Fishburne jogged toward them, a towel slung over broad, rippled shoulders and abs, the duffel bag bounced behind him. He dapped it across temple and neck, saluted his teammates and quickly made a beeline to the steps of the bench row.

“Hey, my left-handed man. Got the paper?” He quickly shrugged in an already damp shirt, smirked at Jaime’s exasperated expression. Dal saw it, too, and both of them giggled as they brushed their lips against each other.

Jaime looked away. Jaime’s muscles twitched at the term left-handed man, bile shimmered up from the bottom of his stomach, but it seemed that Fishburne had mistook it, so no harm done. He spied Passmore drowning a water bottle like a revived man, while his mates clapped his back and ruffled his hair. His skin was a bright red, a freaking neon light against the robust dark shades of his mates. He unscrewed a second bottle, made it half-way through when Ahmed slammed a particular hard hit between his shoulder blades and made Passmore spewed everything out of his oral cavity. Passmore dumped the remaining water at Ahmed, returning the favour with a shove and was saying something when their eyes caught across the field and he waved.

Jaime turned and rolled his eyes at Dal and Fishburne. “Please, Fishburne. Do me a favour and get this over with quick, so I can go back to my room and wash my eyes with holy water.” Fishburne, apparently found that incredibly amusing, since he gave Dal a devouring kiss that Jaime had paused a second to be mildly concern for Dal Bland’s safety.

Satisfied at Dal’s moan and Jaime’s utter disgust expression, Fishburne released Dal. “Go back to your Dorm, darling. I’ll see you later.”

“I can wait.” Dal said. “It’s warm enough, the sun’s still out. How long will the review be?”

He was about to tell her tedious business wouldn’t be measured in five minutes and that they would prefer doing this in the Mess, over a proper table and in a civilized conduct, but his retort died in his throat when a glance at Fishburne’s face told him that they wouldn’t be that productive. Fishburne was a scary man once he set his mind on something, and unfortunately currently he wasn’t focusing on Semi-Formal planning. It would be better to have his secluded attention for one short intense period. Then, out of his peripheral field, he saw Passmore striding toward them, the brat’s eyes trained on him. Jaime’s gears quickly clicked into place, the pros won out, and he decided to screw with it.

“Fifteen minutes, max. No worry.” He promised. Fishburne approved, leaning down to peck Dal’s lips once more before reluctantly broke away.

Fishburne led the way to the bench. Jaime was clinically effective, passing the paper and pen to Fishburne, as well as wiping out two calculators. It wasn’t a terribly windy day, so either of them had to worry too much about fluttering pages. Fishburne affixed the rows and columns of digits, tapping his chin as he mulled over the costs. Jaime pulled out his laptop and opened up the DJs’ emails.

“Maj-ik offers the best deal, but Jen is better, I think. Her vintage mix style suits our theme better.” Jaime said, angling his screen to Fishburne. Fishburne leaned forward, examining the bearded, bald man.

“What about Rumpsteppers or Padilla?”

“Padilla would work, but his experience steeps the price too much. Although we might made it if we cut on the services. We could recruit students for volunteer hours. The only problem with that is we’ll have to train them, and some places deal everything as a package, but I don’t mind redoing the research.”

Fishburne pulled at his lips. “What’s the total Semi-Formal price right now, say, with Jen?”

“65 pounds for the first week and 170 for the rest.” Fishburne flinched. Jaime added. “And we would need at least a hundred kids to cover the expenses. If you’re OK with the volunteer deal, I’ll draft the proposal to the Committee and we’ll see from there, since it means the price would be down, right?”

Fishburne inhaled slowly, raking his calloused fingers through his coiled hair. “I’ve never heard of students volunteering before at Semi-Formal.” He articulated. “Isn’t it supposed to be a student-lux night?”

“Think outside the box, Fishburne.” Jaime said, gesturing at the paper laying between them. “Don’t think the England-way. Think the African-way.”

“That sounds racist.” Fishburne said lightly, but nodding nonetheless as they marked the changes. “You know what, you do the all work this time. Fuck this, I’m gonna enjoy my last year with my girl.”

“I’m honoured, Fishburne. Will give you the recalculations Monday next week.” Jaime said with a mock bow. If Fishburne heard the dryness of his tone, he only laughed at it. He gathered the paper and neatly slided the butterfly paper clip over the stack and put them back inside his bag. Fishburne rose, all six-feet-and-a-half of him, stretched, his spine cracked. Jaime also stood, and spoke as they picked their way back to where they were. “Listen, I was talking to the Headmaster the other day, and he said I didn’t make the cut for as a Head Boy candidate because you didn’t recommend me.” He paused, waiting for Fishburne’s gaze to finally fall onto his. “Is there a reason as why you did not?”

For once, Jaime did not hide his blazing goal. After all, Fishburne knew Jaime’s want to be a Head Boy. It was only two weeks ago when he approached Fishburne and politely requested the Head Boy to consider him as his successor. Fishburne had smiled and asked, “Why should I do that?” And Jaime, torned between deliberate lie and utmost honest, foolishly spilled his guts, telling Fishburne that his whole future scholarship plan was riding on that position, that his mother’s sickness was draining his father’s left-over money. He obviously knew the guarantee chance was not a hundred percent, but Fishburne did get up and hugged his shoulders and said he “understood” his situation and “promise to seriously consider” him.

And yet, he never did, Jaime thought, swiftly quelled his wrath.

“It doesn’t matter, my friend.” Fishburne replied. “Thing is done, done. I and the Headmaster had made our decision.”

“Yes, but I still want answer.” Jaime briefly walked two feet ahead of Fishburne, so that the Senior could not hide behind his shoulders or deliberately ignored him. “C’mon, Fishburne. We’re good friends. There’s no reason for you to hide anything from me.”

The friend card made Fishburne felt obligated to fess up. “Well, you’re my left-handed man, you’re always there for me, so supportive and thoughtful. But, personally, I think you’re a bit dry and anti-social. Freshmen green beans scared of you, you know. And a Head Boy, in my opinion, should be friendly, or at least easy to talk to. Boys do often come and ask for advices in, ah, lots of matters aside from academic. And Cassidy-man is just that. ‘A fine blend of social and academic excellence’, as the Headmaster put it.”

Jaime smiled—it was one of More’s idiotic, carefree grin that physically bought him as much as pain Fishburne’s answer, the kind that grin that he liked to plaster on when his blood was boiling and his mind was dead-set on murder—and nodded. “Very well. It’s for the best, after all.” He gazed back ahead, his muscles suddenly eased by dark satisfaction.

As he predicted, Passmore had head their way and was currently talking amidably to Dal Bland. The thing was, from their current view, they could only see Passmore’s head, and his slightly-larger frame covered Dal Bland’s nicely.

“Isn’t that Passmore?”

Their laughter traveled, Dal’s voice slightly high-pitched than her normal tone, which apparently caught Jaime as well as Fishburne’s attention. Jaime noted how Fishburne quickly dismissed any idea with a faint frown, and he secretly hid a smile.

Either Dal and Passmore noticed Fishburne’s approach, that was, until Jaime purposefully called to Passmore, inquired in a level voice, “What exactly are you doing here?”

Passmore jumped, eyes darting, swallowed rapidly. Although he didn’t mean to, Guilt and Shame and Embarrassment written all over his pretty face, though Fishburne may or may not had caught it since Dal swiftly latched herself into his bear embrace.

Passmore glanced away at the couple, edging closer toward Jaime as if Jaime could somehow shield him from the potential savage kissings. However, Fishburne glanced up and tugged away from Dal, smiling mischievously. He spoke next with a naive, good-will intenty. “Come, friends. Fancy some liquor? Let’s celebrate Cassidy-man’s promotion.”