Photographs Are Worth More Than A Thousand Words If You Look At Them The Right Way Part 2

He's standing in the doorway, scanning the room with those big, doe like eyes.
When they settle on you, he winks.
He streams in with a few other students as the supervisor goes back to her desk and pops in her earbuds, resuming her reading of what looks like Twilight. You’re not sure she knows anything about any of you, or that she even wants to know. It seemed like, to her, the only thing to be concerned with was making sure you all didn’t set anything on fire. Or interrupt her readings on sparkly vampires. You don't blame her for ignoring the students.
Minho lithely crosses the room until he stands at your desk, waiting expectantly for you to acknowledge his presence.
The first words out of your mouth are: "Why are you here?" 
You didn't expect the teacher to allow you two to speak again. Looks like he didn’t get to choose.
The first words out of his mouth are: "You're an idiot."
His tone isn't harsh, but it still surprises you.
"Excuse me?" you ask, mildly shocked.
"I said you're an idiot."
He says it in a way that’s so nonchalant.
"I heard what you said," you hiss, "now I'm asking why you said it."
Just because he stood up for you does not mean he could just insult you.
He looks taken aback himself at your sudden demeanor change. Was it really so strange to be upset someone called you an idiot? It's probably because the last time he saw you was when you were a nervous and weepy mess.
His lips quirk up into a curious little smile, like he's made some sort of discovery. It's kind of cute.
But you were going to shove that discovery up his ass if he didn't answer you soon.
"I'm sorry," he responds, "I didn't mean to upset you. I just wanted to talk."
"Yes," you retort, "because the first thing I think when I want to make friends with someone is 'let me call them an idiot.'"
"Who said I'm here to make friends?"
"Most people don't land themselves in detention just for the fun of it."
"Maybe I was just fighting for what was right. The teacher was wrong to scold you so harshly."
"Is that why you're standing at my desk?"
"No."
"Why are you here then?"
"To make friends."
Oh lord. You might just face a different kind of detention when you murder this boy.
When he sees what must have been an overwhelming amount of exasperation playing across your features, his face splits into a grin. Before he had been almost suave, despite being in his teenage years when he should have a pepperoni face. Now, he looks just like a little boy. At the sight you feel your own lips twitch slightly, and you have to bite down pretty hard on the inside of your cheek to keep the smile down. It should be illegal to be that adorable.
"Are you always this impossible?" you ask, irritation fading from your voice against your wishes.
"Pretty much," he shrugs, "are you always this aggressive?"
You glare at him slightly.
"That's a yes, then."
How long was detention again? 
You sigh, a deep and soul weary noise that makes him smile again.
"Can I sit here?" he asks, not in actuality waiting to drop his stuff and swing around the desk. 
"I don't know, can you?" you answer, but the point is lost because he's doing it anyway.
He plops down onto the chair lazily, like his legs just can't hold him up anymore.
Not that you can see why, as they go for miles and appear to look like they've been on a lot of runs. Especially in those jeans.
Stop it. Don't like dumb boys.
"Should I even bother asking why you called me an idiot?" you ask, already feeling like this would be much longer of a day than you originally thought.
"Oh," he chirps, "I forgot about that."
Sure he did.
"Don't you think it's a pretty bad idea to piss off a teacher so close to midterms? Because I think it is."
"You seem to forget that by agreeing with me, you have also pissed him off near midterms," you bark, "And you just transferred. Who's really the idiot now?"
"You,” he answers.
"What did you just say?"
"I said-"
"Stop it,” you interrupt with a hiss.
"You should work on your listening skills,” he says playfully.
"And you should work on getting out of my business,” you growl back, giving him a nasty glare.
He looks a little hurt at that one. More than a little. It's as if his smile just kind of crumbles off his face. Now he's sitting there quietly, like he's a scolded puppy. 
Usually you aren't too bothered by what happens to those that push you to say mean things, but something about the way he's scuffing his feet on the floor uncomfortably makes you feel guilty. You guess that was a bit too harsh. 
You sigh again. It crosses your mind that sighing is going to become a common action this evening.
"I'm sorry," you murmur, "I shouldn't have said that."
He hears you, you know by the way he perks up, but he still asks anyway.
"What did you say?"
"Maybe it's you who needs to work on your listening skills."
He starts to grin again, like a giddy child playing a game. In a way, the conversation was a game.
"I do apologize," he says with an accent like a fancy old Englishman, "but I don't think I quite heard what you said. Please do tell me again."
You don't want to give it to him, but he's now got you in a silly mood.
"I'm sorry," you enunciate, "I shouldn't have yelled at you."
He looks so pleased with your response that you don't regret giving it again at all.
"So tell me, old chap," you say, your own accent in place, "what brings a jolly good fellow like you to this destination? I would have thought the instructor would separate us."
His eyes are dancing. That sounds weird to say, but the way they glimmer in the light makes them look like they actually dance. 
"He did," he replies, "but the person who was supposed to watch us apparently had to go take his cat to get a particularly stubborn hair ball removed. So we moved here."
"Gross."
"Tell me about it."
"I was talking about the fact I have to spend the detention with you."
You smirk victoriously, glad you made him surprised for a moment. Take that, Mr. I-Have-A-Comeback-For-Everything.
He smiles when he sees your face before a cheerful peal of laughter escapes his lips. It reverberates around the space, causing those with you in the classroom look up. You think you quite like the sound. It's warm and welcoming. 
The supervisor looks up and glares at the two of you. You both sink back into your chairs.
The rest of the detention passes in a much smoother manner, as you and Minho spend it bantering back and forth. You have to say, it's probably the most fun you've ever had despite supposedly being disciplined.
At one point the supervisor looks up when Minho is trying to tickle you and you are sure you're about to be busted. But he dives down in one smooth movement to fiddle with his shoelaces, making his actions seem less obvious. You cough obnoxiously to hide the laughter you were holding in.
She looks back down again. You sneak Minho a frivolous look, excited at having gotten away with it. He just smiles conspiratorially at you.
When it finally ends, you stand up and stretch. This is when you realize Minho is taller than you. By a lot. You were too panicked to notice in the hallway before, but now with your eyes to his collarbone, you can certainly tell. You have to tilt your head back to see his face.
"So," he rumbles, "do you need a ride home? You know, so you don't have to walk 'a gazillion miles' as you put it."
You know you're not supposed to trust strangers, especially with car rides. But something about Minho tells you he's probably the kind of person who walks around worms on the sidewalk and carries spiders outside. Besides, with how he's already helped you out once today, you feel like you two are friends.
"Sure, thanks."
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When he parks in front of your house, you see your mom through the kitchen window. She sees you too and moves to intercept you at the door before you have a chance to make a quick escape. Which is really too bad, as you were hoping when you slid out the passenger seat of the car you could escape her notice. She wants to yell at you, you can tell, but she stops when she sees Minho. 
Unfortunately, a long string of questions follows, many addressed to the boy himself. You're not so subtly gesturing with your eyes that he should drive away before she launches into some sort of family story.
Too late. Now he knows about the time you got your head stuck in the stair banister when you were 4. Thanks, mom.
You are covering your face with your hand in an attempt to pretend that this is not happening. Your mom loves to chat up your friends. 
But when you look back at Minho to apologize with every body language sign you can think of, he's smiling softly. His eyes twinkle as he laughs at something your mother said (probably embarrassing you), and you decide that you want him to be someone you keep around. 
When your mother moves to leave an eternity later and Minho peers up at you expectantly, you wave her off with the promise of being inside in a minute. She gives you a look that indicates there will be lecturing later, but goes anyway. 
"So I suppose I'll never see you again," you comment lightly, only half-joking, "since I'm sure my mom just scared you off. I wouldn't blame you."
He chuckles warmly, and you feel reassured.
"Don't worry," he replies, "my mom is the exact same way. They're like clones."
"Oh," you breathe, "so did you ever get your head stuck in a banister?"
He smiles.
"No, but I'm sure she would be happy to tell you about the time I got my hair tangled up in an entire roll of bubble tape gum."
"The whole roll?"
"Let's just say I wasn't bald as a kid by choice."
You laugh this time, imagining a little Minho without any hair. It was almost sort of sad. Almost.
You sigh reluctantly, and he looks up to study you.
"I guess I should go," you say, now a bit crestfallen the day was over, "my mom's got to have time to hide my body before sunset when she murders me, and it's only courteous to give that to her."
He's silently shaking with laughter.
"Okay," he responds, "but if you're still alive tomorrow, do you want to study? We can go wherever. I'll help you with that film reading or something if you need it."
"Really?" you ask, ecstatic at the idea.
"Yeah, sure," he shrugs, "why not?"
"Okay!" you chirp, trying not to sound too happy, "how about we get some food after school and study in the library?"
"Sounds good. See you after class?"
"Yep! Thanks for the ride home."
"No problem."
"Wait," you call, "don't you have your own film studying to worry about?"
He gives you a cheeky grin.
"I don't have to take it because I wasn't here for most of the semester."
"You suck. And I hate you. Like I genuinely hate you."
"I'm sure you do."
"Go home, Minho." 
You smile to lessen the harshness of the comment. He takes it quite graciously.
He starts his car and makes a roundabout turn while giving you a wave, which you return.
When you finally enter your house and your parents are regarding you sternly, you're too elated to really be brought down. 
Surprisingly, maybe due to your happiness, they don't even ground you. You think it might also have something to do with the fact that your parents appreciate all aspects of sass and the value of standing up for yourself.
As you head upstairs to go to sleep, you smile. Maybe you should get in trouble more often, if this is what you get.
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The next day, when you find that homicide has not been committed in the house and you are most definitely still alive, you meet Minho after class in the library.
You've been working on homework together for the past hour. In between problems you would ask things to get to know each other. You now know that his lucky number is ten and his favorite smell is the Tarmac in the evening once it's cooled off. He now knows you're terrified of moths and that your favorite animal is a penguin.
"Guess where I'm from," he says, intent on gluing a tiny piece of Styrofoam coral into the trench diorama while you paint the specks that represent different depths, "I bet you'll be wrong."
Finishing up, you slouch into one of the nearby plush chairs, shoving a forkful of noodles into your mouth.
"You're trying to make me sound racist," you mumble around said mouthful before realizing that's probably extremely unladylike and gross. Minho doesn't seem to care.
"No, I'm not," he assures, "I won't judge you. Go ahead, guess."
He was so pretty that, with his lighter than caramel skin and wide eyes, you weren't sure he was from here. You had heard maybe he was an exchange student. You take a guess.
"Okay... Japan?"
"Nope!" he chimes, "that was pretty racist."
"I am going to kill you."
"Cincinnati," he concedes, "I'm from Cincinnati. If it makes you feel better my family does have roots in Japan."
"You are a terrible human being."
"I know."
"Like really terrible."
"At least I'm not racist."
You hope nothing just broke when you slammed your bag into his face. Actually, maybe you do.
Just nothing on the diorama.