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Tim: The first day of classes is always a cluster fuck - Tim knows this by now. After a rather challenging junior year - personally and academically - Tim's senior year is starting off a bit more relaxed. He has a few stronger traditional classes - advanced chemistry, ethics, advanced calculus - but the rest of his schedule has what many consider blow-offs. One such blow-off is required for graduation, and stupidly, Tim held off on taking it until now. The class is typically filled with freshmen and sophomores that need an easy class, so it's only fitting that once Tim swings into the classroom, the only seats available at in the back, not that he minds. The classroom itself has a small portion dedicated to chairs and desks, all facing a general teacher's desk, but the room expands further to include several mini kitchen set ups, a rather large crafting table, and plenty of cabinets to house materials for projects.

It's a new teacher for this class, one Tim hasn't yet experienced, so he watches the relatively-younger guy scramble around a bit, clearly not prepared. He's going over the syllabus and what to expect - it all sounds promising, albeit lofty, because there is absolutely a multi-tier cake baking lession slated for October. Tim groans quietly to himself and lifts a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as he sits in the back, quiet.

Mike: The teacher - Mr. Kelly - is, undeniably, disorganized. On the other hand, he seems pretty enthusiastic, so perhaps that will make up for some of it. Several of the freshman, not used to the quality of staff around here, look more than a little bewildered while he goes on to explain the course's aims. He's so into it that he doesn't at first notice the door near the back of the room opening.

Ness, vastly displeased with being back in this hellhole, decides he hates it even more when he spots the back of a very familiar head in the back row of seats. Sighing quietly, he steels himself, shifts the backpack over his shoulder and heads to the front of the room to give the teacher his tardy-excuse slip. Kelly looks completely surprised by his appearance but at least not inimical, since he doesn't have any history with Michael, being new. The guy takes the slip and waves a heavily-tattooed arm toward the back of the room, telling him to take a seat.

So Ness slinks around the desks, deflating into one two seats over from Tim. He would take one farther away, but in the small class set-up, it's impossible. He drops his backpack on the table, readjusts the bandana over his head and, with some idea of getting the worst over with, glances sideways at Tim for a long moment.

Tim: Still holding that hand to his face, Tims eyes are closed when that door is opened, and remain so up until Mr. Kelly is interrupted. Tim drops the hand and blinks over to the teacher, initially not recognizing the person next to him until he actually, really looks.

It’s disarming to Tim just how quickly his stomach flips, and the initial emotion is swelling. It’s undeniably affection - there’s a desire to get up and crowd the boy, scan over everything he’s missed over the past three months. But just as quickly as those feelings come, another takes their place: heartache. It makes Tim’s shoulders tense up and his eyes go slightly wide, and he watches Mike choose his seat silently. He meets that gaze not out of want, but of some strange need, but his face is fairly blank, although he may look a bit concerned.

Mike: Oh, shit, he got caught. Rather than look away, Mike turns his head to face Tim more, holding the eye contact. He's not sure what to make of the look the guy is giving him, but he can't miss how much *better* he looks than the last time he saw him, over spring break. With everything that's gone on since then, you'd think it would be difficult for Ness to remember the events of that week. It's not. He remembers it all a little too well. Exhaling another quiet sigh at the memories, Mike rolls his lips together and arches an eyebrow at Tim, looking mostly exhausted.

Of course, if they hadn't been so intent on staring at each other, they might have overheard the teacher telling everyone to grab a partner and move to a kitchenette for their first simple recipe. The first hint Mike has of it is when everybody else is moving. Snapping to look forward again, he's met with Mr. Kelly making a shooing motion. "Go on, you two. Everyone else is already getting set up."

Tim: Similarly, Tim holds that gaze, shifting very slightly in his seat. The flips in his stomach are ongoing - he briefly thinks he may even throw up - but he swallows it down. His own memories - from first getting involved with Michael, to their stupid little quiet moments in their dorm, to going to him when things with Leech imploded and eventually heading back to California - are flooding back, painful as they were when Tim first left. It does him no favor when he notices those lips roll - he briefly looks down at that mouth - but then things are happening and the teacher is showing them away and Tim lifts a hand in the air, shaking his head as he finally breaks from Michael and looks at Mr. Kelly. “Wait, ahh ... no, no we’re not partners...” but then he’s looking across the classroom, going from station to station and seeing pairs of students exploring their kitchenettes.

Mike: Momentarily, Mike's eyes widen, because no, he doesn't at all want to be stuck with Tim as a partner for the rest of the year. That could only be painful for both of them. But their instructor has already wandered off to help the younger students, and Tim's objection goes unnoticed by him. Though not by Mike. He snorts quietly, pushing his chair back to stand up and head for the closest kitchen area, muttering to Tim as he passes. "Don't worry, I won't stuff you in the oven." Privately, he's decided to talk to Mr. Kelly after class to make sure this *won't* be a year-long thing. For now he just focuses on the print-out left on the counter, a very basic recipe for peanut butter cookies, then crouches to find a mixing bowl in the cabinet, acting like this is totally fine and it doesn't bother him at all.

Tim: That comment is the exact type of thing that Timothy both adores and despises; Michael has always been clever, but especially so when it comes to people he clearly can’t stand to be around. He can’t help but feel like this is an indicator of the boy’s current state of things. Tim’s eyes slide back to the passing boy once it’s determined that every other pair are, in fact, a pair, and he quietly snorts, also getting to his feet. He knows better than to try to storm out, and while there’s a part of him that absolutely wants out of here, there’s the other part - the part he hates, the part that has made his life an absolute shit show for the past year - that is relieved to be near this guy again. He follows after him into the kitchenette, and peers at the instructions to take a look over the ingredients needed. He takes the unbothered approach, as well. “When did you get back?”

Mike: At the moment, it's not a stretch to say that Mike can't stand to be around *anybody*. Especially with this new twist, he feels like he'd prefer a holding cell and solitude. He briefly looks up from his crouched position when Tim gives in and joins him, and some of the tension in his spine finally dissolves when the other boy speaks - speaks and doesn't immediately tell him to fuck off. Mike knows better than to press his luck, though, keeps the conversation civil and impersonal. "'bout half an hour ago. Home sweet fuckin' home." Straightening, he sets the bowl on the counter and tugs his t-shirt back into place. Plainly, he hasn't had a chance to change into school-appropriate attire yet, but his sleeveless t-shirt and worn jeans don't break too many rules.

Tim: As they start to gather their things, Tim yanks on his own tie to loosen it, not wanting to accidentally choke himself in their first assignment. He’s browsing a nearby cupboard for the dry ingredients and tugging off that tie, a million other thoughts going through his mind. He wants to ask more then when - like why and how and oh my god are you ok - but he can’t bring himself to do it. When Mike’s back is turned, he studies it raptly, but makes sure he’s looking away when Mike comes back around. He nods for that answer. “You’re in the dorms?” And with whom?

Mike: Mike collects the utensils they'll need and the baking sheet, getting everything laid out with uncharacteristic neatness that *might* give away the fact that he's not nearly so relaxed as he pretends to be. "Yep." The single word is enough to say that he's not thrilled by the fact. "I haven't been up there yet, though. Soon as I got here the councilor lasso'd me and pulled me into a meeting." Checking the list of necessities as a way to keep from looking at Tim, he adds laconically: "Need an egg." And heads away to the massive fridge at the back of the room, though unfortunately, he has to go back to his station afterwards.

Tim: That initial response makes Tim’s back tense up and his stomach clench; he ignores them as best he can, save the wondering for their occurrence for later tonight. He’s back to reality towards the end of that further explanation, and Tim hums as he grabs the ingredients and moves them to the countertop with the utensils.

As Mike leaves the station, Tim’s eyes follow him, but then a lightbulb goes off - they forgot to preheat the oven. Tim goes to do just that before going back to the instruction sheet, scanning it for the next move.

Mike: Mike returns, snags the mixing bowl and cracks the egg on its side to let the innards drip into it. The silence, though he'd kind of wished for it, turns out to be more uncomfortable than being questioned. "I figure they wouldn't put us in the same dorm again, after everything?" Everything as in, when they stole Snider's car and ran away for a couple days, not to mention Mike skipping out for Spring Break when he wasn't supposed to. He takes up a fork and, a little uncertainly, attempts to beat the egg.

Tim: When Mike returns, Tim sticks to the instruction sheet, trying to look busy when they both know he isn’t. He mumbles something under his breath about ‘mixing the dry ingredients’ and then scanning his options, finding a larger bowl that he can combine the flour, sugar and other necessities. He grabs the liquid measuring cup instead of the dry one, and starts pouring in the sugar. It’s the wrong utensils and wrong method, but Tim really never has done this before, and he wants to stay busy. He talks over his shoulder. “Oh, no. I got put with Kellen, and then fuckin’ Jade and Mal.” He doesn’t sound too pleased, but that’s expected. “Jess is in B.”

Mike: If anyone is going to correct Tim's mistakes, it won't be Mike. He's pretty sure he's not even doing this egg thing right. He keeps at it, though, watching the egg with a dubious expression, lips pursed. Tim's response distracts him, however, and he looks at the other guy with eyes wide, sharing the horror of being stuck with Kellen, Jade, *and* Malachi. "Jesus. Say goodbye to your sanity." Mal is probably just as much to be pitied as Tim, especially since Mike remembers how well Tim likes him, but he doesn't say that. He frowns slightly as Tim goes on. "Jesse must hate that. Does this egg look beaten to you?"

Tim: Getting most of the ingredients in one bowl - and he mistakenly used a tablespoon instead of a teaspoon of salt - Tim puts that bowl aside and looks back to the instructions. He snorts amusement for that, grateful for someone to understand his predicament since all he’s heard from Jesse is how lucky he is. “I packed it up in my suitcase and stuffed it in the closet.” It probably isn’t entirely untrue.

Looking up from the instructions, Tim looks into Mike’s bowl and squints before lifting up his eyes to scan the other pairs’ bowls. “... yeah, I think so.”

Mike: "They're gonna steal it if you don't find a better hiding spot." Michael sounds entirely serious about this. He doesn't know Jade very well, but from what he does know of the kid - and from his extensive knowledge of Kellen, good and bad - he'll be surprised if Tim makes it through the year in that set up. Though Tim's agreement isn't entirely convincing, Mike nods easily. "A'ight. I'll take your word for it. I have no idea how to bake anything." He pauses, checks the recipe again. "Looks like we add it to the other stuff and mix it all together..."

Tim: Tim tilts his head at that thought, kind of annoyed that he didn’t think of it first. Of course there is no sanity suitcase, except maybe metaphorically speaking. As is impulse, Tim lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck as he thinks, looking between both sets of bowls. “Yeah, maybe just add in the wet stuff to the dry stuff in one go?” Totally the wrong approach, but whatever. He adds on belatedly: “I’ve never done this before in my life.”

Mike: "No? Thought you had this life goal of opening a bakery." Mike looks up, searches the small classroom for their teacher. But the guy is obvious only in his absence, so Ness shrugs, tilts his bowl towards Tim's and scrapes the partially-beaten egg into the mix. It looks very unpalatable, but perhaps when it's all mixed together it'll look better. "I'll, uh..." Checking the instructions. "...grease the pan. If you can tell me what to grease it with." Because of course, the instructions don't say.

Tim: “Nahh. That was Jesse’s plan. He was gonna open a pot bakery and call it ‘Weedy Good Bakery.’” This is probably an actual conversation that the boys had, sometime when everything didn’t feel so completely fucked. Once the ingredients are in one bowl, Tim starts to mix it - it’s lumpy and grainy but Tim can’t tell the difference. His eyes scan the kitchen for something that would be used as grease, and his quips his chin over towards the small bottle of vegetable oil that is resting near other oils by the stove. “Maybe that oil?” Nope, not that oil - it should be the spray can, but it’s still hidden in the pantry cupboard.

Mike: "Jesus. *Thank you.* I'd managed to erase that from my brain until now." Shaking his head at the thought of Jesse's bakery, Mike looks at the oil by the stove. But this, at least, seems wrong to him - he doesn't want to start a fire, and that shit looks like gasoline.

Leaning forward, he calls to the kids in the next station. "Hey." No reaction. "Hey!" Again, no reaction. Ness rolls his eyes, pushes himself up to stretch halfway over the counter - his feet hovering a foot above the floor - so he can sock one of the freshmen in the shoulder. The kid gives a little shriek, spins around, eyes wide. Mike snorts and drops back to his feet. "Chill. I just wanted to ask, what do we use to grease the pan?" Still looking worried, the kid motions to the canister of Crisco his partner is digging in with a paper towel. Ness nods. "A'ight, thanks." He turns and hunts through the cabinets again.

Tim: Tim shrugs a shoulder when Mike passes up on the oil, because it totally makes sense, and goes back to his mixing. It’s starting to come together, but not all that well - without the key ingredient, it isn’t binding too well. He watches Ness call out, and then jump up, and then swing out all with an arched eyebrow. He seems to be himself, at least marginally, but he looks different. Not necessarily bad, but different. Unfamiliar.

“I don’t know if this looks right but I think it’s done being mixed.” He looks down at his bowl dubiously, and carries it under an arm as he goes over to show Mike. “Right?”

Mike: Watching the kids at the next station covertly, Mike manages to spread the Crisco evenly over the baking sheet as if he actually knows what he's doing. He lifts his head to survey Tim's mixing skills, pursing his lips again. "Is it supposed to be lumpy like that?" He asks in total ignorance. Then he shrugs and slides the sheet towards Tim. "Guess we just kinda ball it up and stick it on there." Belatedly realizing that his hands are very oily and gross now, Mike looks down at them in concern, then grabs more paper towels to try to get the stuff off. This isn't as bad as he thought it would be; really, it's not bad at all, being around Tim, until he remembers that they might be partners in this class but they're not in anything else. The best route seems to be staying busy and not thinking about it.

Tim: “Probably not.” Tim steps back, not wanting to hover near a Michael, and keeps stirring that batter while the bowl is tucked under his arm. Really, both boys look incredibly domestic.

Tim’s eyes move over to the other kitchenette, opposite of the one Mike connected with and eventually punched, and narrow when he sees those students putting down aluminum foil instead of greasing up the cookie sheet. Tim looks back at Mike’s action before stepping over to read the instructions; they didn’t hear the part where they could adjust steps as needed, and some students have decided to go rogue, probably because they’ve done something like this with their families.

Mike: Michael is not paying attention to the other kids, or even to Tim: he's having excessive trouble getting the crisco off his hands. Making noises of disgust, he finally steps over to the sink to thoroughly wash his hands. Once he's done with that a minute or two later, he turns to look at Tim in question. "What? Thought it was mixed already. Let's just put it on the thing and be done with it."

Tim: “Just trying to get the lumps out.” Tim rolls his eyes a bit, but swallows back any snappy reply, placing the batter bowl on the countertop near the greased cookie sheets. Not wanting to get his own hands gross, Tim takes a few steps to another drawer, and comes back with a large slotted spoon. He sticks it in the batter - moving the whisk to the sink - and then slaps a not great looking lump on the sheet. Once that’s complete, he arches an eyebrow at said lump, not sure what to make of it.

Mike: Also eyeing that lump uncertainly - it looks nothing like the other kids' neat balls of dough - Mike sighs, resigning himself to dirtying his hands once again. He moves a bit closer to Tim and prods at the dough, trying to make it more of a cohesive whole instead of a bunch of odd granular lumps held together loosely with egg. "This is...do you think we've gotta eat this?" He's not looking at Tim, watching the work of his hands with a kind of fascinated horror.

Tim: While Mike moves in closer, Tim steps further away, as if they always need to have at least three feet separating them at all times. He paces around the countertop island and snags the instructions sheet. It says to put the cookies in the oven, but not for how long. So that’ll be a Thing they have to figure out, too. “Hope not.” He’s sincere - he doesn’t like peanut butter cookies anyways - but these ones look truly awful.

Mike: Mike doesn't miss the way Tim veers away from him, and his mouth tightens, but he doesn't say anything. He nods lazily in agreement with Tim's words, still focused on working the dough as if it's pottery. Before long, though, he has to give up - he's done the best he could. "A'ight, I think this is as good as it gets. Is the oven on?" He turns to look at the oven, sees the light on, and gives Tim a quick appreciative glance. "Here goes nothing." Pulling the oven door open, Mike slides the sheet inside, snatching his hand back before it can get burnt. Success, of a sort, but it means he has no easy distractions now.

Tim: “Yeah, at 350.” Not that that means anything to either boy; Tim probably would have thought cookies bake at 425, so it’s a good thing the directions included oven temperature. “They’ll be fine.” He doesn’t sound like he believes himself, but there is an attempt. And after feeling the lack of distraction almost immediately, he moves to start putting the ingredients away. “What class do you have next?” Please don’t let it be any guitar related class.

Mike: "Okay." He's definitely taking it for granted that Tim had the right temperature, because he has no clue. With a last uncertain glance at the oven, Michael takes the same route as Tim - collects the dirtied bowls and utensils in the small sink and starts washing them. He's a bit relieved when the other guy introduces a subject for conversation because he doesn't know what to say to him. "Oh...a math, of some kind? Algebra or something. How 'bout you?"

Tim: Tim is taking much more careful time putting everything away; he makes sure everything has its table facing out, perfectly alliances with the other items scattered on shelves throughout the cupboards. “Ahh, I have one of those TA hours? I dunno, I haven’t done one before.”

Mike: Mike makes a noise of understanding in his throat, moving on to drying the dishes. Probably wishing there were more of them. Not to seem too unsociable, he turns to face Tim and leans against the counter as he dries a bowl, then offers it out for Tim to put away. "Seems like they're pretty laid-back. Well, depending on which teacher you're stuck with."

Tim: "Yeah, here's hoping." He doesn't name the teacher, positive of the reception it would receive. He reaches for that bowl and then side steps around Michael to place it under the countertop, back to its original home. He wants to ask about his summer, about his thoughts, about all the things that looped through his brain over break. But he can't and he doesn't, and he stands up straight and looks around, seeing most everything put away properly.

Mike: "Maybe if you're lucky you can help Snider out with whatever the hell he teaches." Plainly Mike is under the misapprehension that Tim doesn't know which class he's TA-ing for yet. Done with the dishes, he puts the towel back on its hook and crosses his arms, scanning the classroom restlessly again as the awkwardness comes back full-force. Finding no distraction, he grits his teeth and forces himself to carry on the conversation. "I bet you have most of the credits you need to graduate, don't you?"

Tim: It's pretty hysterical that the one kitchenette that has two students who already know one another is the most quiet of the half dozen or so in this classroom. Tim moves around a bit, a little anxious, before forcing himself to stand stationary for more than ten seconds. While the other students are busy learning more about one another - no doubt reflecting on summer break - Tim and Mike stand opposite of one another, both against separate countertops, both with their arms crossed. "He teaches ethics, mostly. And no thank you." Tim knows this because he had the class this morning; Snider also lends his teaching talents to religious studies and philosophy on occasion. Being the man's TA would be a literal nightmare. Glancing over at the oven, he eyes the cookies from a distance, but they still need more time to cook. He can't bring himself to look at Mike again. "Yeah, for the most part. I've got a few blow off classes this semester." This being one of them, of course.

Mike: Yeah, it's fucking hilarious. Mike certainly seems to think so, the way he's focusing on his feet and moving his jaw like he's chewing on something. In contrast to Tim, he doesn't move at all, just remains where he is stolidly. "Ethics?" The tone of voice makes it plain that he can't imagine Snider teaching *anyone* morals, but then he wrinkles his nose. "Shit. I've got an ethics class this afternoon."

This day just keeps improving. Pushing it from his mind to be dealt with later, Michael nods as Tim goes on. He always was more academically-oriented than a lot of the students here. "That's cool. I don't think I'll make it all up this year. Probably be getting my diploma in lock-up." He smirks a bit as he says it, but it's not all that unlikely.

Tim: Tim's nose wrinkles as well, because he can empathize. And if just look at the other boy, he'd be offering a sympathetic face. But Tim's busying himself by rubbing one hand on the back of his neck, balancing the desire to swarm and the desire to bolt minute-by-minute. That wry comment does make Tim look up, confused, but he blinks away, looks down at his feet. "Can't you just stay until you graduate?"

Mike: Mike catches Tim's eyes for the few seconds he looks at him and that just underlines how uncomfortable the guy is, how much he doesn't want to be here. Ness can't really blame him for that. He shakes his head, heaving a sigh at the same time. "Nah. Next April I'm outta here, gotta finish my sentence in a minimum security place back home. Only a few months, though." Provided he doesn't screw up while he's there.

Tim: Tim rolls his lips together to hold back any immediate reaction to that. Why? keeps repeating in his mind, like a pulsing mantra, and he eventually drops the hand from his neck and grips the countertop behind him. "Shit." Knowing that isn't enough, he adds on: "After your birthday, you mean?"

Mike: There's a laugh for Tim's first response, though there isn't much humor in it. "Yeah. On my birthday, actually. What a present." Not wanting to get too deep in feeling sorry for himself, Ness leans over to check on the oven, but nothing seems to have changed yet: the cookies, such as they are, are still uneven, unappetizing balls of mush. Grimly, he hunts for a different topic. "So...you and Jess went back home for the summer?" Not a wild guess: they'd spoken about it, back when Mike was still part of their discussions. And Tim's tan is a dead giveaway.

Tim: Once unrolled, his lips purse into a sneer, because this all sounds very legal - and that whatever trouble M ike got in after spring break, and then throughout the summer, surely contribute to the punishment. He knows better than to ask, and is quietly grateful for a change in subject. It isn't a great new subject, but it's at least new, and Tim can keep it top level. He nods and moves to rub at a bicep thoughtlessly. "That obvious?" He maybe doesn't realize the extent of his own refresh, and doesn't wait for an answer. "Yeh, we stayed at his mom's, down in LA. It was good. Did get this - " He lifts his forearm and pushes up a sleeve, showing off a still-healing set of deep stitches and a laceration around his wrist. "Skateboarding."

Mike: Michael lets a twisted little smile form on his mouth as he looks Tim over, the way he's a healthy color, filled out from his stick-thin weight of the previous year. Although the guy is blatantly uncomfortable right now, he doesn't have the same haunted look he'd worn for months after his parents gave him up. "...pretty obvious." Realizing he's been staring for much too long, Mike drops his eyes again, only lifting them to check out that wound. "*Nice.* Last time I tried to skate, I sprained my wrist. Totally out of practice."

Tim: That confirmation makes Tim's insides clench again, but this time Tim isn't able to force the feeling away. He sits in it, let's it take over for a minute, and then drops his wrist, holding his hand up near his body and twisting it around, hearing some of the newly-created crackling from the injury. "Yeh, it isn't really like riding a bike." Which Jesse had insisted would be the case. Still, the memory brings a half smile to Tim's face. As he inspects his wrist, he chirps in: "What's with the bandana?"

Mike: "It really isn't." The smile he manages this time is somewhat more natural. He's so caught up with *not* watching Tim that for a moment, he has no idea what he's talking about. Then intelligence returns, he reaches up to his head to feel the bandana that, yes, is still there. "Maybe I joined a gang." But he's already shaking his head to dismiss the lame joke. "Haven't had a chance to shower in a few days, my hair's gross."

Tim: "Crips or Bloods?" It isn't an actual question, but it's a joke nonetheless, maybe the warmest thing he's said thus far. He'd maybe add in that he kinda likes the bandana, or that it looks good, but he never let's that happen. Instead, he just goes back to twisting his wrist. "Good news that they redid most of the dorm bathrooms over the summer."

Mike: The fact that Tim actually makes a joke causes that little smile to come back, before Mike presses his lips together, almost-closing one eye while the opposite eyebrow lifts. "I really don't know the difference between them." He probably should figure stuff like that out before he spends more time in prison. "Oh, that is good news. I would've showered before I left, but there were some pretty sketchy dudes in my cell."

Tim: "Where were you before you got here?" The question is asked before Tim can stop himself, and then he sighs quietly and raises a hand back up to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose again. He sounded almost worried. "You don't have to answer that." And, in hopes of having something they can focus their attention on, he drops the hand to look at the cookies. They're flattening out, but don't look too much like soft, chewy treats. More like melting ice cream.

Mike: Both of those eyebrows raise this time, less at the question than the tone it's asked in. He's not surprised that Tim tries to retract it a second later. For a long moment, he stays silent, thinking about it, but he finally does answer, oddly gentle. "It's okay. It was some place in Connecticut, I dunno. They wouldn't let me fly, so I just got shuffled around." He inches aside so Tim can look at the cookies, but his own attention is diverted when their teacher - finally - returns to class, clapping his hands to draw attention. "Okay, buddies, those cookies should be just about done! Let's pull 'em out and take a look at them."

Tim: The details do nothing to ease whatever ridiculous thought spiral Tim goes down, but he's determined to keep some sort of veil up and simply nods for the response. He doesn't press for more, but he does quirk his head to the side to look over at their teacher, who is trying to hard to appear laid back and cool. Tim looks back at the cookies, then at Mike. "No way are ours done. They're still ... " He looks at them again from the other side of the oven glass, perplexed. "Gooey."

Mike: Michael continues watching that teacher in obvious confusion until Tim draws his attention away. He turns, crouches down to peer at the creation in the oven. Meanwhile, Kelly is already testing the cookies from the first group. "Well, I don't think leaving them in there is gonna make them suddenly perfect. Maybe we should just take them out and give up."

Tim: Tim steps a bit closer once Mike is crouched down, to also inspect the mess inside the oven, but he doesn't go so far as to be near him. He makes a face that's something like amused, but maybe mostly unsurprised, because of course they massively fucked this up. At least the teacher doesn't seem like the type to get mad and yell when he goes in for a taste test. Keeping his arms crossed, Tim leans back against the counter but looking at his feet. "Yeh, there's probably no salvaging them."

Mike: While Tim inspects the cookies, Michael inspects Tim, albeit from the corner of his eyes. Again he can't help but notice the way the guy keeps his distance, but this time there's a faint sigh of exasperation. Luckily that can be passed off as disappointment over their utter failure. When Tim backs off again, he moves in to turn the oven off and open the door and almost - almost - reaches in to just grab the sheet. The heat radiating out of it stops him, though, and rather than try to find an oven mitt Mike yanks down some of the mass of fabric inexplicably wrapping his wrists to shield his fingers from the heat. He yanks the baking sheet out and tosses it onto the stove with a little more force than necessary, because it turns out his ersatz bracelets *don't* make good hotpads after all. "*Shit*." He uncovers his fingers and immediately sticks them in his mouth, because sure, that'll help with the potential burns.

Tim: Tim doesn't see how Mike grabs the baking sheet, since he's busying himself by studying the tile beneath his feet, but he is startled when the cookie sheet collides on the stovetop. At first he thinks that Ness' anger is showing - that the cookies are fucked and that's why they deserve to be thrown about - but then Michael is swearing and he's got his fingers in his mouth, and Tim puts together the pieces. "Ahh--" He takes a step forward to crowd the boy but then thinks better of it, instead moving quickly to grab a towel. There isn't a freezer in their workspace, so he quickly jogs, with the towel, to the large freezer in the back, where he can gather ice cubes in said towel. He's there and back in a matter of seconds, thankfully not looking too panicked, and when he returns to their kitchen, Tim dunks the homemade ice pack under the sink to get it damp before offering it over to Mike. "Here."

Mike: While Tim's concerned fluttering would be hard to miss, Mike just watches the guy jog off without much interest, more concerned by his hand. But once he withdraws the fingers from his mouth and looks them over he decides he'll probably live - just in time for his partner to return and offer the ice pack. "It's - " Not that bad. He can't say that when Tim went to so much trouble, however, so he takes the ice with a nod and holds it in his right hand, curling his slightly parboiled fingers around it.

This is when their teacher wanders over. "Well, let's see what - oh." Catching sight of the so-called cookies, half still in their doughy state and tumbled around from Ness' toss, the other half flattened to burned wafers stuck to the pan regardless of greasing, he grimaces a little. "Think I'll pass on tasting those, dudes. Did you read the recipe?"

Tim: Tim's eyes are squinted at the hand in question, trying to see the damage done. He doesn't see much, and not just because there isn't much to see - soon enough those fingers are on that ice pack and that's the most Tim can help with. So he takes a few steps back and wipes his hands on his pants, head snapping up at the teacher once he makes his presence known. Immediately, Tim lifts a hand to his neck, but isn't rubbing or digging there - just holding on, looking a bit bashful. "Ahh, yeah ... I think we just kinda ran out of time." He squints at the cookies in question. "I don't know why they're so liquid-y, though."

Mike: Brendan nods along with Tim's explanation, still staring at the cookies pensively. "Uh-huh, uh-huh...how much peanut butter'd you put in, buddy?" He asks like he knows damn well there's no peanut butter in those monstrosities - probably because he's made the same mistake himself.

Michael siiighs at this whole thing, because his hand hurts and Tim's acting...like that and he spent the last week in various holding cells across the country and this teacher smells like pot and he's fucking tired. "Directions weren't real clear." It's passive enough, but his frustration comes out in his voice regardless.

The teacher gives him a dubious look, purses his lips as if waiting for him to go on, then shrugs carelessly. "They did say **peanut butter** cookies but, hey, no big deal. Could've been worse." Then he seems to consider that for a moment. "Probably."

Tim: The mention of peanut butter makes Tim's eyes go slightly wide, and then he kinda tilts his head in thought. He didn't add peanut butter, because that's clearly a wet ingredient. So he looks over to Mike to ask, but then the boy is already responding, and Tim makes a bit of a face, because this is obviously on them and not the shitty directions. And perhaps in a sign of spending so much time with Jesse over the summer, Tim moves the hand to his face and starts to laugh. He hides behind his fingers and drops his head, quietly chuckling, for a few moments. He tries to stifle it, and somewhat succeeds, and eventually drops the hand further to where it's only covering his mouth. His eyes still show his amusement, though - he's looking at the baking sheet like he can't believe how fucking dumb they are.

Mike: Mike probably wouldn't have such an adverse reaction if he weren't already annoyed with life. He cuts a look at Tim when he starts laughing, then at the teacher, then rolls his eyes and dumps his makeshift ice pack in the sink. "A'ight, I forgot the peanut butter. Fail us for the day so we can get the hell outta here."

The teacher looks more amused than anything by this show of bad temper, grinning along with the other student's laughter. "This isn't one of those pass or fail classes." Mike wrinkles his nose, because what the hell other kind are there? but Brendan goes on. "It's no big, tough guy, we all start from zero. Clean that up and you can go." He pats Tim companionably on the shoulder as he retreats and Mike just looks after him, pissed off and a little bewildered. "Jesus, this goddamned place."

Tim: It's without question that Mike's continued annoyance just makes Tim laugh more, but he does look like he's actively trying to stop himself. Eventually, he gets himself under control, but still keeps his mouth covered because he knows he can't be trusted. Nodding without another word to their teacher, Tim waits for Brendan to make his way into the next kitchen before he directs his voice - but not his eyes, since he's trying to look anywhere else - as he steps closer to the cookie sheet. "If you can get the sink soapy, I can do the physical work." Because that wouldn't be too comfortable with singed fingertips, and all.

Mike: Mike doesn't appear to appreciate the *trying* that Tim's doing. On the other hand, he's not very annoyed with it; mostly just with being back in this place and dealing with the fucking nutjobs in it. Prison might almost be better. And, though he doesn't verbalize it even to himself, it's kind of nice to hear the guy laugh. "Yeah, a'ight." He stoppers the sink and pours in maybe too much dishwashing liquid, turns the water on. Then he reaches for the baking sheet - carefully - and starts trying to scrape the remains of their sad attempt off it.

Tim: Tim nods, appeased for the agreement and starts to round the island to get to the sink without needing to walk behind Michael. But he stops when the boy starts working on the cookie sheet, squinting a bit because ... he literally just said he'd do them. He doesn't step closer, but he does try for a shooing motion, voice casual. "Hey, I said I'd do that. Go ice your hand."

Mike: Mike looks up from his task, arching an eyebrow. "Figured it'd be easier to wash if you get most of it off first." But he shrugs, slides the pan across the counter towards Tim so the guy doesn't have to worry about his precious personal space and picks up the ice pack, which he still won't admit he doesn't really need. He leans against a different counter, letting his gaze wander the room until it lands on that kooky damn teacher who's munching on somebody else's successful cookies and bonding with his students.

Tim: Tim is probably willing to overlook the snarky-sounding comment, but the way the sheet is pushed across the counter makes him squint a bit, feeling almost like he's been caught. He steps up to grab the pan, and works the bigger lumps into the nearby trashcan before going to the sink. The water is still going and the soap is getting a little out of hand, so Tim flips the water off and moves to the sheet into the sink, letting it soak as he works on unbuttoning the sleeves of his long sleeve school uniform. There's an awkward silence, one that both boys seem to try to ignore, but Timothy can't bring himself to break it this time.

Mike: The silence is completely awkward, made more so by the fact that everyone else in the room is chatting and casual. Mike watches Tim's back as he works for a long moment, almost wanting to say something less casual, or maybe apologize - but for what? Anyways, if Tim wanted explanations, he would've stayed long enough to hear them before. Eventually he pushes away from the counter. "If you've got that, I'm gonna go find something eat before my next class." Because clearly he's just hypoglycemic, not a complete irredeemable asshole. He just needs a muffin. He dumps the ice into the next closest sink and folds the damp towel on its edge, going to collect his things from the desk. "See you tomorrow, Tim." And isn't that something to look forward to?