teammates, who giggled at the scene, before replying, “Yes, captain. I was just ... lost in thought, that's all”

“Oh, lost in thought about your future husband?” one of the teammates mocked him, throwing himself at him, supporting himself on his shoulder and bringing a hand to his forehead as if he was on the verge of fainting.

“Hey, Timmy, are you already thinking about the kiss you're going to give each other at the altar?” another one added, leaning on the opposite shoulder and taking up an imitation of a kiss toward the shorter one.

The whole team erupted in uncontrolled laughter, including Tim, who took a step back, almost threatening to drop the other two on top of each other, exclaiming loudly, “Laugh, laugh all you want: but we'll see in the end who's laughing! Mr. Crow will be mine someday, and when that wedding happens I'll save you some front-row seats, that's for sure.”

“Bah, what you see in an old man like that, I just don't know,” muttered one of the boys sitting on the bench sipping from his flask and catching his eye.

“Old? Old, you say? Have you seen him, Erickson! Sure, Mr. Crow is over forty but he sure looks good. I'd like to see you at that age with a body like his! Those strong arms, his chest peeking out through his shirt on hot days, and when he bends down to pick something up or leans against the desk, pulling his back slightly back...” a dreamy expression passed over the student's face, clearly making the rest of the team uncomfortable, as they knew that at the moment thoughts that were anything but chaste were going through their teammate's mind.

Tim was abruptly brought back down to earth when he heard Erickson mutter, “You're making such a big deal out of this, so you simply want to fuck him, that's all? Bah, and I thought who knew what...”

The expression on the young man's face changed instantly, turning to stone. He reached over and completely poured the icy water from his water bottle over the other man's head, causing him to sputter and curse out loud.

“McArthur, have you gone crazy all of a sudden?! What the fuck has gotten into you, asshole?”

“It's not that simple.”

Silence fell as everyone pointed their eyes to Timothy, a determined light shining in his dark eyes, “I don't like Mr. Crow just because of his looks. He is kind, patient, strong in a way you cannot see. He is always ready to help his students, even in their most difficult times, and he never gives up, no matter how tough the situation may be. He is special, he makes me feel safe, and I just have to look at him to be happy again, even after a rough day. Is he quite older than me? Definitely. Do I find him good-looking? Sure. Is that the only reason I am interested in him? Absolutely not! And I am ready to pick a fight with anyone who dares to say otherwise or says anything wrong about him, am I clear?”

The rest of the team looked at him wordlessly. It had always been something of a joke to them, Tim's crush on the professor, but it was the first time they had seen him so fired up. A bit uneasy they apologized, Erickson first, awkwardly shifting their heads, unable to sustain his fierce stare. Fortunately, they were distracted from that awkward situation by the sharp whistle followed by the coach roaring, “Come on, ladies, you've had enough rest! Now back on the field, move!”

The players hurried to put their pads back on and return to practice, leaving only Jim on the sidelines, whose gaze lingered on Timothy for a couple of seconds. Sighing, he shook his head: he had heard them, of course, it was difficult when none of them had any idea what it meant to speak quietly, and he had to admit that even to him the young man's statement had elicited a shudder, as intense and sincere as it was.

“My dear Don, you've really found yourself a tough nut to crack,” he muttered as he adjusted his visor, then cleared his throat and took to shouting directions to his players, thus restarting practice.

3 notes · View notes

thatsmutaccount · 28 days ago

Text

The crow and the jock

Cross posted on ao3

Chapter 2: Carnival games, carnival dates

SUMMARY: Even fate plays a hand when, in order to do a good deed, Don's path crosses with Tim's during the town's spring festival and the student manages to steal a “date that is not a date” with his professor.

And who knows? Maybe the magic of that carnival will manage to put the jock in a new light for the strict professor.

*****

Donovan moved his hands away from the keyboard and let out a sigh of relief as he threw himself against the seat back. With his head still fuming he removed his glasses and ran a hand over his tired eyes, chasing away the white dots that haunted his vision. Correcting papers and tests was undoubtedly one of the most time-consuming tasks in his job, as well as among the most frustrating at times because of some of his students' outings that were beyond heaven and earth. That Saturday morning he had well thought of getting to work early so that he would be free for the rest of the weekend, but he had not factored in the enormous headache that would come his way after only a few hours spent in front of the computer screen.

The man got up, stretched his tired limbs and headed for the kitchen, thinking well to take a break and have a cup of tea and then dive back into wrong verb tenses and logic-free sequences. He was halfway between his study and the kitchen when, passing through the living room, he noticed a misplaced folder of papers abandoned on the coffee table in front of the sofa. After freezing amazed, he changed course and walked over, curiosity welling up inside him. He picked it up and studied it puzzled: he was pretty sure he owned no such folder, especially of that color - an improbable orange so bright it made his eyes water - , so what was it doing there? Where had it come from? How had it gotten there in his living room? He opened it, and the first thing he saw were legal-looking documents alongside sheets with handwritten notes in a messy handwriting and excessive use of abbreviations, which at first glance looked more like cipher texts from some video game or treasure hunt that needed a key to translate them. However, he was able to easily recognize in that set of consonants and exclamation marks James's handwriting, and everything fell into place in his head: two nights before, the coach had come over to his house for a drink and an evening of company right after practice, and evidently when he had left, tipsy and cheerful as he was, he had forgotten his folder there. Judging from what they said the papers were information regarding team members, some of it quite important, probably used by the teacher to provide the necessary data during the away games and championships, and if that was the case it was better to bring it back to him as soon as possible.

He picked up his cell phone and called his friend, except to be greeted by his voice mail. Strange, he was usually a careful guy and he knew that if he called him it was for a serious reason, the fact that he didn't answer was unusual....

He was still trying to find the solution to that mystery when an understanding expression passed over his face as he recalled that the town's spring festival was going on that weekend, and the school's lacrosse team had set up, as they did every year, a shack to raise money to fund some of the team's expenses. Jim, as the boys' coach and manager, was there to help out, so it made sense that he was so busy that his calls were not answered or noticed.

Well, desperate times call for desperate measures: since he had no idea how important the folder actually was to his friend, he would go and return it to him in person, and so he would also take a break from grading papers and breathe in some fresh air, which surely wouldn't hurt him.

In short, a win-win situation.

Nodding determinedly he went to put on something clean on - it would have been mortifying to be recognized by his students wearing dirty pants and an old faded T-shirt with a collar that was deformed from use - , then grabbed his jacket and went out.

The park in which the festival was being held was about fifteen minutes away from his house by bus, and already when he got off at the bus stop Donovan felt refreshed. He raised his face and enjoyed the feeling of the warm rays on his skin for a good minute. The sun was definitely good for him, and since it was a fantastic spring day he had done more than good to get his sunglasses as well.

He shrugged his shoulders and, with a relaxed smile on his face, walked toward the park entrance. The atmosphere was cheerful and he could glimpse many people busy buying from the booths used books, home decorations or knick-knacks they might have had their eyes on, as well as the ever-present children and teenagers enjoying the day's festivities, running from one side to the other laughing like crazy or snickering among themselves in search of something interesting to fill that beautiful day with.

For the festival, the park was also filled with booths offering carnival games, such as shooting contests with pellet guns, a mirror maze and even a small House of Horror - old stuff but always loved by the younger folks -, not to mention stalls upon stalls of food selling every kind of fairground dessert one could wish for.

Shaking his head with a faint smile, the professor made his way through the crowd, silently enjoying and soaking in that chaotic feeling of fun and waving from time to time with a nod of his head to some passing acquaintances and occasionally stopping to chat with someone, the folder safely under his arm.

After nodding to Sofia he took the turn that would lead him toward the games area of the fair, where, if he remembered correctly, the team had set up their booth. He had no idea what they had set up, but he was in no hurry. He would just walk around looking for them, and if he didn't see them, at most he would ask other passersby. There was no point in stressing himself out.

As he walked he began to glance around and try to imagine what the boys on the team had organized. He had been so busy that year between classes, lectures, and the theater course that he hadn't even asked Jim what the players had thought of to make money, was it a strength test of sort, maybe? Or a small field in which to simulate a game with them? Or was it teaching the little ones the basics of lacrosse? They were all nice ideas but they had already been used in previous years, and he thought he heard some of them, in the hallways or after class, loudly stating that they wanted to do something they had never seen before, “a novelty that would completely break with tradition!” they said. He had to say he was really curious....

At one point he passed by a small group of girls whom he easily recognized as his students - who gave no sign of having seen him because of his unusual choice of clothing - all of whom were caught in a fit of giggles and busy whispering together in complicity, exchanging meaningful glances. This set off a slight alarm bell in his head, but the teacher ignored it. He knew teenagers, he had recognized behind those glances the symptoms of someone who had just seen their crush or who had witnessed something that was attributable to physical attraction, but inside he hoped, perhaps naively, that it was not in the least related to the purpose of his search.

As soon as he rounded the corner, however, he had to reconsider, finding the reason behind the youth's fit of giggles and wondering if it was really so essential after all to hand the folder back to his friend in person and whether he could not instead turn around and wait until it was Monday. Above a small kiosk, around which a fair number of people had gathered, stood a sign with “Dunk-a-Jock” written in bright letters on it, with a crude drawing of a tank full of water on one side and a target on the other.

“Oh God, please tell me I'm wrong,” murmured only the man as he approached, as if he was pulled in by a magnetic force. Many of the people gathered around there were young folks who laughed boisterously and exchanged smiles and snickers, but there were also adults in the crowd, who merely shook their heads with an indulgent smile, as if to say, “ah, it's good to be young.”

Making his way with many “ I beg your pardon” and “excuse me” finally the professor came to the front of the line and every trace of color vanished from his face: in front of him was a single line of people who, after paying at a register run by a couple of the boys on the team, were directed to either side, where they stood more or less twenty feet away from the titular dunk tanks and were handed baseballs. The more you paid the more tries you got. Above the water tanks, large enough to accommodate a grown man standing and filled almost to the brim and with pressure-operated targets next to them, were two men sitting, waiting to be dumped in. Then on either side of the kiosk were the lacrosse team members, who would cheer on those taking the shots or help the younger ones if they needed a hand, with suggestions and encouragement or, if needed, even cheating, distracting them after a shot to look the other way and manually pressing the target so that the person would go for a dip amid general laughter. Apparently those who won received a voucher to present to some kiosks in the food area to receive something to eat. Nothing much, at most some candy packets or a bag of chips, but it was still a nice thought.

All in all, it wasn't that it was a bad idea, in fact it seemed that everyone was having a good time, from the customers to the people running the booth to the people getting soaked, but there were several things that were troubling the teacher, who saw the whole thing from a different angle.

He focused on the people who were about to be thrown into the water: on one side was a young man with dyed red hair tips and a familiar-looking face, whom the man was pretty sure was a former student who had graduated two or three years ago now. Sitting on the other platform, the one closest to him, however, was...

“Aww, don't get too discouraged, kid you were almost there. Next time you'll see how you knock me down! Come on, it's hot and I need a cool down!”

Donovan opened his mouth wide: obviously the other person was none other than Timothy fucking McArthur, in baseball cap, wet T-shirt and shorts.

At that moment, like an animal that had sensed his gaze on itself, the young man lifted his head, and immediately his eyes focused on him. It was unbelievable, it was as if he had a sixth sense when it came to Donovan, like a hunting dog following the scent of game, he always knew where he was if he was nearby.

As soon as his dark eyes fell on him the young man broke into a wide grin and raised a hand, taking to flailing around, “Mr. Crow, it's you isn't it?! Hey, Mr. Crow, here! I'm right...!”

SPLASH!

Whatever the jock wanted to say to him was interrupted when the little boy who was playing – aided by team members and his father who distracted him for half a second – hit the center, causing the jock to take a dive under the crowd's widespread laughter, followed by applause and several sneers from his teammates, who had caught a glimpse of the teacher and had thoughtfully helped their friend.

Tim surfaced taking a deep breath of air, and, after making sure he still had his cap on his head, hoisted himself outside with another smile and walked over, his bare feet lapping in the mud of the park, his body run as always by shivers of excitement and energy, as usual when he could talk to his favorite professor. That or it was the cold water from the tank, it was hard to say....

As he approached, Donovan remained stuck where he was, his legs unable to move, and so he got a good look at him: Timothy was barefoot, wearing a pair of old, dark basketball shorts that now clung to his trained legs like a second skin, perfectly outlining even some parts that would have been better left unseen -- mentally he raised a silent plea of thanks that the other was wearing some underwear underneath that day, which apparently, according to Jim, he did not always do - and a simple white T-shirt, which, however, because of the water had become translucent, allowing him to perfectly see his abs, his trained chest and even his nipples, which were stiff from the cold.

“Mr. Crow! What a surprise, I didn't expect to see you! Have you also come to help us raise money? Come on, the first round is on me! After all, it wouldn't be the first time I ended up wet because of something you do,” and he gave him a complicit wink, his hands on his hips.

Donovan merely looked away, his cheeks on fire, avoiding focusing on the younger man's pecs at all costs. At that very moment his brain betrayed him, causing him to make the comparison between the current state of the jock and the infamous Miss Wet Shirt contests that he heard about from time to time. A thought, arising from who knows where, made him think that if Timothy had participated in such a thing for men, he would undoubtedly have occupied the podium, if not first place.

Quickly he chased that thought away by mentally kicking himself in the ass for even remotely imagining such a thing and forced himself to close his eyes, count to ten to calm himself down, and finally bring his attention back to the younger man, who was now looking at him with naïve curiosity, perhaps surprised that he had not yet reprimanded him for his flirting. Eventually the teacher managed to recover enough to clear his throat and exclaim, “I'm here to talk to Coach Adams. Is he here somewhere?”

“Of course! Coach is in the back to make sure everything's okay, I'll call him for you right away,” and, after giving him a quick wink, he hurriedly walked away, with Donovan forcing his whole self to hold his head up and not lower his eyes and look at the student's ass, which hypnotically bounced with his every step, made even more erotic by the shorts, which had even slipped in between the crack of his butt cheeks precisely outlining both of his muscular orbs, the result of hours of squats and grueling workouts. He had almost succeeded in his purpose when his curiosity won and he managed to snatch a fleeting glimpse of the other's posterior just before he disappeared into the area behind, delineated by a tent. Of course, even just the passing view of the other's rear caused an unexpected heat on the back of his neck.

Slightly embarrassed he stood where he was under the curious gaze of the people around him who had witnessed the exchange between the two. He shared an embarrassed smile with them, praying that Jim would hurry up and get him out of that awkward situation. After what seemed like an infinite amount of time - but which had probably taken no more than a couple of minutes - he finally saw his colleague approaching him with a surprised look on his face.

“Hey, man, it's a surprise to see you here! When Tim told me you were out here and wanted to talk to me, I didn't want to believe it. I thought he was finally going crazy and started seeing you everywhere. What are you doing here?” he greeted him by patting him on the back and leading him toward the side of the stall, away from prying eyes and ears so they would have some privacy.

The professor simply handed him the folder, mentally sighing that he had at least managed to complete that task. A look of understanding passed over the face of the other, who took it with a whistle, “Shit, don't tell me I forgot it at your place the day before yesterday? Fuck... thanks man, you saved my butt, I owe you a favor the size of the sun.”

“'No problem, it was my pleasure. Just answer me one question, though, okay?”

“Sure, dude, anything you want.”

“Why?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why this? - and gestured in the direction of the team's booth - Honestly I'm surprised Jenkins approved it, it definitely seems a little out of her style, knowing her.”

Jim frowned, then brightened, realizing the underlying meaning of his colleague's words, “Ah, I see! No, no, man relax, it's not what you think.”

“Meaning?”

“The people being tossed in are old lacrosse team members who are now in college and whom the boys have asked to help out, in honor of the old days. The team members are in charge of running the shack, dismantling it, running the cash register, cheering on the customers and attracting crowds, and making sure everything goes well, as well as providing dry clothes and making sure no one gets hurt. In fact they are in charge of everything except being thrown into the water.”

Don frowned, “But I just saw Timothy taking a bath, and judging by the state of his clothes, it didn't look like it was his first time either.”

“Tim is nineteen years old. Students who are seniors or older can participate if they wish by signing a waiver, which must also be approved by a parent or legal guardian and the school principal. In addition, the whole idea comes from the boys of the team, I just put some boundaries and presented the proposal to the principal - he chuckled, shaking his head - And know that this was one of the milder suggestions they made. Among the discarded plans were a swimsuit car wash and a calendar at the limits of decency. Fortunately, I was able to intervene before any of these things reached the old woman's ears, or this time she was going to drop the ball, that's for sure. The boys wanted a way to make money with which they could have fun and solidify team spirit, and this seemed to me to be the best suggestion and the one that would give us the least trouble.”

Donovan was still puzzled, but at least the other man's explanation had calmed him down a little - as well as making him mentally thank his friend for not approving the car wash and the “playboy style” calendar. Finally he sighed and ran a hand through his black hair.

“Okay, that's fine. If it's okay with that crazy old lady and the guys know what they're doing then I have no complaints. But what about changes of clothes? You can hardly expect them to run around all day soaking wet. It's fine that it's spring, but they run the serious risk of catching pneumonia if they're not careful.”

“We've thought about that, too. In addition to clean towels to dry off with when they finish, we offer them T-shirts, shorts and underwear to put on before they are thrown into the water, so they don't get their own clothes wet, and there are two changing booths in the back, away from prying eyes,” and he pointed to the tent behind the dunk tanks, which were still being cheerfully used.

With nothing more to say, Donovan simply sighed, “All right. You're the coach, after all. So I'll go now, I have to get back to grading some papers.”

“What, already? Come on, in an hour or so it will be lunchtime and the booth closes, come have a bite with me, please. The kids are nice, but I need a moment with another adult or I'll go crazy between the “bro"s, “dude”s and “lol”s, please.”

Seeing that he was still unsure about it he huffed and gave him a resounding pat on the back, exclaiming, “Come on, turn that frown upside down, stop worrying about everything! Live a little!” and, to increase the effect, he gave him a languid look like a starving puppy.

Upon hearing those last words Donovan stiffened, the fingers of his right hand unconsciously going to caress his left forearm. Finally he gave a mock exasperated sigh, the shadow of a smile on his face, “All right. I'll take a walk around the fair and once you're done we'll have lunch together.”

“Yay, you're always the best, bro,” and he raised his fist, which Donovan lightly bumped with his own.

At that point Jim turned away to go back to watching over the boys, clearly refreshed by the prospect of not spending his break with a bunch of teenagers, reminding him one last time of his promise. Donovan shook his head was already walking away, busy thinking about how to occupy his time for an hour, when he heard a familiar voice excitedly exclaim, “Mr. Crow! Mr. Crow, wait for me!”

The man only wished he could have sprinted far away, but he knew that, unlike the school, there were no safe places to take refuge there, so he stopped, sighed blatantly, and turned around, seeing a cheerful Timothy trotting up to him, who thank goodness was now wearing dry clothes that consisted of sweatpants, the town's football team T-shirt, and the lacrosse team sweatshirt. Plus, of course, his ever-present cap, still slightly damp.

The young man stopped in front of him and exclaimed, “Are you leaving already? If you stay, do you mind if we take a walk together? Please?” he pleaded with him, putting on the same big puppy-dog eyes as Jim.

“Maybe it's a prerequisite of athletes to be able to do something like that,” the man thought, stunned for a couple of seconds watching the other man's brown eyes.

Finally he collected himself and scratched his hair, “Timothy, I don't know if this is a good idea. Besides, don't you have a booth to run? It seemed to me you were having fun with the others.”

“Oh, don't worry I'm off the clock. I'm free,” the boy reassured him quickly. Perhaps too quickly...

Donovan eyed him suspiciously, not at all convinced that the student was telling him the whole truth, but a little voice inside him reminded him that he still owed him a favor for what the young man had done a few weeks earlier at rehearsal. Finally, with a final sigh and the thought “I already know I'm going to regret this...” he replied with a simple, “All right, if you really want to.”

Timothy stood frozen where he was, in disbelief that finally one of his attempts had succeeded, but the shock was short-lived, replaced by one of the widest smiles Donovan had ever seen him give, accompanied by an explosive, “Ya-hoooo! Thank you, Mr. Crow!” and the young man clinging to his arm like a koala bear.

Red with embarrassment Donovan hurriedly pulled away from him, huffing, “Okay, easy on the enthusiasm. Let's get a couple of things straight first: don't touch me, don't say things that could be misinterpreted by outsiders, and most importantly, don't flirt with me in any way, do I make myself clear? This is not school, there is a serious risk here that people will misunderstand and call the police, okay?”

Timothy merely smiled, far too cheerful to let his words get him down, “Of course, Mr. Crow. You'll see, you won't regret it, it will be the best date of your life.”

“Again: it's not a date, got it? Simply two people walking together. Don't confuse what we are doing with your weird teenage fantasies, we are still professor and student, okay?”

“Yes yes, Mr. Crow, whatever you say” ignored him waving a hand Tim. That morning had just gone from good to great, and, if things continued as they were, the jock couldn't wait to see how it would end!

*******

Donovan and Tim were strolling among the booths, with the student getting distracted every ten feet or so and running from one side to the other, dragging the teacher behind him to show him something that had caught his eye or to ask him if he could buy him something that piqued his interest, always receiving a flat no from the man. Donovan had a suspicion that he was doing it on purpose, finding that exchange amusing, but at least if he was busy like that he wasn't coming up with flirty remarks or pick-up lines that would cost him quite a few puzzled looks, half-voiced remarks directed at him, and the risk of the appearance of the police.

On his own, Tim was feeling like he was walking on clouds because of how happy he was. It seemed incredible, but he was finally with Mr. Crow, outside school, just the two of them! Every now and then he would turn to look at the man beside him, as if to make sure he wasn't a dream and that he was still by his side, and on those occasions he would lose himself in staring at him, his eyes traveling along the teacher's features, imprinting the outline of his face on his head, the profile of his nose, the shade of his eyes, down to the detail of the black curls that fell messily in front of his eyes, giving him that cursed poet vibe that so charmed him.

He sighed, his mind wandering, wondering if his curls were really as soft as he had always thought and what Donovan's lips tasted like. Part of him wanted to just take his hand, squeeze it and feel the man's touch next to him, he bet his hands were soft and warm and would make him feel safe, but he remembered what he had been told and held back. He did not want to startle him and bring an abrupt end to the little miracle he had so painstakingly managed to achieve. One thing at a time, he had managed to snatch from Mr. Crow that “date that wasn't a date” after years of trying in vain, he wasn't going to blow it all due to haste!

The man saw that he was looking at him out of the corner of his eye and turned toward him, his face set in a mute question. Tim merely smiled brightly and walked ahead of him, pointing toward one of the booths, leaving a confused Donovan behind.

As the jock was gazing, without really seeing them, at a varied assortment of frames and mirrors, he cast a mute thanks to his teammates at the stall. After the coach had left, they had practically shoved him inside the dressing room, throwing dry clothes and towels at him, ordering him to clean himself up as quickly as possible and to go ask the professor to take a walk with him, whether it was even just accompanying him to the park exit, adding that such an opportunity did not come twice and that he had better seize the moment. The protests of the young man, who still had a good ten minutes left on his shift at the dunk tank before relieving himself and who did not want to leave his team behind, were drowned out by their reassurances, until the captain himself was forced to threaten to kick him out of there - “even naked if it serves to get Mr. Crawford's attention!” - if he didn't get out of there right away.

Of course Timothy had been forced to agree, and, amazingly, he could now spend an hour alone together with his crush.

It seemed like a dream to him!

He straightened up and made to speak again to the man, who seemed to be considering buying a small wall mirror, when he noticed a small group of first-year students not far away who were staring at them, whispering to each other with furrowed brow, as if they were facing a dilemma they couldn't come to terms with.

When they saw that he had noticed them and Tim raised his hand to greet them, they blushed and hurriedly turned away.

He watched them leave and chuckled, then approached the man.

“No doubt about it, you really draw attention like that, you know that?”

Mr. Crawford straightened up and stared at him in confusion, “What do you mean?”

The other pointed at him with a nod of his head, “I mean the clothes. At school you are usually always perfectly dressed, in a suit and tie and a deadly serious expression. You look professional, like a real teacher! This way on the other hand...” and he smiled, leaving the words unsaid.

Donovan frowned and looked at himself in the nearest mirror: he was wearing a pair of old jeans, the kind that were purposely faded and torn in some strategic places, a T-shirt he had bought years earlier on a trip to Athens, a pair of comfortable boots, and an aviator jacket, made of dark faux leather with a soft fur trim. He also still had his sunglasses on top of his head, a birthday present from the previous year from Maria. Indeed, he was far from how his students usually saw him; they probably would not have recognized him right away.

Timothy had recognized him, though....

Suddenly he was extremely self-conscious of himself and how he appeared to an outside eye, and automatically his cheeks turned red with awkwardness. He moved uncomfortably on the spot and took to looking around, as if suddenly every single park-goer had their eyes on him, judging his every move, ready only to see him make a misstep so they could laugh at him behind his back.

Tim frowned, noticing the change in the teacher's behavior, and hastened to exclaim, “It doesn't matter how you're dressed, though, whether professionally or not. You still look like a sex-icon in my eyes!”

Donovan felt himself blushing and leaned forward toward the other, whispering angrily, “Will you stop that? Are you trying to be heard by the whole park or what? Keep your voice down.”

“There's nothing I can do about it, everyone has to know how lucky I am to be walking around with the sexiest man in the entire carnival,” the other teased him as he leaned forward and gave him a complicit wink.

Donovan straightened up, still red in the face, and muttered “just look at what I have to hear” as he resumed walking.

Tim watched him walk away and nodded: good, his plan to distract him had worked. He didn't want him to feel anxious because of his outfit; his comment was meant to be just a compliment, a phrase thrown in there to strike up a conversation, nothing more, but it seemed to have been more meaningful to the other than he thought...

Well, whatever! Now he just had to focus on making Mr. Crow have a super morning, nothing else mattered! Sure, he had promised no pickup line attempts, but maybe the magic of the carnival would penetrate under the man's tough exterior, finally managing to open his eyes to how much he meant to him.

He put his smile back on and ran after him, calling him loudly and catching a couple of puzzled looks from the surrounding people, promptly ignored. The morning was still long, and Tim had plenty of arrows in his quiver.

*******

Lunchtime was approaching, and Donovan was just hoping for a miracle so that he could speed up the time and thus get rid of Timothy.

It wasn't that he had had a bad morning; on the contrary, the student had proved to be a great distraction that allowed him to enjoy that spring morning without worrying about the tests and homework that awaited him on his desk, but he couldn't help but continue to feel uneasy about having said yes to him and accepted that deal.

His gaze lingered on the student who, a couple of feet ahead, was buying a cardboard of chips so large that only a growing teenager could eat it without getting a stomach ache. After paying, he walked up to him, turning a smirk on his face, already happily munching on his prize, then handed it to him and asked, “Would you like some?”

Don shook his head; he shivered at the thought of what the young man would think if he said yes or how he might interpret his action, so it was best not to tempt fate too much. Instead he resumed walking and asked, “Look, Timothy, can I ask you a question?”

“Even two, Mr. Crow! For you that and more,” the jock replied cheerfully, swallowing another handful of chips.

“Well, do you remember a few weeks ago when I was late for theater rehearsal?”

“And how could I forget? - laughed the younger man - I was almost about to sneak out of the auditorium to come and make sure in person that you were all right and didn't get hurt. You had me so worried!”

“Yes yes, all right. What I want to ask you is, why didn't you tell me?”

The young man stared at him puzzled, “Told you what?”

“That Miss Guerrero was only able to keep the class under control because you intervened, and that it was because of your speech that they didn't all leave.”

That question kept haunting him for weeks now; he needed to know the truth. He glared at him with his dark eyes, trying to find the slightest sign that he could discover the truth. But Tim surprised him, taking on a surprised look, as if what struck him was not the question but the fact that he needed an answer, as if it was for granted to him. He smiled at him, a smile less wide, more contained and sweet, and answered candidly, “Because I didn't want anyone to be hurt by it.”

Confusion must have been clear on Donovan's face, as the young man continued, “I like the theater class, and I know many others do too. It's a nice environment, allowing you to express yourself as you wish without the risk of being judged. It is a safe space, and places like that can be rare - that last sentence was said in a whisper, but the melancholy on his face soon disappeared, replaced again by his smile as he continued - I didn't want, because of the decision of a few morons, for innocent people to be caught in the middle. Whether it was you, Miss Guerrero or one of the other guys. Even if we had continued with the few of us who were left, the mood would not have been the same and the class afterwards would have been much more tense as well. Fingers would have been pointed around, some people would have been angry, others would have been sad. The peaceful and friendly mood that you and Miss Guerrero managed to create with so much effort would have been ruined, risking carrying on resentments and grudges that would eventually poison the rest of the group. To intervene at that time so that the only one to get hurt was only me ... was just the right thing to do, that's all.”

The young man resumed eating his chips, as if he had not a single thought in the world, leaving behind a stunned Donovan. This was what he was thinking? Seriously? It seemed impossible, as if it was a joke or that there was actually some other motivation behind it, but he had sensed no malice or lies in Timothy's voice; he was sure the young man was sincere. Still, though, it continued to seem unbelievable to him that someone could be so generous and selfless.

And yet...

He paused and brought a hand to his face. He had known Timothy for four years now, and he thought by now he even knew him! But, after all, was it really so? Sure, he knew his family history, he had had both his brother and sister as students, he knew the Timothy who was his student, but beyond that? What did he know about Timothy the athlete, or Timothy the brother, Timothy the friend, or Timothy the son? During his lectures he had always advised his students to go deeper, to investigate, to study the text in front of them in order to really understand it, to not be satisfied with having only surface knowledge, and to apply this system to their reality as well. And now? He himself had fallen victim to his own preconceptions, had only ever seen one facet of him, and had forgotten that even someone like the jock could actually possess a thousand other hidden sides.

He had just demonstrated this to him now: after all, Donovan until that moment never imagined that someone so stubborn and persistent in pursuing his own personal goal could also be so sensitive and attentive to the needs of others.

It was overwhelming...

Every time he had heard him say the fateful “I love you” he had thought of a joke, of a little boy using words too big for his mouth and who had not yet experienced and known that world that would really grow him up, but who knows, maybe in the end he was the one in the wrong.

Tim, noticing that he had fallen behind, stopped and turned around, looking at him with a look of genuine curiosity. Donovan merely caught up with him and the boy handed him the chips again, the usual friendly smile on his face. This time, however, Donovan studied him well and caught the genuine attachment he felt toward him, and that underneath his silly crush the athlete actually cared that he was doing well and enjoying himself.

Moved by a kind of cautious curiosity, he reached out and took a couple, receiving in return a bright, happy smile that warmed his heart.

Well, he thought to himself, he had to admit: he was objectively a good-looking guy, especially when he smiled... and the chips weren't bad either, he could see why he had been so insistent on buying them.

He thoughtlessly reached out again to take another few, but at that moment his hand brushed against the student's warm, rough one. They stood where they were, gazing into each other's eyes for a couple of seconds, their hands still touching, then Timothy put on a sly smile and Donovan felt the magic fade and his blood pressure rise, aware of what the other was about to say.

“First date and already we're at the hand-holding stage? I didn't think you were so direct, Mr. Crow. And the chips trick? You're such a sly old fox yourself. A silver fox, we might almost say. And I'm a little bunny, a soft, juicy prey for you,” and he suggestively raised his eyebrows.

Donovan blew off all kinds of discretion and cursed at him, not caring that he had just told off one of his students, and stomped off, the back of his neck on fire, ignoring the jock's words, which between laughs apologized to him and to turn back, that it was rude to ditch your date so out of the blue - a comment that caused the teacher to make a furious “it's not and never was a fucking date!”

No, Donovan thought as he walked back toward the team's booth, anxious only to get rid of the younger man and go have something to eat with Jim and vent to him about it, he was wrong: Timothy McArthur remained a menace, period. There was nothing else mysterious lurking behind him, no hidden personality. Just a horny immature kid with raging hormones who just wanted to hook up with him.

Nothing else!

5 notes · View notes