Zach leveled his gaze at him, until Gentry broke down into laughter. It wasn’t loud or annoyingly boisterous, but it was just mean enough for Zach to fire,
“Geez. You’re even less funny when you’re sleep-deprived.”
Gentry quieted down, softly tittering to himself until Wuthering Heights flew at his face, barely missing him and very narrowly scraping past top of his head. He caught it just as it banged off the wall.
“Now Zach; don’t let your jealousy out on this…” he read from the back of the cover, “enduring piece of 19th Century literature.”
“You’re not funny, I’m not jealous, and that’s not enduring.”
“The look on your face was all of those. You should have seen it.”
“Whatever. Fact is, it doesn't bother me. You're not my boyfriend; and I wouldn’t care even if you did fuck Casey.”
“Whatever.” he grumbled, taking a deep deep breath as he crouched down to pick his pencil off the floor, only to grip hot skin instead of cold wood.
He jerked away immediately. Gentry did too, pulling back his hand if he’d burned it on an open fire. He then glanced at the ceiling, as if that crack in the second corner tile was particularily interesting today. And in turn Zach grudgingly grabbed the pencil, and rigidly sat up in his seat, scratching the pointed lead tip against the paper to slowly spell out Z-a-c-h T-y-l-e-r…
It snapped loudly.
Gentry discreetly slid him a pencil sharpener.