Heaving a sigh, Timor double-checked the address he'd been handed by the student-council president. Sure enough, this was the place, though he had to resist the urge to assure himself for a third time that he hadn't made a wrong turn somewhere.

This really wasn't what he'd been expecting, in any way, shape, or form. But nonetheless, he came here to fulfill a job, and he'd do it. Because that, in essence, was all he was good at, however much his fans protested the fact.

He knocked - twice. Rang the doorbell another two times, just to make sure it reverberated throughout the whole house. Timor took the papers he'd been assigned to deliver from under his arm, smoothing out the wrinkles as best he could, shuffling them together so they looked slightly more presentable. At one point, he'd had them stuffed into his backpack, which accounted for their disheveled state. He'd only thought to take them out as he was walking up the drive to this boy's house, and he regretted that decision. Somewhat. It wasn't as though it was life-changing, anyway.

Still no answer.

Rolling his eyes, Timor moved to knock again, only to drop his hand at the last second as the door swung open of its own accord. A scowling face filled his vision, accompanied by blue eyes alight with frozen flames. To think, he hadn't yet said a word, and the boy was angered to this extent.

Annoying, he thought, wishing he could just go home.

"What?" the boy demanded snappishly, without preamble. No courteous introduction, no amiable questioning. No recognition of that fact that Timor was wearing his school's uniform, or that they were - according to the president - both on the student-council. Though, to be fair, Timor hadn't been aware of the fact either until that very afternoon.

"Here. Your work."

Timor thrust the crinkled papers forward for the boy to take. Which, of course, he didn't do.

He stared down at the papers, then looked back up at Timor incredulously.

"They sent you for this?"

Timor nodded.

"You got screwed over."

And the door slammed in his face.

This scene happened twice more, with the boy becoming increasingly less friendly as time went on. Eventually, Timor abandoned knocking and the doorbell altogether.

"I'm not leaving," he said to the door, aware that the boy couldn't have gotten far away since its last slamming.

There was silence. Then:

"...I'll call the cops."

"Fine," Timor said, setting down his bag as he spun around and sat down on the stoop. He slipped his phone from his pocket, sending his siblings a quick text to tell them he might be late for dinner. "Call them."

That may have sounded like a threat, but the monotone of his voice seemed to strip his words of any viable malice.

Cursing - fluid, graphic cursing - sounded from just behind the door, signalling that the boy hadn't moved just yet. Timor heard what he thought might be a fist banging against the door, followed by another round of cursing, which was then followed up by loud, exaggerated stomping that led away from the door and further into the house. The boy was trying to ignore him, he figured. He didn't mind. If worse came to worse, he'd stuff the papers through the mail slot and call it job well done. He could do that now, of course, but the president would find out somehow, he was sure, and he wasn't in the mood for a scolding tomorrow afternoon.

The president had been trying to make Timor more approachable since he'd been elected to the role of vice president (quite against his will, as he didn't even recall entering his name into the running), and occasionally his "teaching" took the form of half-hour long lectures on manners and friendliness. Timor often drowned them out, finding more interest in his calculus homework than the president's droning voice, but sometimes there wasn't any homework to distract him.

He had a nagging suspicion tomorrow would be one of those days, and as such, he didn't plan to leave while there was still a chance of getting this job done properly.

An hour later - was it already an hour? - Timor was distracted from his Japanese history reading by a buzzing emanating from his pocket. He didn't want to answer the call, as the flashing name scrolling across his screen indicated this was the last person he wanted to talk to right then. But he knew that if he refused the call, he'd get another one within the next few minutes, and another after that, and another... until he finally gave in and answered the phone.

Sighing again, he swiped his thumb over the screen, taking the call.

"Ace," he greeted flatly.

"Yoooo, Timor! You done yet? 'Cause I've got a real nice girl here who wants to meet you~"

"No," Timor said, unenthused by the thought of being stuck together with another clingy girl who thought she could break his chilly mask, or something equally as ludicrous. "I'm not done. The brat won't take the papers."

"Riiiight. I sent you after Aoi. He's kinda notorious for ditching work, which it why he was put onto the student-council in the first place, ya know."

When Timor didn't see a need to reply, Ace cheerfully continued.

"He's kind of a prick, based on what I've heard. Never talked to him myself, too busy being president and all" - Timor had to move the phone away from his ear as he let out his loudest sigh yet - "and he's a little below my pay-grade, if you know what I mean."

He didn't, and more importantly, he didn't care.

"Anyway, keep at it, buddy! You're my main man, after all!"

The call disconnected, and Timor dropped his phone into his lap. Why hadn't he quit again?

While he was busy questioning his life choices, he heard the faint sound of the lock clicking, and he angled his head enough to see the door opening a crack. One blue eye peered out at him.

"Seriously, leave dammit," Aoi hissed, throwing open the door once he'd confirmed Timor was right where he'd left him. "Don't you have anything better to do?"

Timor thought for a moment, genuinely considering the question.

"No," he said after a few seconds, "I really don't."

That did it.

Aoi, likely mumbling the worst of his expletives under his breath, stormed from the doorway and snatched the sheath of papers from where Timor had set them down beside him, then stormed right back inside. The door slammed for a fourth time that day, and Aoi's voice echoed out from just beyond it.

"I'll do the damn work, okay? Just leave me the hell alone!"

"Thanks," Timor said, which was greeted with a hearty, "Go to hell." But his mission was accomplished. Drawing his backpack over his shoulder, he thumbed through his contacts, bringing up his younger brother's number (he knew they'd both listen in on the call if it was from him).

"Del? Bell? I'll be home in ten. Yeah, the brat's not so bad after all."