It was rare that Harrow could actually get a word in edgewise when his father called on the phone, and in person it was even worse: the rare visit a sign of the oncoming apocalypse, he thought, or the very least, a personal apocalypse. It would start in his dorm room, would start on the doorstep, and none of it was good. The brusque inspection of his belongings and his design decisions was brutal, discussion of his clothing choices was exhausting -- and that was just the first ten minutes.

Then it was time for the proper sit down.

Four years since Harrow had enrolled at Amityville, and whether he liked it or not, his father had certain expectations about where he should be after that time. He had good points, too, since Harrow hadn't much tried to get involved in clubs, had been a quiet, passive participant in most of his classes, had done everything he could to blend into the background instead of catching anyone's intention. But some of the things, like the fact that Harrow spent more time writing in his personal journal or taking in clothing [sometimes for other students], left him frowning. Oddly specific.

"...have you been spying on me?"

And of course, his father had, in a way. Old friendships with now-faculty that most certainly survived the test of time meant that there were quartly -- if not weekly -- updates on his son's life. His lack of friends. His failure to become involved. His decisive and frustrating lack of effort, which apparently reflected a failure of character.

To the rest of his family, ambition was key. Ambition was character, and Harrow simply didn't have it. He didn't want it, either, but he couldn't say that in reply: the prospect of his son taking up a career behind a desk, quietly living a simple life somewhere in town, in a small house by himself...well. It would probably make his father's head explode, a mental image which meant he had to tip his head down and hide a smile. Laughing would only prolong the torture of this 'visit'.

"My point," said his father, after the point had been made and then made and made again, Harrow's head throbbing from the same cyclical conversation -- one that he wasn't even part of -- being talked around him, "Is that it's time. Time for you to move on, time for you to move up, time for you to stop dragging your feet. I want you to take that test in the next month or I'm bringing you home, and whatever teachers we have there will not have the same kind of leniency that those here do."

His tone, as always, was touched with the arrogant self-certainty that Harrow would give in and do whatever he said, and with good cause, since Harrow had never said no before, had never drawn a line and made a stand for himself. Maybe this was the time to do it.

But he didn't.

"A...a month isn't very long." Instead he stuttered and struggled and tried to negotiate, something that never happened with Mister all-or-nothing. One has swiped through his hair and the smile was not only gone but forgotten into the fuzz of worry. He was close, but was he close enough? Were there enough teachers he could go to supplicating for last minute extra credit?

"I don't care." It was direct, his father shaking his head as he stood -- and then shaking out the hem of his coat, as well, putting everything back into smooth lines It was easily confident, peering down the length of his nose. It made Harrow shrink, hands pressed between his knees and shoulders hiked up as he stared up at the man: intimidating at the best of times, let alone at the worst.

"It could be worse, Harrow." His tone didn't gentle, so there was no chance his appeasing words were actually meant to be appeasing. Instead they made him wince: another form of intimidation, a borderline threat. "I could insist that you actually take some time out of your day to make friends, to find someone to bring home, to build lasting connections."

He shook his head, the sarcastic tone of his voice grating and uncomfortable. Harrow's eyes flicked away, a sideways look because there was nothing he could respond to that. Maybe he would like friends, but they were far, far too much work.

"So. One month. Do what you have to do. You should be close at the very least. You will take -- and pass -- your exam, and hopefully it won't take you another four years to finish up here and move on to a real job, somewhere."

And that was that. This wasn't a conversation but a lecture and, once it was done, his father was gone.