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Guys, I am very, very proud to say that what you are about to read is officially my 100th story on this wiki! :D Please enjoy, it took me a long time to finish and I tried to detail it as much as possible.

Thanks to everyone who always gave me positive renforcement whenever I doubted myself, and left lovely comments, or anyone who reads my stories, I probably wouldn't have kept writing without knowing I had supporters behind me.

I know this is a long and stupid speech, but you know, I never really properly thank you guys enough, and I'm excited to see what you think of my story below.

Again, thanks so much for reading, and enjoy. :)

Seth:Oh, 'Kiss Me I'm Irish'. Stefon:If you insist. (talk) 02:03, March 23, 2014 (UTC)

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Mitchell had his reading glasses on as he sat in the back of the library. This was one of the only quiet places in Pius that he could go and read in peace during Study Hall or lunch. No one ever came back here anyway, and if they did, unless it was his twin, Oliver, they immediately walked away, thinking he was some sort of stalker or psychic freak.

But, neither were true, of course. See, Mitchell had a habit that was often expressed through fiction, via Sherlock Holmes, but in his case it was very real. He could look at you, and in moments, he could practically tell your life story, or at least what you had done in your recent days, depending on what you wore and/or how you looked. It was a simple matter of deduction, and nothing less.

And of course, every Sherlock Holmes, needs his James Moriarty.

Mitchell could hear footsteps coming over the hardwood floors, they weren't very large or pounding, so not a teacher. A student, likely, or a visitor from another school. Judging by how quickly the footsteps were moving, they were small. Not to an extreme, but around his height, perhaps shorter.

When he heard them rounding the corner, Mitchell looked up. He saw a boy standing there, a smile on his face. It was a friendly smile, but Mitchell didn't return it. There was a very eerie undertone to the young man's smile, one he wasn't enjoying.

Mitchell took in his appearance, deep blue eyes composed and calculating. He was wearing something formal, yet casual, a dark, short sleeved shirt with small white buttons, going up. The top button was left open. His pants were simple, dark wash jeans that fit tight against his legs. They seemed to be a little low on his hips. He had small accessories, a silver wristwatch and a tan belt, but what caught Mitchell's attention were his scars.

Up his left arm was a series of scratches and scars left behind from cuts. On his right arm was a large imprint of what was a burn. Underneath his left eye another scar ran over his cheekbone.

Physically, this boy was very well developed, muscular, but not to a point where it was strange, just nicely toned. He had brown eyes with a distinct fire behind them, and dark hair. It was neatly cut and trimmed so he had no bangs, and was coiffed near the top of his head.

Mitchell came to a conclusion after a minute or so, this boy was his age, perhaps older, and often got into fights and won, thus the scars. How he knew they were fights and not a form of abuse or self harm? Because, the boy displayed each scar and burn proudly, like they were medals of honor, typically victims of abuse and such wore things to cover them, like his brother's friend, Robin. Since he did not, it meant he got in fights, and since he seemed proud of them, he clearly must've won.

His clothes were very formal, but casual, as said before, indicating he always liked to look his best, perhaps because he liked to make good impressions on people, or perhaps he wanted to dress nice just because he was in that mood. His hair also seemed to direct to that conclusion. But, he also liked to have mobility, he didn't want clothes too restricting, thus the short sleeves, top button open, and the jeans. For what purposes, however, Mitchell wasn't sure.

Of course, the amount of skin he showed also was taken into consideration. Clearly he liked to get people's attention from a romantic or alluring viewpoint, just from the way he stood, one hand in his back pocket and the other loose against his side. One hip was extended just slightly. The attention he gave to his entire body rather than just the upper body, which most boys did, indicated he may prefer the company of men. Or perhaps both, but was definitely not limited to just females. Another indicator was how his pants revealed just a touch of waistband over his right hip.

He wasn't holding any books, which told Mitchell that he had either just gotten to library, or he had come here not to find any books, but to locate Mitchell specifically. The latter seemed more likely, with how the boy was looking at him.

His analysis complete, he looked to the boy's eyes, "Who are you?"

The boy gave a smile and spoke, seeming amused, "You like to think about things."

Dublin, Ireland, Mitchell noted mentally, hearing his accent. He must've been the foreign student he had heard about.

"And you're still thinking," He said, approaching Mitchell. He sat down on the table. His demeanor seemed to be teasing and almost playful. But in a rather chaotic way, as if he liked to toy with people's thoughts.

He was manipulative, Mitchell could tell, he liked to have complete control over everyone around him. Very Machiavellian.

"Do you always give people this kind of attention, or am I just special?" The boy said, a light lilt to his voice.

"I do when I think they may posses sardonic or sadistic qualities, perhaps even sociopathic," Mitchell said, looking up at him.

"Good, very good," The young man mused, smiling at Mitchell. "So you're not just a pretty face, you've got an IQ to match. You're like me."

He was hubristic.

"You could say that..." He wasn't sure he wanted to be near this boy any longer, seeing as he hadn't denied the hypotheses. But his curiosity always got the better of him. He wanted to know how he thought. What he thought. "You never did answer my question."

"Hm? Ah, yes, who am I... Well, I don't know if I should say," He said, looking down at Mitchell with those eyes. Those strangely enticing eyes. They gave him a small shudder, and not a pleasant kind. "You could be dangerous."

"I'd be more worried about yourself," Mitchell replied.

"Smart and funny. You're just a dreamboat, aren't you?" The young man said, his tone laced with slight sarcasm.

Mitchell looked at him, confused. It was strange not knowing what this boy would do, not knowing how to get into his head, see how he thought. He had never had trouble with people like this before. It was almost thrilling to have such a challenge before him.

"I'll make you a deal, Mr. Carson," The boy said, looking away and picking up a stray pencil. Someone must've left it here. "Or, Mr. Miller, whatever you prefer. I want us to be together. Not as lovers, of course, you seem to be involved with that lovely French girl, but as a team..."

Mitchell raised an eyebrow, ignoring the implications between him an his partner, "...I don't think so."

The boy chuckled, "Oh, I think you'll want to. See, bad things happen to people, who say no to me..." He snapped the pencil in two, between his thumb and index finger. "So, I'll give you time to consider."

"My answer is no, and my answer is final." Mitchell was searching his face, looking for some sign of what he might do next, some way to read him, but to no avail. His face was like a mask. And unmasking this boy was proving to be a difficult task.

"'My answer is final', that's adorable," The boy said, chuckling and climbing off of the table. "Why don't you think about it, in the meantime, I think you'll have very much to do."

Mitchell was about to question what he meant by that, but then he heard police sirens going off outside. He heard laughter coming from the boy and when he turned, he was gone.

He moved toward the bookcase, calling out, "Who are you?!"

He knew he'd get in trouble for yelling in the library, but then the boy's voice called back to him. "I'm Andrew James Callaghan, but you can remember me as your worst nightmare come alive!"

Mitchell listened as his echoing laughter finally disappeared down the hall.

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