Magic if you squint

Sometimes, kids' tendency to want to be anywhere but class came in handy. It was less endearing when he was actually trying to be a good teacher, but with how the day was shaping up, it came as a relief. Graeme turned towards the chalkboard to wipe it clean of the class' meager lesson and then stepped over his desk to begin gathering his things. The sooner he got out of here, the sooner he could be alone and..."cope".

...But escape would not be that easy, for as soon as he glanced up, there the youth was. His brow furrowed minutely, a minor tic manifesting at the left corner of his mouth — a tiny, subtle twitch. Graeme was uncertain as to which impulse was stronger, the one to reach out and touch the younger man, or to shove him away. Having someone so near that looked so much like Carter...But wasn't Carter, which was infinitely clear...Tormented him.

His aged features hardened into a stony sort of neutrality and his posture straightened as he picked up some of his folders and tucked them under his arm.

"What is it you need?" It came out as overly terse, but Graeme couldn't be arsed to care currently.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, part of Graeme still hoped this was a dream. It was too bloody surreal to be otherwise, wasn't it? This ghost of Carter, standing there asking basic magic acuity questions, like--like he didn't know. It was yet another sign that this was reality, that it wasn't his comrade and all it did was add to his mounting frustration. He wasn't sure if he should have been proud of himself for not snapping at the youth, or disappointed that he was getting so riled up over nothing.

(Even if it certainly was something, if he pretended it was nothing, maybe he could calm down--though it never was that easy, was it?)

Blinking slowly, Graeme forced himself to return to the present.

"Generally, that's true enough. Some people have no talent for magic. Theoretically, if you took someone with zero magical aptitude, and put them through enough rote learning and practice, they could gain some skill." He gave a small shrug of his shoulders, "But it's usually better to focus your efforts elsewhere if it seems you can't get the hang of it. It's different for everybody, but if you cannot spark something from the most basic of spells it usually means you don't have that innate talent."

There was a pause, then, "Does that clarify for you?" Yeah, running on teacher-autopilot was all that was keeping him together currently.

Unfortunately for Graeme, it seemed as if the doppelganger before him wasn't satiated with his answer and had more questions. Equally as unfortunate was the fact that this next question wasn't curriculum-related and instead of a personal nature.

Do I bother you?

He had to bite back a barked laugh, all wry bemusement. What would an appropriate answer be, seeing as the full truth was anything but? This was why Graeme hated social interactions when he was stressed — they turned into a figurative minefield of say the right thing or risk ostracization. And Graeme, well...

Graeme had had more than enough of minefields, literal and figurative, back in Europa.

"You don't bother me," is what his tongue loosed after a moment — an obvious lie, sure, but also not entirely inaccurate in his mind. Bother felt mild.

Shuffling his folders underneath his arm, he reached for his gloves and pulled them on, pivoting to step around the younger male and head for the door.

It wasn't as if retreating had ever saved him from anything in his life thus far, but hell, no harm in trying now. It felt better to move than to stand deadlocked with this spectre of his past.

...

Of course he would be followed. Why not? His luck had been an absolute crapshoot thus far, no need for it to change now.

His posture was pin-straight and his gait strong, purposeful. With how close he was to fraying at the seams, at the very least he could walk as if he was self-assured. Thankfully the youth didn't crowd him too much as they moved, although some part of him still felt the compelled to keep checking his periphery to see if the blonde was still there.

Despite his best efforts, he couldn't help but let out a brief, gruff chuckle at you acted quite strangely. Really, acting strange covered everything from his discharge to his divorce. He was adept at behaving eccentrically by now.

"Yeah, kid, I do that a lot," Exasperation tinged his voice.

The blonde kept talking, and it was a paradoxical mix of nails-on-chalkboard and strangely-soothing to Graeme's ears. It was like Carter's voice, but so distant and alien at the same time--

Inhaling deeply, he raised his free hand to rub absently at the back of his neck, and consequently, all the runes there. Little pricks of pain sparked along his nape, just enough for him to focus and not punch something.

Ahead, the hallway veered off in a couple directions. Graeme rounded the corner smoothly, then pivoted almost immediately to face his tagalong.

"Unfortunately for everyone's best interests, there's no simple solution to this," Even if he never saw the youth in his class again, it didn't change the fact that the male existed somewhere out there and Graeme had yet to figure out how to deal with that inescapable fact.

Graeme wasn't sure how it happened.

In fact, if it wasn't for the slight complaint in his knuckles, he might not have been aware at all that he had thrown a punch. That happened, sometimes, when he hit a certain point of emotional saturation — whether it was anxiety, panic, upset, it didn't matter — he just blanked and did the first thing his instincts said. Sometimes, that was finding the most secure hiding spot and yelling out for non-existent squadmates, other times, it was throwing punches at students, apparently.

Shit.

He first glanced around to see if anyone had saw them, then glanced to the blonde to see if he was okay, and then started panicking more.

Bloody hell, the last thing he needed now was to lose his job over all this.

Yet he was too riled up to find it in himself to apologize, too worn out from trying to keep himself together, so he just let out an exasperated huff.

"There's nothing to fix," He mumbled, running a hand over his hair and trying to straighten himself up, dig himself out of the hole he had obviously fallen into. "You look like one of my squadmates. It's no big deal." Keep telling yourself that, Graeme.