You're Going to be a Pain (Request to Join; Duke & Duchess - E)

Bentley shrugged to himself, eyes glossing over the remaining students. "Any idiot can wield a katana," he admitted louder than he should have, earning collective glares from the twins nearby. "Mastering it is a different story. And a kusarigama..." His voice trailed off, opting to bite his lip rather than finish the sentence.

Marc raised his brows, scooting back in his seat and phasing both his hands, to his scythe blade and mace respectably. "And a kusarigama...?" His tone was patient and level, but there was something ever more piercing about the blue depths of his eyes as he studied the man.

Bentley eyed the sickle, impressed, and laughed. "Take it easy, ball-n-chain, I meant no disrespect," he said assuredly, holding Marc's gaze. "It's simply a matter of a kusarigama being exceptionally more difficult to wield. Half of the fools forget you can use the weighted mace and the other half hurt themselves because they forget to look out for it." He eyed his reflection in the sickle's blade. "Put those away before you make the katana twins soil themselves."

A snort followed the man's words, but he obeyed, though only half. Idly, he brought his now-normal left hand over to the sickled right, tracing along the smooth, outer, red edge before brushing against the textured steel. "They can do as they please. It's no difference to me what the other weapons do. I am not partnered and cannot be partnered with a fellow weapon, as none of my surviving relatives are one."

"I understand," Bentley intoned, entranced by the way the light scattered across the textured steel of Marc's blade. "No one in my family ever showed any affinity for being a meister or weapon. Granted, it wouldn't matter now anyways." He caught the glare of the katana twins once more, his face flushing as he hastily averted his gaze.

Slowly, he allowed the hand to transform back, taking another fry and raising a brow at the clearly embarrassed meister. "Seems like a rather good thing that they're partnered; it would be your luck that you got stuck with them." Reaching over, he patted the man on the shoulder, shrugging and smirking slightly.

Bentley recoiled slightly at the touch; the hand he had expected to be as cold as the steel it had just transformed from was surprisingly warm. He blinked in moderate surprise, shrugging to himself. "That would be my luck," he choked out, their glares murderous. "If they bisect me, I'd only be half as funny as I am now..."

Another sort, just as before, followed, and he smirked at the man, brow raising once more. "You're getting queso everywhere. Eat up and I'll show you where the next class is. The best students get there early, anyway." Apparently, while Bentley was busy being embarrassed, the weapon had managed to finish both his food and water, and was on to a Gatorade he'd stashed in his pack.

"Of course!" Bentley exclaimed, standing to tidy himself. "And since I place the utmost pride in my integrity as a student, we should be on our way." He stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder, careful not to snag the straps on his headphones. He scanned the crowd once more, glancing bemusedly at Marc. "If I practice my curtsy on the way, will you critique my form?"

"You lack a dress, or even the proper figure for one." The other boy spoke, almost offhandedly, taking both trays as he righted himself, bag slung over one shoulder. "I'm sure no one would buy it regardless, crackpot." His eyes danced with a glint of mischief as he looked over, dumping the trays. "You're sure as shit no lady."

Bentley laughed openly. "I don't much care for a dress, nor would anyone else who saw me do a cartwheel," he teased. "You will be hard pressed to find me 'dressed to impress.' I tend to win them over with my sparkling personality." He flashed a grin as they turned down the hallway away from the cafeteria, trailing Marc at an idling pace. He glanced up and down him, noting the rolled sleeves and instinctively tugging at his own, feeling the fabric catch faintly against the bandages dressing his forearm. A sudden lurch brought Bentley back into focus in time to realise the floor was rushing up to meet him. The floor isn't moving, you dolt. You tripped. A curse caught on his lips as he smacked the cold floor, skidding a good distance. He lifted his head slightly, caught Marc's face mixed with concern and amusement, and let his head rest back against the tile. Good form, Bentley. Nice execution, but iffy on the landing...

Marc shook his head in response, recognizing the man's embarrassment with ease and holding a hand out to help him up. "I don't know how far you expect to get like that, but if you're down for it, we could very easily army crawl to class." This said, he moved over beside Bentley, laying flat before rising a bit on his elbows, looking over as though there was nothing wrong with his behavior whatsoever. It was a simple coping method he'd used with his sister a time or two, as she was prone to tripping and making a game out of nearly anything kept her on the exact opposite end of the spectrum from crying. "I'll race ya."

Bentley's jaw loosened, a smile forming at the corner of his mouth. "Fine, then," he said, propping himself up to Marc's height. "I'll warn you now, though. I've been likened to a cheetah before on account of my speed." He clicked his tongue teasingly, his eyes shifting between Marc and the expanse of hallway between them and the Soul Resonance classroom.

Marc's eyes rolled automatically as he adjusted his form, nodding ahead of them. "Let me guess --- by yourself, as well? Are you a panther or a cheetah, crackpot? Or are you merely warning me that you don't play fair." Heh. Cheater pun. Nice one, Marc. I'm sure mom would be proud of your wisecracks.

Bentley smirked as he readied himself alongside Marc. "Fine, no one calls me cheetah," he admitted. "But you'll be calling me Stripes because I'll be too fast for you to spot me." He grinned widely, his brow arcing in an obvious challenge of wit. He sank into a starting position, tugging his backpack straps to prevent jostling in his haste.

A slight chuckle followed, though the man received no other reaction. "3..." he said, "2..." his body shifted as he adjusted his weight, pulling the bag on properly before returning to position. "1!" With that, he worked in the strange crawl forward, the strength in his arms, legs, and core failing him not.

Bentley kicked forwards at Marc's cue, his surroundings quickly blurring as he raced down the hallway. Each step seemed faster than the last, but Bentley dared not look for Marc's position in relation to himself. Eyes forward. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. As though Fate itself had listened, his next step hit slick tile. Bentley flew shoulder-first into the nearby row of lockers, a snarl escaping his lips as Marc careened past. Cursing, he kicked off the locker, pushing back into a rhythm. Today was NOT the day to wear Converse...

Marc barely glanced over, though a flash of concern shot through his gaze even as he continued to push forward. The new kid got up quickly enough, so it seemed to have not done too terrible of damage; he'd find out soon enough, either way. Not losing step, he continued, turning the corner before slowing and turning about-face just passed the classroom, letting his breathing catch up to him as he grinned from ear to ear, hair now wild and sweaty. "You alright there?"

Bentley shot him a look as he rounded the corner, slowing to a skidding halt. "Peak condition," he muttered, absentmindedly loosening and tightening the bandages covering his hands. Pulling them tight, he pushed the loose hair from his face, smirking. "That water spot back there was a doozy. I'm not sure if you won on account of my lack of skill or the janitor's."

Marc let out a bit of a snorted chuckle, shrugging as he absently rain his hand through his hair, slicking it back as best he could. "Ya did damn good either way. Might have beaten me if it hadn't been for that." He held the still dry hand out, a slightly crooked smirk plastered on his face.

Bentley bit his lip, quelling any snarky remarks before they escaped him. Tugging a sleeve back, he gripped Marc's hand. "Good showing, champ. We'll have to rematch someday. We have a class to get to." Relinquishing his grip, he slacked the straps on his backpack as they set forward towards the class hall.

Marc tugged at his sleeve and pointed his thumb at the classroom beside him, "Gymnasium, crackpot. C'mon. Who knows, ya might get stuck with me as a partner if you decide exploring is more your thing for the next, oh... ten minutes before that bell goes off."

Bentley snorted. "Heavens knows we can't have that," he intoned sarcastically, leaning past Marc to peer into the classroom. "That said, you'd be a welcome sight over the katana twins or the guy in the corner." He gestured towards a man sitting quietly towards the back, quiet and noticeably pale. "His weapon form is a boomerang and he suffers from motion sickness..."

Marc snorted louder than he intended, shaking his head. "I'd hate to take him to a fair, then. Sucker would lose his meals from the passed week before the hour was up." His shocking blue eyes met Bentley's with a mischievous grin, taunting him silently. "Shall we, crackpot?"

Bentley gestured towards the open door. "Ladies first," he said teasingly, a beat skipping before he hastily stepped in ahead of Marc. He hugged the wall, finally settling into a seat midway up the aisles. His backpack dropped to the floor beside him as he sprawled into his seat. "Why did I ever think it was a good idea to race in a sweatshirt?"