That book by Nabokov
Arthur is not the type to get easily flustered.
But when Matthew Williams flounces by, the golden tips of his eyelashes low as he smirks at him, shouldering his messenger bag, cheerily greeting his teacher, Arthur busies himself with shuffling papers so the tremble in his hands is not betrayed.
A muscle at the corner of his lip twitches as he returns the greeting, trying very hard to not watch his student settle at his desk, letting his bag slip from his lax fingers to the polished tile floor.
His friends chatter around him, but Matthew pays them little mind as he pulls out a notebook and pen, twirling it between his fingers before letting it rest against his mouth, tilting his head just as the clock strikes 1 pm and class is to officially begin.
It is going to be a long hour.
Arthur calls the class to attention and turns to scrawl Ozymandias across the chalkboard, white dust falling to stain his Oxfords.
He can feel Matthew’s smile against his back.