Manchester Academy of Excellence is a prison ground at times.

Going on three years here and Eames is still making eyes at the old librarian to get out of overdue book fines. Doesn't matter that he knows the book is lost somewhere in his dorm room and he just can't be arsed to find it-- this school charges enough money to fund a small third world country from his parents alone; Christ knows they can afford to buy a new copy of An Enemy of the People.

Technically, he shouldn't be out and about right now, so he ducks under the windows of the East wing (wouldn't do to have wandering eyes and wagging tongues tattle on his hard earned free period) and heads toward the Theatre. He can't even walk around campus the way he used to, regardless of his third year status. Ever since the administration figured out his creative scheduling in second year (first period math conflicting with a class that did not technically exist-- no one can dispute that his handwriting is, at the very least, versatile ) they haven't exactly been lenient with his truancy. Technically, he should be in psychology right now, but his scores in that class are high enough spending most of his time out of it that he wouldn't want to jinx it with regular attendance.

Or, that's the story he's sticking with.

Eames tugs his coat up against the morning chill, wishing he'd swallowed his pride and shrugged into the sweater-vest. The thing never fails to make it look like he's got a paunch to rival his father's; if there's anything Eames would rather avoid, its that self-fulfilling prophecy. It looks nice on the girls, their breasts pressed against the cloth and the buttons undone in that tantalizing V, and even some of the boys manage to make the thing look worth the trouble of taking off just to get to the tie underneath, but Eames is too broad across and too stubborn to wear one in turn.

Cold and not looking where he's going, Eames rounds the corner with the thought of the warm theatre in his head.