Serval and Sheep (Chapter 3)
Hafsa and Desmond learn a little more about themselves.
To his surprise, the student council office is empty when Desmond walks in. The serenity of the room borders on unsettling.
Just like a herbie to think that.
Unable to keep still in the silence, he begins to sniff around. After all, he didn't get a good look at the place during the introductory meeting. The office, being in the older administrative building, is by far one of the more elegant rooms of the academy. The old wooden floors, covered at the center of the room by a mauve persian rug, gently squeaked with each step he took. Desmond couldn't decide if the rhythmic creaks were better or worse than the quiet. The leftmost wall, stretching the entire length of the room, is concealed by a formidable bookshelf stuffed with fabric-covered novels, textbooks and an asinine amount of binders and folders. Learning each folder's contents and purpose is going to be a challenge. Reaching the end of the wall, he glances behind him at the lounging area, now bereft of tea and treats. Rather, the sheep shifts his attention to the desks, polished and meticulously organized.
The desk closest to him belongs to Brian, the treasurer, a conclusion reached due to the presence of not one but three calculators, and some budget spreadsheets already beginning to pile up. Well, that and the photos of a rock dove family tacked on the small cork board propped up by an old textbook.
"Brian has a pretty big family..." Desmond murmurs. "Keeping pictures of them here seems a little excessive, though."
The adjacent desk can only belong to the caracal. Minimalist, overly tidy, and performative beyond belief. The sheep can't help but sneer. Even the cat's attempts at personalization (a wooden desk puzzle and a delicate potted succulent) seem to be micro-engineered in being as safe and non-threatening as possible. Utterly premeditated.
Desmond places a hand on the desk. Such a smooth surface. How has it managed to stay like this without so much as a scratch or dent? He turns his head to the window. The most imposing of all desks stands in front of it, still bare. Particles of dust dance midair when caught by the trickles of sunlight leaking through the curtains onto the floor and desk surface. The wood lights up nicely in the golden hour.
The unsettling silence begins to creep in once again. This kind of silence is born only to be broken by the sounds no one ever wants to hear: those grim reminders of one's own mortality. The ringing of one's ears. The grinding of one's teeth. The rustling of one's fur. And of course, the beating of one's heart. Desmond hates that sound most of all.
He scurries over to the desk opposite to Solomon's, the desk that could only be his. He taps on the edge absentmindedly, debating whether or not he should try out his chair. The vile pulsation echoes out from behind his eardrums now. Eyes darting, he scouts for a distraction. How early did he get here? The taps become louder, frenzied, like an improvised scat, morphing in and out of countless rhythms. Yet the sensation of his beating heart persists still, almost mockingly keeping pace. His fingers slam against the cold smooth wood in an unrelenting assault until he can no longer even feel them. Until he could no longer tell which beat was which.
"E-excuse me!" A shrill protest pierces through the madness.
His hands freeze, gripping the desk's edge. Hafsa looks on near the entrance, her expression equal parts confused and concerned. Desmond stares blankly at her, as if he's not sure why she's here.
A prickling sensation shifts his attention to his inner hands. His fingers, now a bright reddish hue, bristle and tremble as if an electric current is being passed through them. He can't hear it anymore.
"No need to yell." In a flash, he returns to the disinterested face she's familiar with. His hands fall to his sides without a fuss, and following suit, he slings himself on his desk chair, settling on a bored slouch.
Hafsa resists the urge to flatten her ears in annoyance. "Well, I had tried speaking before, but you didn't really hear me..." she offers.
Desmond grunts in response, reaching for his lower horn. The cool keratin helps ease his burning fingers.
"Do you... play the drums, by any chance?" The serval asks, trying to sound amicable, but her voice is quickly dissolved by the thick awkwardness in the atmosphere.
The sheep, still absentmindedly rubbing his horn, gives a final sigh. "No."
Silence dredges on.
"We're kind of early, aren't we?"
"Apparently."
...
"H-hey--"
Approaching footsteps warn her not to finish that sentence. A few moments later, Brian and Solomon join them.
"Ah, you're already here. Excellent punctuality." Solomon says, nodding.
"Ah, well, sixth period let out a little early!" Hafsa explains.
"Good afternoon, Pres, Vice Pres." Brian greets with a wave. "Hope we didn't keep you guys waiting! At least you had some time to chat!"
"R-right..."
Solomon strides towards the center of the room. "Today marks our first official meeting. Let's not waste any time."
"Agreed." Desmond says curtly.
The golden rays of sun are now tinged with crimson. Hafsa leans forward, resting her elbows on her desk and covering her mouth with intertwined fingers. The meeting had been very fruitful. Solomon had handed the basic documents she needed to keep track of future and ongoing school events. The meeting itself was more of a recap of what what was to come. Even though it was the beginning of the second week of the academic year, Noah's Arc Academy provides no slack when it comes to events. Rather, when it comes to planning events.
Most of the school hustle begins in March, but organizing them starts no earlier than January. The drama club's spring play, the pep rally for the beginning of the spring sporting season, and all the matches of all the sports clubs that come with it. Adding to that miscellaneous bake sales, food drives, minor charity events and holiday celebrations sprinkled throughout the first semester, and that's a recipe for a whole lot of sleepless nights.
Thankfully, it's all in good hands. Brian quickly proved himself to be an accounting wizard and shared his expected budgeting plans from January all the way to spring break.
"They're only loose predictions based on last year's expenditures!" He explained sheepishly, but the detail of the costs down to the last penny, even accounting for inflation, was almost asinine.
Hafsa expected Solomon to be hyper-competent and he didn't disappoint. Gifting her old reference material for organizing and executing the wide multitude of events, he gave her a thorough lecture on everything to know about the process of planning a school event, all without skipping a beat.
"You know this stuff like the back of your hand!" Hafsa exclaimed.
The older cat chuckled. "You get used to it fast. I was shown the ropes by an upperclassman when I first joined, just like you. Granted, I'm nowhere near as helpful, or concise, as she was."
"That's not true at all! Well, maybe the 'concise' part is..." The serval giggled.
"Hehe, guilty as charged. I get the feeling you'll do a lot better than I did, anyhow. You're sharp."
And with that, the training wheels were off. Hafsa and Desmond were branded leaders, and everything from then on was to be run by them. Hafsa had never felt drunk on power before, but today, she began to feel at least a little tipsy. Or maybe just overwhelmed.
It was agreed upon that Desmond take the central role in coordinating sporting events due to his greater expertise on the matter, the same applying to Hafsa with pep rallies. Solomon and Brian, respected members of the choir and math club respectively, were eager to give some advice on their affairs as well.
With the meeting concluded, the members calmly wrap up the filing and note-taking. Hafsa straightens herself from her pensive pose and resumes reading over a matter concerning an upcoming art event. A slender hand comes into view, sliding a sheet of paper towards her.
"This is the form that I mentioned before," Solomon explains. "This one is from last year so the formatting is unchanged. It's not likely you'll ever see it, but if a club dissolves, you'll need to process it like so. Shouldn't be too hard."
Hafsa takes the sheet and puts it away in her already overflowing folder of reference material. "Thank you very much! I'm really grateful for all the help!"
"I can only apologize for the amount of information I've bombarded you with. It'll all become second nature in time, I promise." He offers a sympathetic smile.
"Not at all! I'm sorry to take up so much of your time!!"
"Let's just agree to both be sorry and we can forgive each other."
"Ha ha ha, sounds good!"
Solomon's eyes wander around the bare surface of the desk. "You should consider decorating your workspace. It'd be a shame to let this beautiful desk only carry stacks of paper."
"If you don't mind then maybe I'll bring some things on Thursday!"
"Hey, you too, Sheep Desmond! A desk is like a second home!" Brian chips from his desk.
"I don't really have a lot of decoration lying around..." Desmond answers quietly. He does seem to give it some thought, however.
Brian gives an approving grin. "Well, if we're all done for the day, why don't we head out? We could get dinner together at the cafeteria!"
Hafsa's ears perk up. "That sounds great!" She stops herself. Suddenly, she has a plan.
"Actually, there's something I need to discuss with the vice president regarding these documents. You two can get a head start on the dinner line and we'll meet you there in a bit!"
Brian shrugs. "Ok, then! See you two there!" He potters out of the office. Solomon gives them a brief glance before following the rock dove.
And so, the room goes back to its state before the meeting. Just the serval, the sheep, and the silence.
"So," Desmond speaks up first. "What was it you needed to show me?"
"Actually..." Hafsa gets up from her chair and approaches him. "That was a lie."
Desmond quickly stands up and inches back. His disinterested gaze flares up into a suspicious one. "Is that so?"
Hafsa pauses, realizing she must have put him on edge. She internally curses at herself for being so insensitive . She nearly forgot he was a herbie.
"Well, it's just that... For some reason, I feel like we haven't gotten off on the right foot. And since we're going to be working together a lot, I think it's best we... look out for each other."
Desmond says nothing.
"Your hands..." Hafsa continues. "Before the others arrived... You hurt them, right?"
She steps closer. A tentative hand reaches out.
"If you want, I could go get some ice to help--"
Desmond clutches her approaching wrist.
"Don't."
Hafsa stops and looks down to meet Desmond's gaze. The wary expression he wore seems like a beaming smile in comparison to the venomous glare he shoots her now.
"I don't need your pity. Your little act is wasted on me, so don't bother."
"E-excuse me?" Hafsa tries to free herself from his grip, but doesn't relent.
"Carnies like you make me sick. Acting like a saint in front of everyone, pretending to be some meek little damsel... All the while looking down on everyone else!"
"L-let go of me!" Hafsa cries.
"I know you can break free if you wanted to, President. I despise pretense. Let me see how strong you really are!" His grip tightens, forcing her hand to bend upwards, exposing her fingertips. Her retractable claws are forced out by the sudden jerk pointing right at Desmond's face like small daggers. He flinches, and that's enough time for Hafsa to yank her hand free from his grasp.
Something inside her snaps. She can only feel heat and blood and... rage. Before he can retreat, two strong hands each grab ahold of his curled, lower horns. She forcefully shoves him back as he struggles to maintain balance on his feet until they ram into the wall.
Desmond once again is confronted by that loathsome sound, throbbing madly in his chest. His arms are frozen at his side, hands curled into pained fists.
Hot, shaky breaths moisten his forehead. Hafsa hunches over him, clawed hands still tight around his horns, pinning him to the wall. Her mouth is agape, revealing pointed fangs of all sizes. Strings of saliva dangle off her top canines. Daring to peek above the mouth, he is met with two intense eyes of amber, slashed down the middle by a thin slit of a pupil.
Neither of them make a move. They don't even know what to move. At this moment, their bodies melt into one being. A horrible creature of fury and fear, heat and heartbeats. The barrage of senses is overwhelming, unbearably so, maddeningly so. The creature foams at the sweet smell of hot blood, but retches at the sour odor of saliva and sweat.
Hafsa slowly twists her hands around the horns, feeling its cold rugged texture. Her teeth ached to gnaw on it. How long had she wanted this? How long has she needed this?
Beneath the kaleidoscope of sensations, she knew Desmond was right. She is, and has always been, a farce. Always smiling but never showing her teeth. Parading her feigned impotence to amass approval from people she never cared about. She thought she could keep it together. Never revealing the creature behind the mask, the one who hates clipping her claws and knows no amount of almond milk can ever make up for that one, gnawing craving that lurks in the back of her mind, always and forever. Was she stupid to believe she could outwit herself like that? Was she wrong to have ever tried?
The serval is shaken from her thoughts. As she looks down, she locks eyes with the smaller animal. Pure terror. She realizes his entire body is trembling, hot from fear, soft and tender, utterly helpless. And suddenly, she remembers this animal is Desmond.
"You..." Her voice comes out as a snarl. "You're no better than me, after all."
The sheep opens his mouth, but his wavering jaw can produce no sound.
"You act like a tough guy, saying you don't need my pity. But here you are, shivering like a newborn kitten. You're scared of me. You're scared of all carnies, aren't you?"
"I--" A croaky bleat escapes his lips.
"Seems we both have instincts we need to hide." Hafsa relaxes her grip on his horns, hiding her claws once more. She gingerly leans in, pressing her body on his, and moves her hands onto his chest.
"This never happened," she snarls. "For my sake... and yours." Her claws dart out and snag his tie. She inhales one final time, taking in the scent of her prey, and pulls away. Desmond remains unmoving, pressed against the wall.
The serval turns back to him from the entrance. Her slitted eyes slowly expand back to their round, friendly appearance.
"I'll tell them you couldn't make it to dinner. I'll see you Thursday, Sheep Desmond." She grins from ear to ear. "Actually, I think I can just call you Desmond now. We're close enough."